Get your groove on... a beginners take on Zumba!

I have just come home from my first ever Zumba class. I was aware of the craze, I have seen it being done, I've watched a Youtube clip made by a very talented friend but I have never actually participated before. Well, now I have.

As part of my integration into my new home and in an attempt to improve my language skills (listening skills really) I have been attending aerobics courses at the local gym. I'm finding it's a really good method. I have to concentrate really hard and respond to instructions, or I look like a gumby.

I was a bit nervous about Zumba, my friend with the Youtube clip moved so quickly that I thought there must be a lot of instruction. I was relieved when I could understand the instructors introduction, or at least I caught the words, "Tanz Workout" and we started moving. She said not another word... only "Woo" and "Yeah" for the rest of the session.

Still, I needed all my concentration to follow her choreography. She shook 'this' one way and wiggled 'that' the other. With no warning she would change direction and add in an arm move. Some of the other women seemed familiar with the routines, but I had to be careful not to look around the room. I found that if I did look at the other ladies, I would undoubtedly lose my step and and up in a true tangle.

I was surprised by my lack of skill. Please don't think me arrogant, but I am usually able to follow choreography and dance moves quite well. Usually, I need one or two times to practise, then I'm hunky dory and can concentrate on the language. I mean, mum didn't spend all that money on thousands of hours of Jazz Ballet for nothing. I've also been a regular  at Sydney Dance classes and aerobics classes with fabulous girlfriends (who I missed terribly tonight!) However, in this Zumba class I was turning the wrong way, nearly bumping into people and stomping like an elephant. I was a first class klutz with my big sneakers on and my bosoms bouncing this was and that.

Being unable to 'do' Zumba properly I began to watch the young girl out the front a little more subjectively. She was very different from my friend who teaches Zumba. Firstly, she was German. At least, I think she was German. For all I know she could have been from Uzbekistan... I can't hear accents yet. Also, she didn't smile. My friend has this beautiful, infectious grin. The German girl, she had this pout. I mean, honestly, she was pouting at herself in the mirror. Every now and then she would do sexy eyebrows, '"Uh-huh, Uh-huh", and then there was the hair flick. It was sensational! I think I would have put my neck out if I moved my head as fast as she was able to.  She moved parts of her body this way and that with completely separate rhythms. She was totally into it, loving every minute. I think there were moments when she actually forgot we were there. She worked up a real lather of sweat and her hair began to stick to her neck and her back. It began to make me a bit embarrassed. Here I was watching this girl sweat while I couldn't even get my feet to "Cha-cha-cha". It was almost like spying on a teenage girl who is dancing in her bedroom to Lady Gaga. I'm surprised more men don't go.

Close to the end of the class I'm afraid I got myself noticed. I bust out laughing. There was this move; we stood in a wide footed squat, rolled our hips around and then hopped up on tippy-toes for a pelvic thrust. I'm afraid I lost it there. I made the mistake of glancing around the room. There were women of all ages and sizes on their toes waggling their crotches around. The teacher pulled it off, she looked great... everyone else, me included, looked a bit perverse. I couldn't stop laughing as I thrust my fanny about to the beat. The other ladies were looking at me, that made me laugh harder. To tell you the truth, it was incredibly fun.

Afterwards, a friendly lady came up and said something to me (no idea what). I explained that I couldn't understand German. She said, "Ah, aber hattest Du spass?" I knew the meaning of that... "Ah, but you had fun?" and told her, laughing, "Oh, yes". It was definitely fun. It was fast paced, the music is still in my head, I laughed out loud and certainly got my bum-wiggle on. I will certainly be back, the challenge of mastering Zumba is taunting me. I just need some girlfriends to go with. Oh, and to practice my hair flick.

Roooooogen - A German Island Getaway

Having been in Germany for a little over a month, Phillipp and I decided to have a little island getaway in the last of the summer sun. Destination Rügen (pronounced Roooogen), an island about three hours north of Berlin. We figured it would be easily accessible on a Friday evening for two full days of frolicking fun. The main attraction, however, was the World Heritage listed chalk cliffs on the North Eastern point in the Jasmund National Park.

