No fury like a bridesmaid scorned.

I am so angry right now.

The past few months have been merry hell. HELL. It's Siobhan's fault. Most things at the moment are Siobhan's fault. This wedding, I swear, it's taking over. It has become A Thing. It has arms and legs and three heads and belches tiny pieces of confetti and hatred.

Do you know how to craft an origami crane that's exactly three-point-five centimetres high?
I do, now.
Do you know the price of one hundred and thirty nine hand-crafted champagne glasses?
I do, now.
Do you know where to find swan feathers that have been dyed with nontoxic organic vegetable matter?
I do, now.
Do you know why bridesmaids drink excessively and fantasise about drowning the bride-to-be in a bath full of lemon chiffon cake?
I do, now.

There has also been an embargo on blogging, talking, Whateverbooking, tweeting, or any other form of non-Siobhan-sanctioned venting. The Doctor tries to squeeze into the spare room paper bin whenever he hears her ring tone. Anise is so traumatised that she's started shedding eyelashes. Even my parents twitch when you mention the S word.

No more. The silence is over.

Get ready; it's going to be ugly.