Hot on the heels of the hen night of the year is, of course, the wedding of the year.
Something I am looking forward to immensely but with the accompanying sense of foreboding only understood by a disorganised, junk food consuming, woman with nothing to wear the week before a glamorous event at a castle.
Just call me Cinderella.
Of course the pressure on women is ridiculous, even if it is largely a product of our own minds fuelled by an insatiable clothing and accessory fashion industry.
I don’t aim particularly high but if I don’t turn myself out polished and coiffed in a semi-glamorous frock, sky-high heels, with a chic handbag and possibly the most impractical piece of headwear known to women - the fascinator (it doesn’t even keep your head warm) - I may not be able to hold up my head in polite society again.
And I wasn’t even planning on wearing a lobster on myhead, reminiscent of Princess Beatrice’s Philip Treacy fashion statement (or when she looked a bit stupid with seafood on her head, to translate for normal people.)
The scruffy journalist look is just not acceptable, even if approximately five hours after vows are exchanged, the thousands of pounds of expensive wedding-do gear donned by the entire wedding party will be dragged across dirty dance floors, dipped in unusually flavoured cocktails, ripped asunder and liberally sprayed in canapes.
Which are all, of course, the sign of a good ‘do.’
Of course half the fun of a wedding (if it is not yours and maybe even if it is) if seeing what other people wear or crucially, if they can do the conga in it after champers and a side order of shots.
But I take my hat off (or more specifically my uncomfortable fascinator) to those fuelling the wedding industry, who presumably are sipping champagne and laughing in their comfy leisure-wear as they flog sky-high priced, overly tight, multi-coloured, never to be worn again, frocks, to women like me who have nothing to wear, sartorially insecure, and likely to be different size by next week
But I shall go to the ball.