The Detox

Getting fat is an occupational hazard of being in love.
There you are, all happy and content with the cosy meals in, chocolates on the sofa, romantic dinners out. And bang, you've lost your cheekbones.
This has never happened to me before but then, I've never been engaged to a 6ft 2ins machine with the metabolism of a Humming Bird.*
When you're almost a foot shorter, genetically petite and start matching his eating habits, neither scales nor mirror lie.
You might remember part of the 'everything to do in six months' list included losing a stone.
Not to be 'bride-thin' - skeletal in lace does nothing for me - but to get back to where I was before Jamie asked me to be his girlfriend last August.
Now, call it a lack of patience, or perhaps willpower, but I'm not hanging around London with the temptation of, well, everything.

The Spa, Koh Samui

So I'm off to get fit and detox in Thailand with my mum for a little over a week. Weight aside, it's about getting healthy.
I've been to the spa in Koh Samui before and a seven-day fast is pretty extreme. No food and two self-administered colemas (less intrusive but like colonics - 20litres of diluted fresh coffee up your jacksy) each day.
A presenter friend called Carole Machin suggested the place to me a few years ago.When I joined her, she helped a petrified me set up my first coffee enema. I'll always be eternally grateful; she'll probably be eternally mentally scarred.
I'm looking forward to the challenge, peppered with yoga, meditation, massage and quality time with mum.
The trick - and what I've failed to do in the past - is not falling into old party girl habits upon return. This time, I have a few ideas as to how to maintain the shift in thinking, not least keeping this public record. For surely it's more interesting for you if it works. I'm also considering booking in regularly with a good personal trainer upon return to keep up motivation.

DIY colema 

Here's a link to the spa: www.thesparesorts.net
Why go through such deprivation? That's just it - my past experience taught me that I had been depriving myself by not doing it. Afterwards, your skin is bright, hair shiny, eyes white, facial features rediscovered.
It's a way of stopping the clock of ingrained routine, giving your mind and body an MOT.
If you find it too hard, you can stop the cleanse whenever you want but fingers crossed, I'll see it through.
It's not too expensive - accommodation which is basic but clean costs around £20 a night and to fast,  £40 or so a day. The Spa doesn't get the best reviews on the likes of TripAdvisor but it's only a good place to stay if you're detoxing as there are plenty of nicer hotels on the island.
There are plenty of other places to fast on Koh Samui and elsewhere in the world. I've heard great things about this one in Turkey, a bit more pricey - www.thelifeco.com - set up by friends after visiting the original retreat in Samui.
You might also want to check out www.melaniedaviescleanse.com - a woman in the UK who can send you the same kind of herbal nutrients for a self-administered cleanse at home..and you still get to eat, just cutting out protein, caffeine, alcohol and the other fun stuff.
I may update my blog during the process. Perhaps I'll post a 'before' and 'after' pic so long as there's notable difference and the former is not too grotesque.
So please keep tuned.
And in the meantime, please do share your tips and plans for feeling your best.

*With the exception of insects, Humming Birds have the highest metabolism of all animals while in flight, consuming their own body weight in nectar each day.

Gift Lists

I get it. Really I do.
If you don't give guests a list you'll get all manner of crap.
But if I log on to John Lewis' online gift section one more time I'll scream.
It's very handy, of course.
You see the Smiths have requested six bone china plates, eight stoneware mugs, salt and pepper shakers sculpted like birds and so on.
You click something within your budget and hey presto, it's wrapped and delivered to the happy couple.
But where's the romance in that?
One bride I know got so addicted to the goodies, she typed in her password every few minutes to see what shad been bought.
Seven minutes after I'd made a transaction, she called to say thanks.
And a groom I know was gutted no one took the bait for the iPod with super-duper surround system he'd asked for.
"I know it's expensive but I thought a few of the boys might have chipped in," he grumbled.

The polar opposite was Stella McCartney's wedding which I attended six or so years ago.

I used the term 'attended' loosely - I was on the Isle of Bute, but firmly outside the castle gates and mostly inside local pubs trying to pick up stories - I was a showbiz reporter at the time.

Stella asked guests to donate a tree by way of present, which she would plant in an eco-forrest.

