The big question has finally been popped. The question I have waited my whole life to hear, yet didn’t dare dream it would actually happen.
It’s the question that means I get to wear a fantastic bespoke frock and walk down an aisle; the one where I I get a very special day surrounded by my nearest and dearest; the one that means I get to slow dance the night away. With the usher.
Yes, that’s right. I’ve been asked to be a bridesmaid. Woo-hoo!
You see the old adage ‘always the bridesmaid, never the bride’, doesn’t really apply since I’ve never really been either. And while I don’t long for a big day of my own – never have done – I’ve always wanted to be a bridesmaid.
‘Cos bridesmaids have more fun.
You get to wear a glam dress (even if it is any shade of peach) and get your hair and make-up done by a pro.
All eyes aren’t on you so kick back, mainline the mound of sausage rolls on the buffet table and, if the mood takes you, do the Macarena in full force without fear of it haunting you forever more.
And when the night is over you can go home with a very dashing usher. Just for the record, Mr Emily has been asked to be an usher – my new bridesmaid status doesn’t grant me wandering eyes.
But before I get carried away, I need to ‘fess up something. I have been a bridesmaid before. Once. I’m still traumatised by the memories. And the photographs.
It was my uncle Mark’s wedding and aged nine it really should have been a little girl’s dream come true.
The nightmare began when it came to finding a frock. As I stood before the dressing room mirror with my mum heaving up the zip of my size 16 frock, I knew I’d eaten too many Wotsits.
On the day itself I was mortified. I lumbered down the aisle in a frilly ivory dress looking less like a princess, more like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters. With a floral headress.
After the service I posed for photographs, my cheeks crimson with embarrassment. I was double the size of the bride.
Had I been old enough, I’d have definitely drowned my sorrows in a bucket of Cava before trying to get off with the best man. And then crying.
Seeing as I was not yet in double figures I drowned my sorrows in a bucket of Wotsits. And then cried.
But this time will be different.
When my lovely friend asked me to be one of her bridesmaids I shrieked with joy. As the old codgers say on X Factor auditions, this is last chance saloon for me.
I want to be a bridesmaid before I am an old maid.
I have 15 months to ready myself for the big day and preparations start in earnest.
Frighteningly, it could be less than a year until the hen do and, whether it’s Ibiza, Benidorm or Bilston I am determined to look like one of those gyrating girls from the cover a Ministry of Sound album. Okay, maybe that’s stretching it a bit.
But if one thing’s for sure, there won’t be any Wotsits.
There might well be a spray tan (after all, I don’t want to be a milkmaid) where I’ll end up looking like a Wotsit but any consumption of said cheesy snacks is prohibited from here on in.
At least until the service is over and the professional photographer has left the building.
Then it’ll be Wotsits, Whigfield and WKD.
And I can’t flippin’ wait!
Elizabeth Joyce is away