From all-over black to all-over white. And peach, pink and purple. As in wedding gowns. Clearly I have defective genes because not once during what turned out to be far too long a childhood did I dream of wearing one of these items for two minutes, let alone a whole day. I never was a cream-puff sort of girl.
Never mind the groom. It's the frock that matters!
I married in brown. It was vaguely tenty and zipped up the front. I accessorised it with a tangerine scarf, brown patent mary-janes, and a third-trimester bulge. It rained steadily. The groom looked like the walking dead, having drunk himself into a stupor the previous night and passed out cold on the path. The guests numbered 13. We couldn't afford a honeymoon. The marriage lasted seven years.
Maybe I should have worn white, after all.