We have one wedding list in Dublin comprising things we won’t get to use until the far-off mythical day when we move home, and another list online composed of things that aren’t too big or electrical, so that we can move them easily to our next abode and they’ll function in other countries.
It’s a far cry from the day when your mother and father moved into their first home, furnished with mismatched presents and hand-me-down furniture from relatives, planning to stay there and build on what they have where they are from then on. It’s also a far, far cry from the things I’ve read in wedding articles, gems like “list the colour-schemes for all the rooms in your house on your wedding web site so that your guests can pick coordinating presents.” Ahem. Here lies the realm of fantasy. Colour schemes? In rooms? In our house?
For one thing, our wedding web site (all three pages of it) is going to say nothing about presents. If people are so kind as to want to give us presents, that’s great. If they want to know about lists, they can ask us, or our mothers, or whoever, and they’ll be told where to find them. They are under no obligation to buy us anything, on or off a list. But apart from all that, the notion of us having an actual permanent house, actually owned by us, and containing such a thing as colour schemes, is bizarre and belongs way in the future. I mean, it’s a lovely thought, but it was a bit surreal wandering round Arnotts trying to pick the sort of plates we’d want to eat our pasta from (or our lamb chop and mashed potato, for the more traditionally palated among us) one day when we have this house and this room where we’d be eating – and I suppose we’ll need a table to eat off too, for heaven’s sake. Life is so demanding. Everything we have right now is so temporary – everything larger than a book or my knee-high boots, say – that it’s impossible to contemplate the day when this crockery we’ve chosen will fit into that life and that house and be eaten off by our children. (Gosh. Eek.)