We packed on Thursday evening and so when I arrived home on Friday afternoon we were ready to go. We caught the S-Bahn from Zehlendorf to Haupt Bahnhof. The Haupt Bahnhof is the main train station of Berlin. Phillipp told me something about it being the biggest in Europe, but I was more interested in how the escalators zipped people up and down inside its guts like something out of a science fiction film. It is enormous. The roof is arched and glass with steel girders, the departures board is a myriad of destinations, times, codes and platforms. There are shops around the edges while the middle seems to be all escalators. It was a little hard to work out where the trains actually stopped. In this feat of engineering it would not have surprised me if they stopped mid-air.

It was in the fascinating design of the station that my admiration of German trains abruptly stopped. We found our train code in tiny writing on the departures board and Phillipp sent me down one of the zippy escalators while he went to buy snacks and drinks. I found myself on a long grey platform. The electronic sign said some destination that was unfamiliar to me. I thought I was getting on a train for Binz, this one said something beginning with W. I'm sorry but German words are still really alien to me and I struggle to remember any of them until I have used them about three hundred times, even then, when I see them written I still don't recognise them. When I noticed the departure time was different I got a knot in my stomach and reached for my handy. This is what the Germans call their mobile. Such a perfect name, a handy. I phoned Phillipp. He was a little way along the platform, further along the same train. One end was going one place, and one end was going the other. I shrugged and found my seat.

We settled in and an announcement came over. When everyone grumbled I cheerfully asked Phillipp what was said. The blissful ignorance of not understanding is sometimes so nice. He sighed that the train had come in the wrong end first and even though we were scheduled to leave first, the other end of the train was in our way. We had to wait for them to leave before we could leave. It was a ten minute delay. Being fairly conditioned to the farce of scheduled public transport from Sydney living, I shrugged and opened a mini bottle of prosecco (named Rotkappchen - Red Riding hood - for it's red foil top) in lighthearted refusal to be bothered by this silly blunder. It seems, as I am not so familiar with Deutsche Bahn, I was unaware of the possibility that this blunder would be much further reaching.

As promised we shunted out of the station ten minutes later. With summer lingering, the sun allowed me to watch the city of Berlin pass by me. It took a long time to get out of the city, past the altbau buildings, and the 'new' buildings. The new buildings are from the time when the East was The East and the West was The West. They are tall, white blocks of apartments. Some are in greater stages of disrepair than others, but they all have the same blocky, flat roofed design with small windows and sometimes large murals painted on the sides without windows. Apart from the colourful murals, they remind me a little of the plague of apartments and modern houses being built all over Sydney. I like the murals decorating them, it makes me smile. A reminder of times past and how fashions fade and shift. There's also something ironic about it. Painting colourful pictures on huge walls to cheer the people of a communist state, while the children can't even have coloured pencils.

Then the train stopped. Before we had even gotten out of Berlin, we were stopped. Another announcement. This time someone had stolen some copper wire from the railway line and we could go no further. The announcer sounded exasperated. He told us we had to wait for the other end of the train to come back and meet us, and then we would go together to the station that the other end had to go to. After that we would either get onto buses, or something else would happen. He wasn't sure. Phillipp was pissed. He phoned home. I shrugged and opened another little red riding hood. I figured we'd get there somehow.

After waiting at the train station for a while, our train was allowed back on its regular course. Two hours late, but as I suspected, we were going to get there. Some people had already gotten off and gotten buses, so they were probably at their destinations already. It seemed strange to me that we had collected the other train. I like to think that the train driver of the other train had a long, perhaps boozy, lunch and had gone the wrong way. Whatever happened, it left a bit of a sour taste in my mouth about the train service.

Eventually we got to Binz. Dark and late but balmy and warm. We phoned for a taxi and were told they were already on their way. The mini van cab swooped in and we were whisked out of Binz before I could even get out my camera. The taxi driver was a bit surprised at where we were staying, especially when we said we were staying on the island. Our hotel was very pretty from the front, with large windows in the roof and twinkle lights from the restaurant underneath. As we were so late the keys were in reception and we found our room ourselves. We had to climb the stairs at the front of the building and our doorway was in the roof itself. The apartment had a loft bedroom and a little kitchenette. It was quite nice as a motor inn, but was not really quaint or cosy. After the long journey I didn't really care, a long shower and a clean towel was all it took to make me happy.