I Tree Wed, The Sun

Saving the planet is admirable, but people from Dundee can't go asking guests for trees. Trust me, they just can't.

So back to John Lewis.
If, like me, you log on three days before the big day only to find everything between the £5k dinning table and £5 toilet brush has gone, vouchers are on offer.
Again, this makes sense - the lovebirds can get what they want.
But if you take a step back, doesn't it seem boorish to say 'here's your invite and by the way, here's a list of things we want.'
When I voiced my concerns to Jamie, his solution was immediate and final.
"We won't have a gift list."
"Really?"
"Really. It's inane."
After thinking about it for a while, I came completely round.
How liberating to have one less list.
For years, he has binned gift lists and instead bought friends six bottles of nice wine from Laithwaites. This strikes me as a good thing to come home to after a honeymoon, when many couples say they feel a bit deflated the high jinx are over.
It's a tradition rarely employed these days, but did you know that in Scotland a 'showing of the gifts' used to be standard?
So the bride or her mother would put every present received on tables and friends would come round to view them.
I remember them from childhood, aunts looking at the written messages with a nod of approval for something expensive-looking or a muttered 'you can get that for a fiver in Woolworths.'
A public praising and shaming - obscene really but mainly well intended, to thank friends for their kindness.

Is it not enough that guests travel and put themselves up in a hotel to be there?

Europe and the perhaps the entire Western economies are teetering on the brink of a financial abyss.

Flights, hotels, outfits run into hundreds of pounds.

A few guests might insist on getting you something and it might be tat or wonderful - either way, they chose it.

But the only present you ask for is their presence at such a special day.

Schmaltzy but true.

Would You Pay To Try On Dresses?

The woman on the other end of the phone is checking her diary to see when she can fit me in to try on bride dresses.

“Would midday suit?”

“Perfect.”

“And we will require a payment of £25. I can take it now if you have a credit card at hand.”

“Sorry?”

“A payment of £25.”

“What for?”

The staff member at Browns Bride put it a certain way.

I asked if, put simply, she meant the charge was to enter the shop and try on frocks.

She concurred.

She pointed out they would refund the money should I buy one of their dresses.

Browns in London now also run the exclusive Vera Wang bridal outlet. Women who want to visit both boutiques are charged twice, even though they will – unless loaded or insane – will probably only buy one dress.

That aside, surely it’s just offensive to ask for payment to enter a shop?

I asked to speak to the manager.

“Hello Miss Maxwell. I believe you are wondering why we charge customers when they make a booking?”

She explained I would be paying for a service refundable against purchase.

I asked why no other top end bridal designer shop charged – Sassi Holford, Suzanne Neville, Pronovias at Harrods or Temperley to name but a few.

And why no other service I can think of charges you to consider purchasing their products.

It doesn’t sound the sharpest thing to do while the world is in economic dire straights.

B&Q doesn’t charge you to look at their kitchens, or indeed for an hour-long appointment with a designer to show you how it would look in your home.

A car salesman invests hours every day showing customers his motors. It’s his job.

The annoying bit was, I ventured to the manageress, that friends who have been to Browns say it’s lovely.

A number of designers are showcased under one floor, which is time-effective for a bride like me who is behind schedule.

Oddly though, no one I’ve spoken to remembers paying to look at gowns.

Perhaps it’s a new thing? Would you pay? Or perhaps you have?

I sighed. “I disagree fundamentally with your policy but I tell you what, I’ll pay £25 to come to both stores.”

“Rules,” she said, “Cannot be broken.”

I countered that rules are there to be changed slightly to take into account the individual needs of the customer.

My mother was flying down, the expense of a Big Day was making my head spin – come on, let’s be reasonable, was my friendly gambit.

“Ladies fly from all over the world to come to Browns Bride and we cannot change the rules for any one person.”

I’m sure she meant it to sound exclusive but I thought it insufferably crass.

I thanked her and bid farewell.

Stag Dos: The Dark Side

Here I am lying in a hotel bed in Holywood (Belfast, not Los Angeles) with an hour to spare before a friend's wedding.
In that time, I feel it's only right to set the record straight on my last blog which hailed Stags as far superior to Hens.
There is a caveat.
You know the "what goes on tour stays on tour" bit about Stags?
It 'aint pretty.
When you've finished reading this, you may confront your other half and demand to know if the details are correct.
And he will, quite rightly, point out I am but an excitable girl who has in all probability never been on a Stag.
You'll just have to trust me on this one. I know.

