I don't call my mother as often as I ought to. This is either because I am a Bad Daughter, or because I'm a very good one. My temper starts twitching as soon as I hear the ringing tone at the other end, because I can tell as soon as it does whether it's going to be the kind of conversation that makes me fleetingly regret living so far away or the kind that sends me out onto my balcony to break glass. (What? It's healthy stress relief. You should try it.)

This week, I used a free calling service to call her from my office. It has the bonus of having a maximum of 30 minutes call time and when it's gone, it's gone. Sensible, I thought, but it only made her pack her crazy in all the tighter.

We started out with the customary social courtesies. I asked after everyone, she responded, she asked my news and I gave her a censored version. We swiftly moved on to mercenary concerns: she insisted I need a pre-nup; I pointed out that the most altruistic man in the world is unlikely to want to steal my Ph.D. debt, and my beloved has only an aesthetic interest in my vintage clothing collection.

This taken care of, we skirted the issue of "too soon" since she has developed a healthy fear of asking impertinent questions. She asked previously about the possibility of his drug use; I over-shared details of mine (exaggerated for effect) to scare her away. We covered The Dress; she approved of my ideas, wondered why I wasn't planning to use one of the vintage ballgowns in the collection (they're very fragile, the off-white one has some damage that's beyond my ability to fix, and I'm unlikely to fit in them in short order), but made it clear that I needed to order a larger size of any dress because I'm so damned fat. This is an ongoing theme with my mother, whose body dysmorphia seems confined to my body. It has, of late, taken on a gallows-humour significance that is not lost on me, and I duly promised to buy a plus size dress with a corset back so it can be pulled a bit tighter - or loosened - if necessary. (At the moment, I weigh 44kg. Just so you know.)

Next we moved on to location in general. She was relieved to hear we were thinking of doing it local to her; it had crossed her mind that I'd be likely to announce it after the fact and invite no one. I told her it was important for us that most family and friends not have to travel beyond the necessary. She took this as an invitation to suggest a venue, and this is where my teeth settled into their familiar tongue-edge grooves.

You see, my mother has haunts. She likes certain places and has an almost autistic resistance to New Things. Her suggestion for the ceremony was one of her favourite places: and it was a garden centre. She tells me it's very pretty in the summer. They have a little garden where you can sit and drink tea and eat little cakes while sitting on plastic chairs and presumably gawking at the Wedding du Jour.

I refused, and delicately pointed out that any further suggestions need to actually be processed through a "Teh Stoopid" brain/mouth filter, otherwise I will make her stand outside the venue wearing a dunce's hat and holding the coats.

Perhaps I need to learn to bite harder.