The morning brought Rügen shining through the window and while I could roll over and sleep some more, Phillipp got up to explore. He took some wonderful photos of the small beach over the road and showed them to me when I got up. The air was crisp and there was a slight breeze as we strolled towards the bakery. Peter's bakery is, as it turns out, the only bakery on Rugen and it is everywhere. We were staying just down the road from their 'factory'. Our experience was, well, less than satisfactory. The wasps swarmed over our jam, the croissants were dry, like week old bread and the atmosphere was non-existent. There was some feeble attempt at styling the room with some pony skin stools but mostly there were stock standard aluminum chairs. It was a great laugh when the knife with Phillipp's meal had a mustard yellow handle and was about as old as the hills. All that could be said was, that's the East for you. I haven't written a review on Trip Advisor yet, I tried when we were there only reception was down.

Where we were staying was countryside, real rural countryside. A place dragging itself into the capitalist world it was flung into only twenty years ago. The bus stop we waited at was a strange mauve, with a clear, scunge covered roof. The concrete pavement was cracked and the bus, well the bus was brand, spanking new. We bought tickets to Sassnitz. The bus took us through countryside and then suddenly into an urban uprising. It took me a while to work it out, but the people all live close together, even in apartment buildings in the country towns, so as to maximise their farm land. They want their food grown locally and so they make the space available to grow the food. I shake my head when I think of how my Grandfather's beautiful farm in Castle Hill is now house after house with lawn after lawn, but there is not a peach tree or a wheat field in sight. The Germans manage to fit 80-something million people into a space much smaller than N.S.W whilst still producing their own food. Something of a miracle. Or at least, sensible planning.

Climbing off the bus at the train station we looked around. Sassnitz is seriously, nothing to write home about, but here goes. The train station itself is a quaint old building, but along the street from it there is a strange combination of architecture. There are East style apartment buildings, crumbling old buildings with boarded up windows (the most heartbreaking is the old cinema on the corner) and then the new brick buildings. There is also two large hotels, one in a European style and one in a southern Japanese style. The southern Japanese style being a large concrete block, right on the waterfront, with a huge sign at the very top. A little way down the hill from the station we hired bicycles. They were lovely comfy, step through lady bicycles. Phillipp looked very elegant atop his! The lady told us that of course we could cycle along the bike path to the cliffs. Not a problem. She said this in German of course, but her intonation suggested it was easy.

Down the hill and around the corner, up the street and up and up and up. We found ourselves pressing and pushing up something that you simply cannot find in Berlin; a hill. It was a bit of a struggle to find the beginning of the cycle path, but once we found it we stuck to it, all 13km of it. It was a big wide road of a path paved with cobblestone so sunken and smoothed that I would guesstimate to be about 500 years old. Phillipp was not happy about this turn of events, but it was so beautiful to me, the strange forest of tall trees, bright green leaves and glinted sunlight through the shadows, that I was perfectly happy to sweat it out, as long as I could get my camera out every few hundred metres. Every now and then the road dipped downwards, or blissfully joined an asphalt road and we coasted for a while, whooping and laughing. Then the cobblestone returned, jolting and bumping us along. As we got deeper into the forest, the stinging nettles by the side of the path thickened. I was stung on the hand momentarily and that had me cycling right in the middle of the road, at the highest, bumpiest point in the cobblestones.

Other cyclists passed us, this way and that, always with mountain bikes and helmets. I felt silly, unprepared and a bit daring. But I cycled slowly, and my photography prevented me really getting very tired. A purple and black beetle stopped us as one point. Phillipp caught sight of him as he was hiding under a leaf. I pointed a camera in his face. Then we put the leaf back. It occurred to me that I hardly ever saw beetles in Sydney anymore. Probably because all the larva underground was disturbed by earth moving in construction or covered with concrete, never to hatch into the light of day. It made me sad for the children who won't have the pleasure of playing with hundreds of Christmas beetles gathering round the porch light.

