Once you’ve have selected your candidate — again, sample size people! None of this love-at-first-sight nonsense. Follow the science! — once you have selected your candidate, you’ll need to do the paperwork. Some people like to wrap this up with a fun event called a “wedding”.

Because I am helpful, I’ve tested three different scenarios for you. First up, a church wedding, followed by a catered reception. Wedding number one: still dewy skinned and fluffy of brain. The church was the one I was christened and confirmed in. I’m actually an atheist — I just got confirmed because my best friend was a vicar’s daughter and I felt hard done by when everyone went up for free wine every Sunday. What a slippery slope that turned out to be. But that’s probably another show!

It was the classic church wedding. Massive meringue of a dress, bridesmaids, posh car, mother in a hat, and loads of people I didn’t recognise that were apparently related to me. Oh yes, and the funeral of Princess Diana. The hairdresser wheeled a TV into the salon so he could watch while he did my hair! Cheery.

Lovely photos. At least I think they were. Husband Number One kept them and I haven’t seen them for 20 years. The photos, not the husband. He’s now dating our bridesmaid so I see him all the time. He also kept our cats and my pickled puppy. What? Everyone has cats these days, that’s not weird. Oh, the pickled puppy? Present from work. I miss him. The Puppy. One of the cats went missing shortly after I left, never to be seen again. The other lived to the ripe old age of 21, so clearly she didn’t care about me at all.

The stand out moment from the reception was seeing the look on my mum’s face as her drunken brother — my uncle — approached the stage to talk to the band. “Noooooo!” Don’t have a free bar, people! What did he ask them? “Do you know anything by Yes?” “No.”

Despite doing everything right, Husband Number One became a number and after a fairly short recruitment drive, Wedding Number Two took place. Slightly more exotic this time. No, not on a desert island. Helsinki Magistrates Court. Having had the big wedding, I went for a small one the second time around. Five foot nine. The wedding was small too. Just the witnesses and us. I wore a nice dress that I already owned and had my nails done. Not sure why, I had never had them done before or since, but effort was made. Sadly the same could not be said for my beloved, who turned up in torn off shorts and sandals! To be fair, it was summer — or June, as the Finns call it.

No reception either. We went into the nearest park — which happened to be the Plague Park where victims of the Black Death are buried — and drank some champagne out of plastic glasses. We then spent the rest of the afternoon phoning people to tell them we had got hitched. I would not recommend this, especially if, like me, you have a phone phobia.

So, we’ve had too big: church wedding with all the frills. Too small: plague park wedding with a hobo groom. So it only follows that Wedding Number Three would be the Goldilocks clincher — just right. And it was. 

Being a total control freak I organised the entire affair. Sorry, bad choice of word. Event. The whole event. I sourced the venue, found some caterers, got a DJ (hello, first ever boyfriend), booked a church (deconsecrated, rather like the bride), made the decorations, and did a booze run to France. (We did two booze runs, in fact, because we drank the first lot beforehand.)

And it was glorious. Two minor hiccups: a few people looking for an AA meeting while we were loading case after case of red wine into the church, and a random gate crasher. Also a slightly weird moment when Husband Number Two — he was there to babysit our son — followed me into the toilet, demanding that I make a speech. He also got the photographer to take a photo of him and Husband Number Three, which has pride of place in our album! I did invite Husband Number One, but alas he declined.

Another key thing about this wedding was a total lack of family members on my side. No distant cousins twice removed, no drunken uncles, not even my brother, my sister, or my dad. And I did invite the last three. My dad scheduled a back operation so he couldn’t come, which is a bit of an extreme way of getting out of a speech.

So, to recap: the best wedding is not too big, not too small, doesn’t include family and is preferably DJ’d by your first ever boyfriend. Wear gold if you can. 

Actually, before we move on, a little chat about what to wear. If you want to wear a massive meringue of a dress, do it! There are not many occasions in life when you get to wear such a garment. But do understand that you might not be able to pee without assistance and the hem will be utterly minging by the end of the day.

I tried three very different looks. First time round, a meringue, but very plain, quite Audrey Hepburn, I like to think. And since no photographic evidence, I can continue with that fantasy. Second time, a brown kind of piratey dress, quite low cut (the Finns are very open minded). Third time round — gold! This did mean that I had the theme tune to Going For Gold running through my head the entire day. (Normal people would have Spandau Ballet, but not this brain.)

A note for men: if you are not going to wear a meringue, do wear a suit. Cut off shorts are not acceptable, lest you want to become a mere number in a comedy show.