Less than two weeks to go and we're mithered to death.

So much to do, so little time.

We're running around like a brace of Alice In Wonderland's White Rabbits. Only instead of pocket watches, we're clutching lists and lists of lists.

I have the master copy (but of course). I feel the need to be chief organiser and dole out daily missives to Bloke, who is gritting his teeth and putting up with my turning into Bridezilla with exceptionally good grace. (Which makes me realise all the more how brilliant a man I am marrying).

I am normally quite a bit control-freaky organiser anyway. But as the wedding draws nearer, the greater the magnification of this particular character trait.

I having to stop myself and question what on earth I'm getting so worked up about. It's just a day, after all. Only it's an important day, a special day – a day I want everyone invited to really enjoy.

What's piling on the pressure is our decision to have the reception at home.

When we decided on a DIY do, our main thought was of the money we would surely be saving. Oh, how stupidly naive we were.

That exorbitant fee hotels and venues charge before they even begin to quote for the catering? We now know what it covers. Staffing, flowers, tables, table cloths, plates, crockery, glasses... it's all in with the price.

It's taken us months to source and hire every single item, right down to the last napkin. Thank goodness for remortgaging, I say.

The additional cost of our time has been even more colossal, though – mainly because, in our joyful exuberance, we decided it would be really lovely if we could totally redecorate one of the rooms to be used.

It's a very old house and every scrap of the thickened paint masking original mouldings and architraves needed to be scraped away by hand before it could be replaced.

It has been a real labour of love. We have laboured over it every weekend – me with rubber gloves on to protect my bride nails, headscarf to protect my bride hair, ankle to toe overalls on to protect bridal everything else from scratch or scrape.

Every time I get my work gear on, Bloke starts to whistle the theme to Dr Zhivago, puts on a funny accent and says: "Can she play the balalaika?"

We wanted to finish it this weekend, only there were interruptions. Those Sod's Law moments that life wings at you when you can least cope with them.

Gallons of water started pouring out from under the dishwasher and then our de-stressing Sunday morning dog walk was brought to an untimely end when Boy rang up and squawked: "The pipe for the shower has broken. There's water spurting out all over the place.

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