Eventually we made it, Phillipp with a sore behind and me with sore shoulders. We looked at the intersection sign and saw that the main road was only 6km to Sassnitz. We had gone more than double the distance. Luckily there were shops at the junction and I cheered myself with an apple strudel. Two more kilometers, down hill on a real road that we shared only with buses, and we were there. Hundreds of people streamed down on foot and the buses came at regular intervals. We parked the bikes near a huge frog pond. Like something out of Jurassic Park it drew me like a moth to a flame. The moss was fluro-green and it seemed to suck old logs and trees into it's luminous depths. When I got closer I saw little trails across the thick surface and with a moments wait, I saw a frog making his own trail as he skimmed the surface. Frogs eggs were littered around and frogs leapt here and there feasting on insects. With frogs being the first in line to be exterminated by pollution, I concluded that this particular area must be very, very clean. Then again, we were in a gully at the top of a very long hill.

The entrance to the cliffs was a short walk away. The World Heritage people, or someone, had set up a lovely carnival theme park thing complete with museum and viewing platform of the cliff. They also fenced in the big old tree I was looking forward to seeing (called mammutbaum). The entrace fee was 7.50 Euro. Across the way there was a free viewing platform with spectacular views from dizzying heights, so we chose that option. We also climbed down the 400 steps to the beach to gaze up at the cliffs. The pebbles on the beach were fire stones. They made the smell of flint sparking as you walked along and they had a strange mottled appearance from the chalk that washed down upon them. We rested a while and made small stone piles like the ones I saw hikers make in Japan.  Then we began the climb back up. The first part was steep and a bit of a struggle, but then it evened out and we were at the top in no time. I would worry about my aching bones the next few days, but not then...we had to get back on the bikes.

Facing the 6pm deadline of returning the bikes, we decided to take the main road back down the hill. As we set out we were a little way behind an elderly couple. The man was in a pale blue shirt and the woman had distinctive, chubby yet muscular, legs. As we coasted quickly along we whipped past the pair and roared down the hill. It was really thrilling for a while, turning to fear when my bike began making an enormous clunking sound that wobbled the whole bike every time I peddled. With Phillipp behind me and a bus behind him I realised that if I fell we would both be crushed! I kept on and as soon as we got to the familiar cobblestone hill into town I yelled to Phillipp that I had to get off and I pulled up onto the curb. It was my long sleeve t-shirt, long since discarded in the heat of the adventure, that was causing the problem. Its sleeve had dangled into the chain and was now looking guiltily grease covered. Funnily enough as we cycled into town we saw the elderly pair cruising along from another direction, as though they had been in town for ages. Either they knew a short cut or took the bus. Whichever way it happened, it was a quirky turn of events. Exhausted from our adventure we bought a chocolate from the Netto store and sat outside (another) Peter's bakery to eat it.

We returned our bikes and farewelled the afternoon with a couple of beers at the only cute place in town, I think it was called Gustav's. The waitress was really friendly and I sat in a whicker couch with a high cushioned back, overlooking a courtyard filled with old age trinkets such as a wagon wheel. After a very relaxed debate we decided to return to our hotel, wash and then come back into Sassnitz to a restaurant the internet recommended. This was quite a feat as we were knackered and the internet says all sorts of things, not all true. However, I was not quite ready to write Sassnitz off as a weird, dead end town. This was despite the sales war on fluro harem pants between the Chinese stores (Seriously, Hong Kong Store and Asia Store were two of the names) and the weird empty feeling to the place.

On the way out of town we saw the fantastic footbridge down to the port. Tall and curved, like the mast of an old world sailing vessel dancing, it trailed down to the large sea port. The majority of the ferry lines have been moved to near where we were staying, Neu Mukran, just south of Sassnitz, but the footbridge suggested greater times were on their way. With the beer buzz giving everything a glow, I felt hope for this funny little place. As we rode the bus out of town, I had to laugh out loud at the Aldi store still running in one end of a large building, the other end demolished to rubble and punctuated with an earth mover out the front. We had certainly landed in a strange place.

