Mother of the bride

Hold on to your wedding hats – it’s happened. In just over a week I am to be mother-of-the-bride. The first of my lovely brood is heading down the aisle, and I’m fizzing with excitement, pride and tenderness. I’m also a little bit shocked that I am old enough to be the mother of a child getting wed.

How has this baby girl of mine reached an age where she can be so grown-up? It doesn’t seem five minutes ago since I was hearing her read and prising her into her school coat, and only the blink of an eye since I was trying to edge her away from fake tans and unfinished homework and comforting her after a bad-boy heartbreak.

But Susannah is 30, which is only slightly younger than I feel inside. The mirror and my preoccupation with container plants and The Archers may tell a different tale, but I am constantly amazed that I have children able to earn their own living, turn down their own thermostats and make decisions on which vacuum cleaner to buy.

Now, not only am I a constantly startled mother-of-four, but in shock at imminently becoming someone’s mother-in-law.

I’m not sure I’m ready – I’ll have to start tutting, raising my eyebrows and nagging dear Andrew to put up shelving and paint fences.

My own former mother-in-law was forever trying to put a duster in my hand and tried, failingly, to persuade me to have the children asleep before their father came home from work so I could make him a gin. All four were under six.

I don’t think I’m up for such ‘maturity’ – I’d rather tell my son-in-law a dirty joke than be sensible and talk lawn-mowers.

But if I’m bucking convention in this family milestone then so too are the happy couple.

No fancy engagement ring for my girl – she held out for a pair of shoes from a designer so grand I can’t pronounce his name. They have also done all of the organisation.

There will be no quintessential English church bells or hotel ceremony – 17 of us are off to the Big Apple and a string of yellow cabs to see them married in New York City Hall – retracing the steps of fevered romantics, fictional and real.

And most dramatically, after a steak dinner, my elder son has been tasked with sorting out evening entertainment, so I’m looking forward to shooting some pool with the groom’s mum or hamming it up in a karaoke bar.

The bride will, however, bow to tradition in a dress so beautiful it brought tears to my eyes; she will embrace the ritual of old, new, borrowed and blue and her sister will be a bridesmaid and wear a long frock.

My only concern is if there’s no classic wedding cake, how can we save the top layer for the christening? Maybe, I’d better be a proper mother and start nagging.