I, Billy-Bob, take thee, Billy-Sue...

Having been engaged for pretty much exactly a year, we finally got round to booking the registry office and going in to give our Notice of Marriage. This largely consists of proving to them that you're not actually hillbilly twins, and handing over 30 quid each.

Duly producing our birth certificates for the scrutiny of the Superintendent Registar, it transpires that the writing on C's certificate is actually hers. Another warm and fuzzy moment brought to you by Redneck County, yes ma'am.

The process then goes thus: the prospective groom is asked (in front of the prospective bride) a string of questions about his family, age, occupation etc. He is then asked the same questions about the Bride (I could quite go with the Uma Thurman imagery here), who is then in turn asked the same questions, about herself, and about him, that he has just answered. Oh, joyful bureaucracy. The groom is then recorded as having given Notice of Marriage (hey, who made the appointment, hmmn?) and your fathers' occupations are taken for the marriage certificate (both of us proving vague on this one - no we're really not hillbilly twins madam). Note to self: find out what mine actually did, other than fall out with people on a rotational basis, before they ask me the same set of questions all over again in six months or so. And you're not allowed to put your mother down instead. Grrr.

One interesting point, the registry office is moving, so we won't be getting married in Berkley Vale: it sounds like it will be the old All Saints School building. Unless they're still in their "temporary accommodation" which sounds ominous - could be a portacabin folks...