There was no rain. Everyone relaxed, except me You tell me. I wasn't worried about trends. All I was worried about was rain. You pick a day on which to do something celebratory in England and you can only hope it doesn't rain. December 8, 2012? Could easily rain. Cold we can cope with. But rain ruins things: hairdos, silk frocks, satin shoes, make-up, trailing ribbons in a bridesmaid's bouquet. It has rained a lot this year. It rains a lot every year and we talk about rain as much as we do because there's nothing you can do but chance it. I was worried that the wedding guests would look askance at the accoutrements we'd put out with the mulled wine (salt and vinegar crisps and sausages). Perhaps a bit too Abigail's Party for full enjoyment? Still, they were gone in 10 minutes. I was worried about how the wedding breakfast in the village hall would go down with Londoners who would perhaps (girls especially) not relish great glistening heaps of roast pork and crackling with roasted potatoes and root vegetables (with only a little scattering of beans to green things up a bit), and plum crumble afterwards - there being such a paucity of local apples this year. I was worried that as they passed Graham's hog roast, they would fall back in horror at the sight of a huge pig with its eyes closed and its skin crackled. One hog-roaster I rang said he always took the head off, because "some of the London girls really don't like seeing dead animals and they upset the other guests". But as they walked up to the hall, so cold, so lightly dressed, a vast blast of heat and woodsmoke rolled towards them, heavy with roast meat. They fell on the food. I was worried that the do-it-yourself bits would all go wrong - people had to pitch in and help clear up. The bride designated a prefect at each table, so young men in spongebag trousers and blue weskits were piling plates and taking away meat dishes. She had always wanted a "home-made" wedding; she wanted to be married from home and at home, in the house she was born in, at the church where she and her brother were christened (and where her grandmother and sister were buried) and she wanted to tart up the village hall enough to make it look more like a wedding venue and less like a squash court. Voilà, it happened. I look worried in nearly all the pictures. The bride looks ecstatic in every one of them. Laughing, dancing, embracing, helloing, clapping. Me, I'm unwinding, finally.