Here Comes The Bride...And Her Fat Friend

So, my old trout of a sister has finally found a man dumb enough, ugly enough and desperate enough to take her up the aisle. Hooray for that.

Only joking - my sister is a slender and stunning creature with a beautiful face and a fabulous personality. The bossiness she practised on me when we were kids has translated into ambition and drive; the stubborn belief that she knew better than anyone else has softened into a desire to make people happy. Of course, she has her faults like anyone else, but my sister is generally one of life's good eggs and she deserved to find another good egg. Together, they will make a mighty fine omelette.

All this happiness is particularly well-deserved, as a few years ago she took the enormously difficult decision to leave a 10-year relationship. To the outsider, there was nothing to herald the split and much shock greeted the announcement, not least by her ex. But she no longer loved him and knew that they had grown apart, so she took the mammoth step of going it alone after a decade with one man. I admired her for that - so many women cannot bring themselves to face the truth or if they do, they cannot find the guts to do anything about it.

Anyway, all that hooey aside - the important thing about this is that I am to be Chief and Only Bridesmaid and can therefore expect to be shoehorned into some sort of satin condom in October. (Well, actually, as I'm already married, I have the rather less seductive title of Matron of Honour, but as that makes me feel about 56, I refuse to acknowledge it.) I've already been poured into a few candidates and regretted all those custard pies I've eaten recently, but the search for the perfect bridesmaid's dress is not over yet. More humiliation awaits at the hands of stubborn zips, gaping boob tubes and supposed size 10s that silently condemn me with their refusal to accommodate my ample arse.

Which means one thing and one thing only - a regime of diet and exercise will have to be embarked upon, and sharpish. This is not an enormous concern in itself, as I am not an entirely slovenly person. But the forms of exercise I enjoy and partake of on a regular basis without too much effort - country walks, gardening and the exercise of love (narf narf) - just won't wash when it comes to turning my backside into a Kylie-esque rubber ball. The supermodel results I'm after require a significant amount of time, inconvenience and disruption to my normal routine, none of which sits well with my dedication to having a good time, all the time.

I suppose there is nothing for it but to just grit my teeth, break out the jogging bottoms and get on with it. Or hope that Rubenesque figures and gigantic, tyre-hiding dresses are in fashion come the autumn. Or that we've all died in a nuclear holocaust. You never know your luck...