We successfully got dressed and ready without passing out from exhaustion. We got the bus back into Sassnitz and walked along the road, beyond where we had been before. We were aiming for altstadt.. the old town. We turned towards the water and suddenly the buildings were all new again. They were old, but new. Renovated and shiny. There were not many people, but the place was pretty and eerily uniform. It was a bit like a movie set I suppose. Around a corner and down some steps we found a small stretch of sweet little restaurants and a stunning full moon glinting over the Baltic Sea.

Drawn by the twinkle lights and blue and white dressing it turned out the the internet had not forsaken us. We found a table at the best restaurant in Sassnitz, Gastmahl das Meeres, beside a bonsai fig and a fake bird of paradise flower. The decor was of the ocean, pirate life and the sea. It was cosy, smelt wonderful and was full of people. The food was to die for! I ordered salmon with croquettes and practically inhaled it. Phillipp had something equally as enjoyable, battered fish, also with croquettes. Stuffed to the brim we had to share a desert (poor us!) and got stewed berries with custard. This was eaten even faster as our waitress informed us that there was a festival on and she couldn't get us a cab. We had 15 minutes to finish, pay and get back to the bus stop for the last bus. Ever go for a jog with an extremely full tummy at the end of a long day? Did I sleep well after that? Ummmmm, yes!

Sunday was hot and beautiful. After a buffet breakfast in true German style (boiled eggs, mini sausages of meaty paste, beetroot and pickled fish chutney, yoghurt and muesli) We packed and bussed it the other way, South to Binz. On the way the bus stopped at a youth hostel. This was in a most strange location, Prora. Prora was Hitler's colossal tourist resort. It slept 80,000 and had a 1km long jetty poking out into the ocean. It came from the idea of Strength through happiness and although it was never used by the Nazis as a resort it is now heritage listed as a fine example of the architecture of the time. I would love to stay in the hostel there as it is right on the beach and not so far from the resort town of Binz.

Binz station had large lockers for our bag and was only a short stroll to the promenade. Of course, we had to walk past a few blocks of shiny new Soviet style apartment buildings, filled to the brim with retirees. The promenade itself ran right along the waterfront and was lined with lovely trees. Facing the water were large white wooden buildings that made me think of New Orleans, or France, or San Diego. Turns out it's a style that's popular in Germany too. While Sassnitz, with its calling card of the chalk cliffs, was deserted, Binz was bustling with people. We strolled with the throng until we found the hub, the jetty. We decided to take a boat cruise. It was leaving in about half an hour and was 19 euro for a three hour ride up and down the chalky coast. It was really hot and sunny, so we thought a lovely boat ride would be a perfect way to spend the middle of the day.

And it was. Once we got past the rude deck hand and got settled in a seat inside that is. Phillipp got us some beers and a Berliner for me. This was my first ever Berliner; a jam donut with icing sugar on top and the joke behind the Kennedy 'Ich bin ein Berliner' statement. The boat took its time going up the coast, telling us all about the things on the shore. The commentary was in German, but Phillipp translated for me. Funnily, the man did not mention the name of Hitler or the Nazi party when he spoke about Prora. The cliffs caught the attention of everyone on board. They were rugged and beautiful, dangerous and sad. They yawned in wide open spaces and sucked trees down their slippery slopes where they collapsed under rain. Some parts were glorious white, others were dirty and disappointing, while others had a marbelling of colours from soil and minerals. I took photos, lots of photos. Then I went inside to enjoy a beer and write some postcards as the boat took us back to Binz.



Sea legs discarded, we headed for the beach. Ankle deep in the chilly Baltic waters was enough for me and I entertained myself snapping shots of the jellyfish with the red swiggly middles. Phillipp could only handle so much as well, so then we went searching for lunch. It was quite hard to choose which stylish white building to walk into. In the end we settled for a small stall with a red and white striped hexagonal roof. After the feast the night before I was happy with a simple lunch. Plus I was bone tired. I was ready to go. The absurd nature of this place had me exhausted and yearning for the simplicity of Berlin; a town that was split in two once and in joining is more of a world city than either of the two conjoined parts.

First we had to visit the grocery store for snacks. I'm so glad we did. I spotted a packet of Jumpy's; the favourite chip of one of my boys from Cairnsfoot School. It made me smile, and remember the simple joy of having a good day with this little boy. I sent a photo of them to my friends and got ready for the train ride home.

