I've just come back from two and a bit weeks in California and, you know what, those Beckhams might be onto something. I absolutely loved it. I've been to LA before, but driving over 2000 miles from LA up the Pacific Coast Highway and onwards to Big Sur, San Francisco, Napa, Yosemite (where I came face to face with not one, but two black bears, but that's an entirely separate story) Death Valley and Las Vegas opened my eyes to what a completely fabulous and fascinating place it is.

 

What I found really interesting is the, ahem, widening gap between the overtly healthy and the disgustingly obese. Americans are well known for their supersized waistlines and I read recently that the average American now eats around 3,600 calories a day, which is, well, a lot. But what I noticed was that in California many people seemed to be either one or the other. Everywhere I went I saw people running, cycling, surfing, roller-blading (why is it that California is the only place on earth where it is possible to make rollerblades look cool?) or taking part in some form of physical exercise. I admired their love of working out and coveted the fine weather and fresh food on offer. How could you not be healthy in a place like this?

 

But for every health freak there was a blob walking down the street in the other direction. In an attempt to feel like a five year old, I spent a day in Disney Land (which is still, like, the most totally awesome place ever) and was shocked at the number of clinically, morbidly, disgustingly obese people I saw. And when you see what they eat, it's not surprising that obesity is a major problem in America. But what really got me was the way in which many Americans are willing to view being so obese you can barely walk as an acceptable lifestyle choice.

 

At Disney, for example, I gradually began to notice that there were many, many people getting about on those electrically powered devices that look like a cross between a wheelchair and a golf cart. Nothing unusual about that, I hear you say, but then I realised that most of these people were connected by one thing - they were all obese. And rather than choosing to walk off some of the sugary, trans-fat coated foods on sale at the resort, they had elected to take advantage of Disney's wheelchair rental service so they didn't have to do any walking at all.

 

And there they were, zooming about between the various attractions, parking their electric carts and alighting to enjoy Space Mountain or whatever, before jumping back on and moving on to the next ride that takes their fancy. I was dumbfounded. And what genuinely disabled people must think, I can only guess.

 

The UK is apparently four years behind the US of A when it comes to obesity statistics and I know I bang on about this all the time on this blog, but we really need to do something about it. The answer? Who knows, but rather than accepting the obesity epidemic, maybe we should make it antisocial.

 

Well, it worked for smoking, didn't it?

Ross

So London Fashion Week has happened. But where were all the stars? We scoured show after show for a glimpse of A-list status in the crowds and were left a smidgeon disappointed.

London Fashion Week is often labelled the ‘worst’ of the four fashion weeks (the others being New York, Paris and Milan of course, dahlings). So is this why the likes of Victoria Beckham, Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher crowd the runways State-side, while the celebs shun them in Britain?

OK, so Peaches Geldof and Lily Cole were there, but they were being paid to be, as models at various shows. And no offence to the girls, but they’re hardly ‘Joan Collins’ status in the celebrity stakes.

The total lack of star power wasn’t because the celebs were all in hiding either, for when Isabella Blow’s memorial service took place, the event was so jammed to the rafters with celebs there was barely room to swing a cat.

So we can’t help but wonder, is London Fashion Week just a bit of an embarrassment that the stars want to avoid at all costs? And if so, why are the Brits so far behind the Americans, Italians and the French in the creative stakes?

 
 

I’ve done it, I’ve married the fella! After 18 months of planning, discussing, shopping, meeting people, more shopping and planning, I’ve had the big day.

It was, of course, the most wonderful one of my life. The sun was shining, all my family and friends looked beautiful and everyone cheered us in church, then as we sat down to dinner and as we had our (rather raucous) first dance. (Well, if you’ve heard With You by The Subways, you’ll know what I mean. Not the easiest one to leap about to in a floor-length corseted wedding gown, but it was worth the craic, and well, the words mean a lot to us *blush*).

But I have to tell you (because I can laugh now) that if you’d been with me on the morning of the wedding, it was a very different story. And one thing I learned from it and would advise all future brides to do, without question, is to rehearse everything you’re planning for the day least ONCE.

