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Or maybe she is my niece. I'm not entirely sure about the correct terminology to use here, because Gabriella here is the daughter of my soon-to-be-sister-in-law, but that's not the same as being the daughter of my sister-in-law. So perhaps she's not my niece, and I'm not her uncle, yet.
Come to think of it, maybe proto-niece isn't the right term either. Pre-niece? Niece-in-waiting? Lucky there's only 47 days until I'm married and the matter is settled.
47 days? Time for a panic. I haven't got a suit yet, we haven't filled in some fairly important legal papers required for us to get married, and then there's also the matter of obtaining enough seasickness pills to prevent the assorted relatives and friends from getting bilious on the day. Oh, and I need to write some vows for my fiancee to recite. That part is simple though: I'll just get her to agree to always agree with me and never to complain when I'm spectacularly incompetent. I suppose if she knew that in advance, she might get uppity, but it's not like I'm publishing this news in a public place, is it? She'll never catch wind of my nefarious scheme until it's too late.
Ahem. I have been told I should start panicking soon, but I'm still full of practically beatific calm. Or perhaps I'm just exhausted: what with a soon-to-be-niece, two films and three large lumps of cheese, I was far too excited to sleep last night and didn't doze off before one in the morning, waking today to feel utterly dreadful.
I felt better after I'd been to see my physiotherapist. Well, better than I'd been on Saturday after hunching over the mike stand, and then having this strange feeling that my head was about to fall off. It's fairly relaxing to go for a lie down in the middle of the day while somebody does their best to correct for three decades of bad posture, although afterwards I wanted to go back to sleep, so it wasn't very good from a productivity standpoint. Better than me falling over in the office and screaming in anguish.
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