In the week leading up to our big day I watched helplessly as the downpours continued and the chances of us exchanging our vows outside were gradually washed away.

There were superstitious mutterings about the pitfalls of a rainy wedding day – apparently meaning I would shed many tears during our relationship.

Well, at least for the first year – the quickest of my life – that hasn't come true.

The thing is, wearing a ring on my finger seems to have changed very little.

After all, we had already been living "under the brush" as my mum called it – which, for those of you under 60, means co-habiting while unmarried.

So we knew each other's bad habits, like my inability to use even the most simple technological device; my insistence on locking the front door at all times and Mr N's penchant for tapping his feet and eating tablespoons of Milo straight from the tin.

Despite making an honest man of him, I still have to put the bins out – which I have argued is a man's job, to no avail.

I still have to do all the cleaning, including laundry, because Mr N "does the DIY".

And I still get blamed for anything broken or missing.

Of course, now we have the two new additions, I also get to feed the kittens, buy their food, take them to the vet's and clean out their litter tray.

Security

But the question everyone asks after you tie the knot is, "do you feel any different?"

And despite protestations beforehand, there's no denying you do.

It's a feeling of security, even if that's not something you thought you were looking for.

And there's a sense of comfort in knowing you've found the person you want to spend the rest of your life with and they feel the same.

Unfortunately I never realised that being comfortable meant comfort eating.

I'm well-versed in tucking into Ben & Jerry's straight from the tub after an argument or particularly alarming bank statement – that's widely accepted as comfort eating,

But eating because you are so comfortable?

That's just as big a problem.

In fact it's worse, because arguments and bank statements only land around once a month whereas feeling content (or a smug married) is almost a constant state.

I had harboured dreams of waiting at home in my wedding dress on our first anniversary to surprise Mr N but in the end I didn't even dare try it on as I couldn't bear the disappointment of finding it no longer fitted.

So now, 366 days after making those all-important vows, I'm making another equally life-changing set.

I'm vowing to cut out calorific treats (most of the time) and get back to the gym.

The tipping point was hearing this joke: "What's the difference between a wife and a girlfriend?"

"About a stone."

Tragically for me, it's only funny because it's true.


Brilliant innovative Feet


LIKE 99.9 per cent of women, I get very excited about shoes.

But words can barely describe my glee at the arrival of Tipsy Feet in Leeds.

They are a dream come true for every female who has braved broken glass and vomit-strewn pavements barefoot at the end of a night out because they couldn't bear to keep their crippling four-inch stilettos on another second.

And for all those women with more self-restraint, who just wished they could rip off their shoes and walk in comfort on their way home but never actually did it, they're the answer to their prayers.

Tipsy Feet – as seen on Dragon's Den – are pocket pumps that come in a foldaway clutch purse small enough to fit in your handbag, which magically transforms into a carry-all shoe bag when the pumps are removed.

Pure genius – and you know only a woman could have come up with it.

These life-changing creations are now on sale in Cadeaux in the Victoria Quarter and I'm off to get mine today.

Then not only will I be able to skip home after a night on the town, rather than hobble – I'll also have a ready-made excuse to get tipsy!


Charm offensive


WHEN our new fridge finally arrived (regular readers might remember that the delivery drivers originally brought the wrong one – all the way from Portsmouth) it came with a little surprise.

It was 7.20am and I was getting changed in the bedroom when Mr N poked his head round the door to let me know one of the drivers wanted to use the bathroom.

I closed the door and carried on getting ready for work but after hearing the toilet flush and the bathroom door unlock, I couldn't believe my ears at what came next.

A raspy-voiced southerner was whispering just outside my door: "'Ello gorgeous. 'Ello beautiful. Come downstairs, come on. Come on, gorgeous. Aren't you beautiful?"

I froze for a second, half-dressed, mortified.

Was I really being seduced before breakfast, with my husband downstairs, by a Smeg delivery driver?

Then I started laughing to myself, realising he must have been a cat lover who had stumbled across one of our kittens and was trying to charm it with sweet nothings.

At least, I hope that's what he was doing.