I’m preternaturally excited.

My friend The Blonde is one of the dearest and most wonderful and bestest women ever in the world. She is marrying Mr Macclesfield next August and I am to be one of her bridesmaids. Hop, skip, etc.

I’ve never been one before. I was asked once, when I was about 10, but the couple split acrimoniously before I’d even had my second dress fitting. I’m not sad though: the silly cow was going to dress me in swathes of peach taffeta. I call that a lucky escape from certain sartorial death.

Given this near brush with style disaster, I’m wary of weddings and all who sail in them. Particularly when you consider some of the billowing, sea-worthy creations some women cram themselves into.

So it’s with great relief that I learn that The Blonde plans to a) dress herself in something gorgeous and slinky and b) us bridesmaids are to wear whatever we like and just carry a posey.

Not a slither of peach taffeta in sight.