Me. Changing my name.

I changed my name recently – getting married can do that to you. The thing is, I keep forgetting.

There’s nothing like being unable to place your own name to make other people think you’re an idiot.  It doesn’t help when you forget your address in the same sentence. Bloody forms. Why do they always need your name and address anyway? Stupid passports. You’d have thought a terribly unflattering picture would be enough.

Anyway, when I married the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine I decided not to follow my new husband’s suggestion and call myself Mrs Northern Love Machine. Instead I took his actual name: Weaver.

This is a problem for two reasons. The first is that I harbour secret hopes of one day producing a sister for Frog and “Eva” is one of my favourite names. While the NLM thinks “Eva Weaver” has a certain ring to it, I have to disagree.

The second problem is that I rather like my maiden name. I like the way it gives me an opportunity after a couple of glasses of wine to lie to people about my family’s huge wealth. “Oh ‘Forbes’, yes that’s us. We’ve got the magazine, the castle, everything. We’re stinking rich.” *ahem*

I’ve also grown rather attached to my old name. Molly Forbes is who I am. It’s who I’ve been since the day I was born. Molly Weaver sounds like someone else.

So I’ve decided to keep my old name, sort of. I’ll stay Molly Forbes for work purposes, so the name matches the one on my portfolio of cuttings and demo tapes. But I’ll be Molly Weaver at home. It means I get to have a secret Weaver-related identity. And it also means I get to have the same name as my daughter and husband, without giving up the old one completely.

Is that a cop out though?Am I sitting on the surname fence here? What’s in a name anyway? I’d love to know what you think.

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I’ve managed to hoodwink persuade a real-life, actual man to promise to spend the rest of his life with me. I know, I can’t believe it either.

The man in question isn’t in the house this evening. He’s been turfed out into a nearby hotel, along with about ten million family members from all corners of the country. They’re all in separate rooms though, obviously.

As a result, today has been one of pampering and nice-smelling things. While my aunt and uncle entertained Frog for the day, I had my hairy toes seen to, my face polished and my finger nails neatened, all in a room that smelt of flowers. I then came home to find my wedding dress laid out on my bed for me, along with a card from my mum.

It was at that point that I cried. My mum made my dress, see. And the card contained a photograph of her holding me as a baby. *sob* (Needless to say, when I rang her sobbing, she told me to get a grip.)

After spending the evening cuddling my daughter, eating pizza with my bridesmaids and opening the first flurry of cards, I finally feel like a bride. It’s finally sunk in that I’m getting married in the morning. OH MY GOD I’M GETTING MARRIED IN THE MORNING!

And I don’t feel nervous. I don’t feel sick. I just feel the little butterflies start to flap their wings in my stomach, as I imagine the day ahead and seeing the NLM waiting at the end of that long walk for me, ready to put a ring on my finger.

It’s the night before the rest of my life – and I can’t bloody wait.

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