Deutsche Bahn didn't let us down; a four hour train journey on a rural express line without any toilet... yep.. no toilets. Well, let me elaborate. They were there but they were out of order. Every single one was out of order. Phillipp busted open the handicapped toilet and me and two girls went but it wouldn't flush, so that was it. Everyone on the train had to hold it in. In the end, however, we got home safe. No accidents, of any kind, were had and Phillipp's sister kindly collected us from the space station of the Haupt Bahnhof.

So, how did I like my island adventure? I want to go back. I want to see more of this strange little island (the biggest in Germany) that was once part of Poland and is on the same latitude as Denmark. I want to cycle on some of the nicer cycle paths as you can ride around the whole island and the buses are even equipped to carry bikes on the back (for when it gets to hilly I guess). I would like to return in the winter and stay at the Panorama hotel, looking out to the north at the frozen sea. I would like to take photos as Phillipp and his friends fish for sea trout and pike. The only thing I would really change is the transport, perhaps resort to car next time, but certainly avoid the train.

Peepshow at 2km per hour.

Recently I got home from a trip to Germany. This trip involved a lot of out-of-this-world eating. I was eating things I never thought I could stomach... fleish salad (sausage in mayonnaise), white asparagus drowned in hollandaise sauce, liver wurst for breakfast, and bread, bread like you have never imagined! Needless to say I have come home and feel like I've have become a little sausage-esque (especially when I squeeze on my jeans). Having hung up the joggers for the last eight months, I decided that the best way to get back in shape is to get in the pool. I pulled my old one piece off the clothes line (I accidentally left it out there for the two weeks I was away)and headed for the local pool. I'd never been there before but found that it was a fantastic centre with lots of different pools. I dragged my swimmers on, tightened my goggles and padded over to the stepladder. I thought the slow lane was best for me, right next to the teenagers doing squad training. I used to swim a lot when I was in Niseko, recovering from my knee injury. I was able to do 2km then. I didn't expect to do that now, but I was unprepared for how difficult each lap was. At first I alternated freestyle and breaststroke, but eventually just stuck to breaststroke. My lack of fitness left me breathless. After a while I began to feel the squad coach staring at me. I entertained the idea that he thought my style was excellent, only slow. It's funny the sort of things your brain does when you give it no stimulation but counting laps and a wavering blue line. I completed forty laps of, what I thought was, a 25m pool, in just over an hour. A very slow, meditative swim. I had enjoyed stretching my limbs and kicking, with my torso as bouyant as possible. I felt the cool of the water on my skin, especially my buttocks. I put that down to the fact that I was lifting myself out of the water and the air was chilling me. I was proud of myself and ducked the ropes to the step ladder. My legs were weak and I wobbled to my towel, wrapped it around myself and headed for the showers. On the way I passed a sign which read, '50m pool'. I was so relieved! I had made my 2km! In the shower, as I was congratulating myself on not being TOO out of shape, I noticed how the water felt strange on my body. I twisted around and looked at my behind. There, staring me in the face was the image of my bare bottom, completely visable, through my worn out old cozzie. It had not stood up to the test of time. I felt my legs go weak a second time. I had mooned the entire pool! As I walked out of the change rooms, dry and warm, I flung my old togs straight into the bin. I think a new pair is in order, in perhaps a very different colour... and maybe a swimming cap too. Maybe a complete disguise, before I ever get in the pool again.

My Slice of Wedding Cake

Ever since I was a young girl I have fanticised about my wedding day. It's always been perfect, absolutely perfect. All my friends and family come to watch me, dressed in the most expensive, oops, I mean exquisite gown. They ooh and agh, oops, I mean ahh, at me and my perfect groom and then compliment me on how simply stunning I am and how perfect we are. Insert sound of breaking glass. Truth be told, have never really dreamed of that perfect day... Every girl's one perfect day. I have always wanted to be married, to have that promise of love everlasting. Companions and compadres 'till the dying day. It's romantic, especially when you see an elderly couple holding hands. But a wedding? Honestly, I think about weddings. I mean, for goodness sake, this is the second time I've sat down and written about weddings and marriage. I do, I contemplate how different types might be fun, how I'd fit in them or how I might co-ordinate them; fancy dress, masquerade, surprise, at home in the garden. The more weddings I go to the more I think about them: pretty dresses, bands without amps, clever decorations or magical entertainment.