So, let's say a group of male friends go to Barcelona for a long weekend.
They will start off as one, drinking, telling tales and slagging each other off.
Even with new dads, there is no chat of children teething or nappy training.
This does not make them bad fathers; simply aware that it's not the time or place.
At some point in the night - perhaps after dinner and more drinks, this number will split into two distinct camps.
Those who do want to go to a lapdance joint and those who do not.
Sometimes a couple of members of the latter will tag along just for the sport of it.
If they are in a relationship, they know the she would be furious but when in Rome..
The men who were always intent on seeing breasts will sometimes go further. They will pay for sex.
Those who are attached may never cheat at any other time but see a Stag as a golden opportunity, a guilt-free 'time out' that doesn't really count.
You can only hope they are not so drunk they forget about protection. I know of no one directly who has discovered cheating through getting an STD. But it happens.
I believe it's the vast minority who view Stags as a rite of passage to being sexually unfaithful. Most want to drink, laugh and be able - albeit with bleary eyes - to look at themselves in the mirror come morning.
But the bottom line is that, come a point in the night, some men will forget the camaraderie of the Stag and act on their own impulses.
Like a (married) friend of a friend who last year went on a stag in the South of France.
Come midnight, after a solid twelve hours of drinking, his comrades were falling fast.
So he toddled of by himself to the most expensive strip joint in town which charged hundreds of Euros just to enter and hire a booth.

When he woke three hours later it was with two near-naked girls gyrating inches away and a very expensive bottle of champagne.
The only card he could find to pay the two grand bill was the one to the joint account he shared with his wife.
Needless to say, he wasn't feeling 'too grand' the next morning when she checked their online statements.
Let's switch to the Hen.
If a stripper is hired, it's for the shared experience. This is more comical than a man's 'ooh, look at the **** on that.'
This might extend to a slap on his bottom.
But the sight of some baby-oil-smeared guy trying to be sexy is more likely to have us feeling a little bit embarrassed for him, than magnetise us to his genitals with a one-track mind.
Even the single girls who can do what they like, don't view a weekend away as a mission to pull.
It's about the bride-to-be herself and having fun with the girls.
Of course there are women who have cheated on a Hen; some of them Brides-to-be. But these women are a rarity.
It's not the 'done thing', joked about when they come down sheepishly for breakfast the next day.
It's flaunting a betrayal of the man back home and that's not tolerated.
I stick by the sentiment of my last blog - Stags are more fun than Hens.
But then, I guess that depends on your idea of fun.

Martel Maxwell's Stag Do For Girls

Stags are more fun than Hens. Fact.
Men go to Iceland or the Algarve, say things like "what goes on tour stays on tour" and wake up in jail.
The last Hen I was on, someone brought their baby.
In fairness it turned out to be a hoot, but that's not the point.
Men see a get-away with the boys as an extravagance, but one to which they are entitled. A rite of passage.

They decide to go, wherever it is, spend the same as their pals and worry about the bill afterwards.
If he's under the thumb, he will:
a) refer to her covertly as 'The War Office' or;
b)  keep a secret bank account, so as not to be nagged ad nauseam upon return.
Studies show women worry up to twice as much about money as men.
When it comes to Hens, this translates to fretting about cost from the off.
So sympathetic brides-to-be are more likely to opt for a spa day or weekend in the UK.
Each to their own, but I want a trip to remember.
And in part, hopefully not.
As you know, I'm way behind on planning. Anything.
So my friend Zoe kindly offered to take the reigns, ably assisted by my sister Holly and pal Sal.
"So Max (the first half of my surname) what do you want to do?"
"Go to Vegas."
I knew it was never going to happen. The cost, a couple have newborns, others can't get time off work.
But she did ask.
"Ok," I conceded, "but I don't want the highlight of the weekend to be a manicure and glass of champagne."

