Thought you might like to see some of our honeymoon photos.

In the end, the general vibe of wedding week turned out to be less, "Look at these pretty pictures!", and more, "WHOA we got married! And it's brilliant!"*. However, lest you should think that once the wedding was over the Hubster and I simply sailed off into a lifetime of harmonious matrimonial bliss, I have one last little tale for you. A wedding week coda, if you will. Otherwise known as the Threshold Story, or, The First Time I Wanted to Punch My New Husband in the Face. It's pretty romantic.

After ten, long, luxurious days of sleeping, eating and marinating in the Mediterranean sun, Fin and I reluctantly emerged from our post-wedding cocoon and headed towards home. The long trek back to Scotland required a two-hour coach journey, a five-hour flight, a twenty-minute bus journey, a forty-five-minute train journey, a ten-minute-taxi ride, and the lugging (by Fin) of two extremely heavy bags up two flights of stairs. Suffice to say, by the time we arrived back at the flat, we were knackered. And, possibly, a tiny bit tetchy.

Fin unlocked the door and heaved our bulging suitcases into the hallway. Stepping over them, he stumbled exhausted into the living room and presumably flopped in a heap onto the couch. I say "presumably", because I couldn't actually see him. I was still standing at the door. Waiting. Patiently.

I am by no means a "heavy" girl (hateful euphemism), but I am a tall girl, and I'm not skinny. You know those little pixie-type girls with teeny waists and snappable wrists and eyes too big for their tiny little heads? The ones who are always perching daintily on boys' knees, or getting lifted onto shoulders at gigs and blocking your view with their minuscule arse? Well, I am not and have never been one of those girls.

When Fin used to work at a nursery and spent his days scooping up toddlers, he would occasionally forget I was a fully-grown adult and try to pick me up by putting his hands under my armpits and lifting. Let's just say it was not an effective technique. He now avoids having to lift me at all costs. The bastard probably wouldn't even give me a piggyback if I broke my leg; I'm just too damn heavy.  So the one time in my life when I can insist that he *has* to lift me up, whether he likes it or not? No way I'm missing out on that, my friends. No way.

"Forbidden Love"?? Erm, there's a reason why love between a woman and an elephant is generally frowned upon.

I'm still standing at the door. Waiting. Less patiently. "Fin? I think you've forgotten something...?"

A muffled, "What?" from the living room.

"You've got to carry me over the threshold, remember? I'm still standing here!"

Silence. Then, "Are you joking?"

Okay, I know he's tired from our million-hour journey and humping my admittedly cumbersome bag up two flights of stairs, but come on. It's not like I'm going to make him carry me every time we enter the house. You only get to do this once.

I'm still waiting. Not very patiently at all.

"No, I'm not joking! Come and carry me over this threshold right now!"

More silence. Then with an almighty huff, I hear my darling husband heave himself up off the couch and stomp towards the door, muttering all the while about stupid traditions and fucking knackered and this is ridiculous and some other things I'm glad I couldn't make out. He takes huge exaggerated steps over the suitcases in the hall as if they are giant obstacles, to make sure I fully appreciate the extent of the sacrifice he is making to satisfy my whim. He charges through the door, says, "Come on, then", and reaches down to get a good hold on my legs.

In that instant, two things happen.

Fin swings me up into his arms like a sack of tatties. And the door swings shut behind him like, well, a door. Swinging shut. And locking itself.

There is a brief moment of horror, quickly plunging into despair as we realise our keys are on the other side of that door, along with our spare keys, our car keys and our money. We stare at the door, unable to process what has just happened. At this point Fin seems to notice he is still holding me, so he plonks me down with an ungraceful thud.

Obviously, it is Fin's fault, because he clearly pulled the door shut behind him as he harrumphed down the hall.

Obviously, it is my fault, because I insisted on taking part in this stupid, out-dated, pointless ritual.

Let's just say the atmosphere as we waited for the locksmith was... tense.

Several phone calls, one altercation with a neighbour and sixty quid later, the door was once again open. Once again, Fin marched forward into the flat and, once again, I hovered expectantly at the threshold.

Yes, even after all that, I still made him carry me over the threshold into our little flat. To his credit, he did it. He didn't so much put me down as drop me on the other side, but, still.


*Ok, not strictly true. There were more than a few pretty pictures as well.

{Images via Beach Bunny Swimwear}