I enjoy them and celebrate, admire and fawn with everybody else. I feel the love and shed tears of joy for my friends. It's emotional, and beautiful, and I'm a softie for the sentimentality of it all. I admire how creative people are, wonder at how they find such unique and stunning ways of declaring their love. Then a voice in my head, that sounds a little like an old cynic, begins to question things. Why is this wedding in a venue you can't get home from? Did they think about the possibility of a storm when they booked this boat? How many people could actually eat seven courses? Do the bride and groom need to leave us to our own devices for four hours, while they have a film crew follow them down the streets of Sydney?

Why is there so little food for so many people? The list of annoying questions go on... And I can't shut them out! They persist, and I begin to wonder, "Is my own wedding something I could handle?" Is the pressure and the planning too much, are the choices and expectations going to drown me? Is it really the day every little girl dreams of? Am I alone in wanting to keep it simple, sweet and (gasp) small? The perfect example to me, of the juxtaposition of modern weddings, is in the SNTC movie. Carrie's perfect day is whipped into a frenzied meringue of consumption. So much so, that her relationship itself gets chewed up and spat out. She is whisked away by her well meaning (interfering?) friends before Mr Big even had a chance to, well, to be reminded of why he was doing it. I could feel the audience yearning for Carrie to pause, but the 'Wedding Mania' had control of her and, with a passionate swipe of her unbelievable bouquet, it was over. Never fear, Hollywood won't leave you crying, they reunite and their happy ending is found in the registrars office in a simple dress and stunning shoes. This is followed by a bright and cheerful meal shared with her closest friends. Sound good? I ask people about their weddings these days. I'm curious. I have had so many fill my spare weekends that it's almost like a personal research project. The more ladies, especially older ladies, I speak to, the more I hear about this phenomenon of the 'small' wedding, or even no wedding at all... Just a date to sign the paperwork. My mum and dad were married this way. A couple I know simply booked out a cheap and cheerful restaurant that they frequented in order to celebrate.

It was such a carefree event, they forgot to make sure there were seats for themselves. A woman I used to work with told me with rosy cheeks of the blue paisley dress she made herself, the brown floppy hat and the ceremony on a neighbour's flat garage roof... Because it had a great view. The guests all brought plates of food and they wandered down to the park for a picnic after. I don't begrudge the big weddings of today, but I wonder where they come from and when it became the norm. The Good Weekend fixes the average cost of an Aussie wedding at $36,000. That's a pretty expensive way of saying, 'I love this person and I want to spend the rest if my life with them'... Or am I being a tight arse? I have found one person who agrees with me. My very clever (could I be so bold as to add, perfect?) boyfriend. He is not from around here, and frankly he finds the spectacular Australian wedding, well, a spectacle. He doesn't understand what engagement parties, bridal showers, or even weddings are. Where he's from there is rice on the ground outside the registry office. This is because people gather to welcome the new husband and wife, have pictures together in the park opposite and then troop off to a restaurant for dinner and drinks. They might organise a wedding party, but they are nowhere near as elaborate as ours. On the other hand they have traditions, strange traditions. The bride may be kidnapped by the groomsmen during the night and the groom has to rescue her, sometimes footing the drinks bill the 'thieves' leave behind. The happy couple could have to saw a log in half with one of those two sided handsaws for tree lopping. The night before the wedding the couple and their guests smash crockery for good luck (sounds fun!)

Very strange indeed, but definitely traditions... So much so, that you can guess how they came about. I hinted to a very dear friend, whose advice and opinion I value, that I would consider a wedding in my beau's home country. She exclaimed that it was my big day too. But you know what I have realised? I've realised that if it's my special day, my perfect day, I can do it the way I want. If that means it's just me and my man, on a beach somewhere amazing, or tucked up in a cosy restaurant while it snows outside, or even under the golden oak in mum's front yard, then that's clearly my perfect day right then and there. In the meantime, however, I have misplaced my RSVP for your perfect day... Put us down as a 'Yes'.