The afternoon before the wedding was blissful. My dad, who’d been terrified of giving a speech, came to see the venue and thought it was beautiful. It made him more relaxed, just to see it first (and on the day his speech went down an absolute storm).

We had the rehearsal with our bridesmaids, best man and readers at the church (who were all a tad nervous too) and they too felt more relaxed because they’d had a chance to see it first.

Everything was going swimmingly, and everyone was in a buoyant, excitable mood.

My mum came over to stay with me in the evening and we shared a glass of wine before I was safely tucked up at 11pm.

The next morning I woke up at 5.30am and watched the sunrise, feeling so happy it was sunny and really excited. Mum and I had a cup of tea or two in the garden, then by 10am I was driving to the hairdressers to meet my four bridesmaids. But here’s the thing: I hadn’t had a ‘hair rehearsal’. Now you may think this is silly, but the man (who has cut my hair a few times before) wanted to charge me £80 for the rehearsal, as well as £80 on the day – even though I was bringing my four bridesmaids to have their hair done with me. Well, with costs mounting up, I thought I could do with saving that £80, so I took a picture in and went for it.

Ninety minutes later when I was left looking like something across between a pantomime-dame and a drag queen, it was a decision I’d regretted. Stuck in my seat feeling terrified I was just wondering how fast I could get out of there to take out the 200 hairgrips he’d backcombed my hair around out. I was in sheer panic-stricken hell.

Before I’d got back into my car his work was undone. And I don’t know if any of you have seen that YouTube video, but I can’t tell you how similar I felt to that bride.

I got home realising it was too late to wash my hair so I did a quick self-fix with two clips, before one of my old friends, Matt, came round to do my make-up. He calmed me down and made me feel beautiful as the bridesmaids and I enjoyed champers and the sunshine in the garden.

All was going well again, so we popped our dresses on. Then the zip on my size eight bridesmaid’s dress went. From top to bottom. We didn’t know what to do. It was 1.15pm and the cars were due any second to get us to the church for 2pm. My wonderful supermum came to the rescue: “I’ll sew her into it!” she said. Genius. With an experienced hand, no one could see the tacking on the side of my girl’s dress – and by a stroke of luck, it was down the side, right under her arm – and we had shawls so now one would know. Phew!

Then I noticed that the two black London hackney carriages I’d booked hadn’t arrived. And it was getting on for 1.30pm. I called to find out where they were. As I’d given my credit card details and had reference numbers, I wasn’t too worried. Then I was told “No drivers have picked up the job.” I called again two minutes later – “But I’M THE BRIDE!!!” I squealed, in true bridezilla fashion.  It didn’t seem to have any effect. I just couldn’t believe it. We’d been recommended this major London firm by a very experienced London cabbie friend. And I had no idea when I booked that there was a slim chance the drivers might not arrive.

Fortunately, my parents – God love ‘em, came to the rescue and offered to take us there. As we jumped into their cars with our flowers, I looked up our street and saw two little girls leaning out of an upstairs window. “Good luck!” they yelled. It was really sweet – and by now I really needed some of that luck.

Then, something happened when we got to Chelsea, a  blissful moment of magic: our luck began to change. First, we found free parking spaces. And as me, my mum, dad (in his mourning suit) and my five bridesmaids tottered across Sloane Square (me looking slightly panicked, everyone else just relieved to be there) everyone started looking and smiling at us from the pavement cafes. Despite all the panic, we must have looked quite a party.

Our wonderful Bishop managed to stop me hyperventilating as I started to walk down the aisle with dad and as everyone turned and smiled I just knew this was already going to be the best day of my life.

I won’t bore you with the rest of that magical day. But I just wanted to say to all brides to be: do try everything once. And don’t panic if things go wrong – they will. Whatever happens, you will still have the time of your life with your new husband. 

 

Have you ever experienced a near wedding-day disaster? Talk about it here.