Including my own, I think I have been to just four weddings. That’s a bit weird, isn’t it? I am 38 years old!
OK, I had to miss a couple because I had literally just had a baby (twice) and one was in Afghanistan – or possibly Scotland. But, even then, where are all these weddings that everyone says they’re invited to each weekend in spring and summer?
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I am so cool that people are too intimidated to invite me to their weddings. Alas not. The truth is I am such a grouch and such a vibe-suck at any party, no one wants me there.
I am also a bad friend. I don’t call: I don’t remember birthdays.
So my calendar yawns in front of me, empty, wedding-less, and speculation on wedding outfits is completely academic. It’s tragic, really – me wondering what it would be like to have loads of friends who invited me to their weddings.
“Oh, we must have Esther,” they say in my fantasy life. “It will be no fun without her complaining and going to bed early! She won’t pull a face at having to sit next to my grandmother and definitely won’t yawn in the speeches or say too loudly, ‘I give it six months’.”
And – still in my fantasy life – I would agree to take my children to this wedding! Which I would never do because they behave even worse than me.
I might as well bring a couple of half-trained rottweilers to a squirrel’s birthday party and expect them to behave.
Isn’t one of the points of a wedding to drink rosé and chatter away to people? I have never found this compatible with childcare, unless you’re OK with your kids stumbling about covered in nettle stings or wildly swatting the wedding cake with both hands.
But let’s pretend I am the sort of person who gets invited to weddings and also the sort of person who has children who could be presented in public – if both things were true, I would need a clever outfit to wear.
Because as we all know, children have a sixth sense for when you are wearing anything dry-clean only, or something that your boobs will fall out of if you have to bend over, or some heels that will do in your ankle if you have to break into a trot to stop a four-year-old from running up the aisle of the church holding a stick shouting, “Pew, pew, pew”.
Styling: Chloe Forde / Make-up: Karina Constantine / Hair: Ben Cook / Nails: Charly Avenell