The 22nd of April next year is a Saturday.
It's going to rain.
Some might say that's a bold claim, but the thing is I've spent an awful lot of time thinking about the 22nd of April next year.
On the 22nd of April next year I'm going to have too many mimosas with breakfast and need a wee the minute I finish putting my dress on.
I'll probably get stuck in a lift.
While making my entrance I'm going to fall down some stairs and faceplant the most delicious cake I've ever ate.
I'm going to babble incoherently through massive happy sobs while resembling a crazed clown with mascara spilling down my face.
I will drop his ring and make a mad dash to stop it rolling away whilst knocking over the humanist in the the process.
There will be hundreds of photos taken of me mid sneeze when it turns out I'm allergic to my flowers.
They will all be tagged on Facebook.
I'll spill my dinner down a dress, which has a frightening cost per wear ratio, shortly before I manage to rip it while doing the time warp.
Folk will all go home by 10 and I'll be left to rock the dance floor on my own....but of course I won't be on my own....because even if all that happens... as long as by the end of 22nd April next year I get to call this guy my husband it will have been the most perfect magical day ever.