Hen do hell

Our first destination idea for 'Martel Maxwell's Stag Do For Girls' was Marrakesh.
The group emails (there will be ten to fifteen of us) were flying, excitement mounting at our Moroccan adventure with kaftans and couscous; fezzes and fine wines.
Until, that is, Venetia pointed out drunk women are arrested and put in prison.
While this is one way of making it Stag-like, it's not ideal.
Females entering a bar are considered prostitutes.
My initial response - that this is a good thing as it will increase the single girls' pulling power, was not shared by The Team.
We are now thinking Ireland and specifically Kinsale, where the Guinness is great and food delicious, the town known as the country's culinary capital.

Martel Maxwell's stag weekend for girls

The flights are reasonable and we should be able to hire a couple of cottages with ocean views.
I envisage a rustic bar with fiddles and giggles, seafood that melts in the mouth and clubs that throw us out when the lights come up.
Perfection.

The Guest List

His list. Number 104:
"Irish Si."
"What do you mean 'Irish Si'? What's his surname?"
A frowning Him: "Dunno actually."
"You can't bloody have someone on the list if you don't know their surname."
We are three drinks in to the Dutch courage it has taken to start our Guest List.
My homage to starting this blog yesterday is finding a nice beer garden in Greenwich and ordering halves of Guinness to Jamie's pints. Because that stone is not going to lose itself.
That and the fact we brim with Celtic genes.
Jamie, who may possibly have a medical phobia about being told what to do, is affronted.
"Of course he's coming. I've had at least ten of the best nights out I've ever had with Irish Si."
To settle the matter, he calls a friend who furnished him with Simon's surname. With a flourish, he adds this to his list, along with a 'plus one' for his wife.

We have set an upper limit of 200.

When I tell former brides this they pucker their lips and say things like "Oh that's...ambitious,""Really?" or "We had 120. That was more than enough."

It's not a boast of popularity; simply a reflection on the amount of friends you collect by the time you hit your early thirties.
School, university, work, kindred spirits picked up along the way. They mount up.
And I think Scottish weddings often are a bit bigger.
I have enforced a rules to keep things getting silly. I say enforced..it works for me and Jamie may come round.
1. If I didn't go to their wedding, they won't be at mine.
My intended says this is a silly rule. If you like them and want them there, what difference does it make? Your friendship may have changed since they wed.
2. Other than family, no children.
This is  a political minefield in itself and one best saved for a future post.
The real fear is of leaving someone loved and downright obvious off the wedding list.
Like the time mum forgot to pick a Great Aunt up for my seventh birthday party.
It wasn't until we were headed back from the church hall, where the little boys in kilts had stabbed each other with pencils and cried, that mum screeched the car to a halt.
She later apologised for the strange words that came out of her mouth.
Auntie had sat on her sofa for two hours waiting for us to arrive, before sighing and taking off her new dress.
When I think of her, I smile.
And that makes me think perhaps Jamie has it right after all.
What better 'rule' for inclusion than: I think of them and remember the good times. They're coming because they make me smile.

Why I'm Keeping A Wedding Blog

It has come to my attention that I am not a normal bride.
Not if that means I am living, breathing and daydreaming about the big day; revelling in the finishing touches - that seems to come naturally to everyone else.
I've met the man of my dreams, love him and can't wait for a future with him.
Yet looking through bridal magazines and attending wedding fares has done nothing short of put me into a mild manic.
This is not in character - I love a party and am not averse to being the centre of attention.
But the relentless questions from those who have 'been there' are terrifying. "Will you take his name?" "What boutiques have you been to?" "How many guests?" "Menu?" "Bridesmaids?" "Where's the hen do?"
Perhaps it's the desire to be different. Or fear of being the same. Either way, the thought of being on this monstrous conveyor belt which churns out similar-looking women in white dresses is terrifying and I'm sure I can't be alone.
This blog is for me to keep a public diary and therefore force myself to get a move on.
Perhaps it will be a comfort to women who are similarly scared stiff of getting it right. And hopefully it will be a journey from this paralysis of indecision to our perfect day.
There are only six months left and by April 27, 2012 a fair bit to do - get a dress, create a wedding from scratch, make it original, lose a stone. You know, everything.
I will achieve these dizzying heights with your help. So please, keep tuned.