Frocking Around The Clock

Blimey, it's been a long day.

From 11am to 7.30pm, I have mostly been in a state of undress. Not in the street you understand - I haven't yet taken to roaming the town in just my undercrackers. But today has been the latest Mini Event in the series of Mini Events that build up to the Big Event of 2010. My Sister's Wedding.

Yes, today was the latest phase in The Hunt For The Bridesmaid's Dress and it was a knackering one. Having rootled through the limited retail offer of my own home town and my sister's home of Hicksville, UK, we decided that a trip into London was the next sensible move. Surely, we reasoned, we would find something suitable in the teeming metropolis that is our capital city. With six trillion shops, at least a third of which seem to be branches of Coast, something acceptable was sure to rear its chiffon-smothered head.

You'd think so, wouldn't you? But no. After eight hours of almost non-stop rack rifling, zipping up, zipping down, hoisting, wriggling and doing that thing of holding a dress up against yourself and trying to stare it into being longer, shorter, nicer or a better fit, this damn dress is still eluding us.

It was fun enough though, as I am never averse to a bit of dressing up, plus we tried on a few bits of ludicrous upper class headgear and spent a few thousand Dream Pounds between us in Christian Louboutin. Honestly, I can't say I've ever wanted to lick a pair of shoes before, but that shop could turn a girl's head. I really hope the Devil doesn't decide to tempt me one day when I'm out walking the moor with my other half - all he'd have to do is wave a pair of Louboutin's classic black pumps at me and I'd be claiming single person's council tax discount before the day's end.

The problem we had was two-fold - my sister's pickiness and my pickiness. My sister has chosen an incredibly expensive and proportionately beautiful wedding dress, but it is of a very singular appearance which cannot be accessorized by just any old frock. Her bridesmaid needs to be wearing a dress that is just as ruched, ruffled and frue-frued as hers, or at least boasting complementary features. Also, she set her heart on a particular colour scheme some time ago, but the two elements just refuse to make love and spawn the perfect dress.

Add to this the fact that I hate wearing above-the-knee garments and the field of possible candidates is narrowed even further. I should stress that this is not just me being contrary, this is a public health notice, as my knees should not be exposed under any circumstances. They look as if they've been borrowed from Big Bird, broken a few times and then stuffed with handfuls of boiled rice for good measure. Also, I am completely unable to pull off the short, puffy, cutesy dresses that are all the rage these days. You need to be tall, svelte and sylph-like to wear those things and unfortunately I tick none of those boxes.

I have an hourglass figure. It took me many years to accept that, as all I wanted was to be waif-like, straight up and down just like the models. I didn't want a bum and hips, I wanted a figure like Rachel from Friends. I wanted to disappear behind lampposts and slip down cattle grids. It took a very long time for me to accept that I was more a figure of eight than a number one, but I finally have accepted it. And what's more, I embrace it. Sadly I don't have big enough funbags to complete the look totally, but I know that dresses of a certain shape flatter me far more than floaty, puffy numbers. Being short and stumpy, I know that long, Grecian-style dresses swamp me, while prom dresses with massive skirts make me look like a sack of turnips wrapped in taffeta.

The best thing for my figure are tailored, fitted dresses that finish on the knee, or those slinky, fishtail gowns as worn by 30s starlets. And that's perfectly fine by me, as I love those looks and I'm very much hoping to land an outfit like that for the wedding. But sadly, it looks like my sister's dress - you know, the unimportant one - might scupper my hopes by refusing to go with it. So I fear I will end up shoehorned into some wafty maxi dress that makes me look like a bullfrog in a nightie.

But if so, I'm determined to make up for it by wearing a fabulous pair of shoes. Perhaps Louboutins. It only means I'll have to eat baked beans for, ooh, the rest of my life. Totally worth it.

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...