Kirsty Bosley: Sausage rolls and the Hokey Cokey, that's what a wedding is all about

My auntie was wed in a trouser suit at the registry office, and the post-'I do' do at a local restaurant was a fairly decent knees-up, from what I recall. I recall quite little, as I was only quite little myself.

There was no over-the-top, lavish expenditure and we did not arrive in a vintage, ribbon-adorned Rolls Royce. It was a small do – just what the bride and groom wanted.

To me, that's what weddings are supposed to be. You get married – in the church or otherwise – and then you book out a function room to have a disco in. You have your first dance to I Don't Want to Miss a Thing by Aerosmith or Amazed by Lonestar and the DJ plays Agadoo and the Grease Megamix until the buffet is open. Everyone gets their fill of quiche and egg sandwiches and cheese and pineapple on sticks, followed by the YMCA and other assorted choreographed jams.

Kids run riot and cry when they get tired (that's me, even now) and mums and aunties two-step in a circle around their new handbags, packets of fags and bottles of Anais Anais spilling out from within. Everyone undulates to the Dirty Dancing soundtrack until the DJ signals the end with a muffled introduction of Thank You for the Music by Abba or Never Forget by Take That, depending on what DJ it is. Then your mum will get the cling film out and encourage everyone to take home paper plates of sausage rolls, and guests will say how lovely the day was. It almost always really, really was.

The second wedding I ever went to was much the same, only the bride wore a white dress and I was a bridesmaid. My dress was from Debenhams, and I felt like the business in its chiffon waves. I had my hair done at the hairdressers in the morning and we had a limo to the the church. I illegally guzzled Champagne (though it might have been Charlemagne for all I knew) and then had my nails painted by my aforementioned auntie. I was 17 and had never seen a spectacle quite like it.

Afterwards we went to the pub, where everyone drank pints and danced around to the Grease Megamix. It turns out that when it comes to wedding after-parties, the passing of time is of no real consequence. We had a buffet of sandwiches and stuff on sticks and there was a cake. It was a good day.

These weddings had one key thing in common. In fact, the clue is right there in that sentence. We are a little bit common, truth be told, and a room hazy with Superkings smoke and the smell of spilled half pints of mild was a party to us.

I don't want to get all Jennifer Lopez on you, but I grew up on the block. A council estate block that is, comprising a lot of 40s/50s semi-detached houses filled with families rather like ours.

There wasn't much money knocking about round our end. We didn't have central heating or a car, and we didn't do pocket money. When it came to parties, that didn't really matter.

Some of the best parties I ever went to took place in the front room of my mum's friend Jan's house. On her brown carpet she taught me how to do the Tiger Feet dance made famous by glam rock Londoners Mud, and I used to stand on her feet as she whirled me around the room to (heaven forgive us) Gary Glitter.

To this day I believe that there's no party like a Jan's living room party. I thought all weddings rocked that same vibe, and had no clue that weddings could ever be more lavish than that. I was wrong.

When I moved away from the estate and went to uni, a party was wherever the £2 pints of snakebite were. With graduation came a life where I mixed with kids who had really nice things, such as a mortgage or a PC. Or a dad.

A friend of mine got married a couple of years ago, and my eyes were opened to a completely different world of weddings, where people had things called 'save the date cards' which weren't invites bought from the card shop and written on in silver gel pen.

I learnt that party favours were 'a thing'. Presents for people that aren't the bride or groom, apparently. I had never heard anything so strange. From what I can work out, it's a bit like the bag you get when you leave a McDonald's birthday party, where you get a Hamburglar sticker and a pair of chattering, wind-up teeth. Only more expensive.

More recently, a cousin got married in the most lavish wedding I've ever attended. The whole family (including us Tiger Feet-ing common relations) took over a beautiful hotel. My cousin – glittering and glowing in a divine dress and designer heels that probably cost more than all the decor in Jan's living room – looked exceptionally lovely. It was a grand affair, with a sit-down dinner (hot, nothing on sticks) and live music.

I often wonder about how I'd celebrate if I ever managed to convince someone to marry me. For all of the splendid display that would come with hot food, presents for everybody and a conga of exquisitely-dressed bridesmaids, I just feel that it's not for me.

I'm the kind of girl that wants to muck about in an off-the-hanger dress to the Time Warp with my pals. I want to teach my niece how to do Tiger Feet and I want a really big massive group sit-down rendition of Oops Upside Your Head.

Turns out that you can lead a girl from the council estate, but you can't make her drink Champagne.

Snakebites and quiche all round!