December 4, 1999.

shhh. I have a headache.

Not much going on in the last 36. Tried phoning around to drum up some more happy anticipation, but nothing doing. And now everyone decent will be out doing something debauched.

Stupid weekend job.

Anyway, the only thing that seemed to make anyone happy was the news that the Boy would be expected to do a shot with every adult male guest. Yowsa. I've gently suggested that perhaps a subtle way of getting around it might be in order; I don't care if they've engaged three lap dancers at once during the stag (in my head I hear Brit Boy screaming, "three at once!"), I really don't. What I dislike is the idea of a ceaselessly vomiting groom in a kilt. It's not a pretty picture.

Well, if it comes down to it, I'm sure that Q will consider it his privilege - nay, his sacred duty - to take care of some heinous drinking. He's like that.

And I seem to have nothing else to talk about right now. So goodnight.

(Hush. I'm not boring these days. I'm not becoming boring bride. I just...have a headache, that's all)