A flurry of requests demand that I continue my weddinglogue series. Oh, ok, back in the real world my best friend asks how plans for my son’s wedding are going and I take this as a shameless nudge to write about myself again. I am more than happy to continue public service announcements for any parent looking forward to the nuptials of their son or daughter; I am not sure how useful this advice will prove to be, but at least it will fashion another blog.

As an assertive woman of considerable years, over the last few months I have been shocked by my uncharacteristic display of uncertainty – not about the bride and groom (they are lush) but about fitting attire for the Mother of the Groom (MOG) on the big day. I like fashion, I pay a loose nod to style trends and I love an occasion to dress up, yet the MOG dress code has truly thrown me. I have lost my retail nerve; I am trying so hard to fit in that ‘the’ outfit appears to have eluded me.

My partner in crime – the Mother of the Bride (MOB) – indulges in no such dithering. She aces her outfit at the first sitting. Her lovely daughter advises us both just to,’ look ourselves’ and this sends me into an existential spin. Uncharacteristically I decide to do some research.

Believing that they will provide ideas and friendly costume exchange, I join some MOG social media chat groups (Yes, these groups do exist). I am horrified. Most of the featured outfits have Queen Mother/Barbara Cartland vibes and I have no great desire to look like an ornamental toilet roll holder. I decide to consult friends who have already navigated their way up the aisle ahead of their children without causing an etiquette malfunction.

Sadly, this consultation reveals more questions than answers:

• long or short?
• dress or suit?
• colour?
• trousers?
• hat, no hat or fascinator?
• colour?
• arms out or in?
• heating in the church?
• heel, pump or croc?
• colour?

My daughter takes me shopping but all the outfits I select turn out to be the same colour that the bridesmaids will be wearing – even I realise that it will be a fashion faux pas to photo bomb the hens by wearing the same pantone mix. We come away empty handed. My daughter tells me to hold my nerve and ‘trust my gut’. My gut is telling me to buy some Spanx and a better bra.

I buy two outfits from the world wide web and then dither so much about whether to return them that I leave it too late; now both outfits sit in judgement – unworn – in my wardrobe. (Vinted is no stranger to me but I still have time for a couple of fashion U-turns before December*). I buy yet another outfit and then realise that meteorologically this one is more suited to my daughter’s wedding next Spring – at least I will be ready for this one.

I am reassured to hear from a colleague that, on the eve of her step-daughter’s wedding, she still had four navy dresses hanging in her bedroom (she is more savvy than I, so left all the labels attached) and that on the day itself she trusted in divine inspiration/a friendly weather forecast/a strong G&T to facilitate ‘the’ outfit choice. Photographic evidence proves that, like the MOB for my son’s wedding, she absolutely aced it.

Himself gamely takes photos of me wearing my various ensembles and assures me that I do not look like a pantomime dame/man in drag. He even uses a filter and soft focus. We send the photos to my son and he seems relieved that I have finally ‘locked in’ to a wedding outfit choice. He then notices that I have sent photos of three different outfits. He tells me that I am overthinking things, that he just wants me to ‘feel comfortable’ and that it is up to me whether or not to wear a hat. I need someone to take some responsibility.

For distraction we go to Moss Bros to sort out a Morning Suit for Himself. It is indeed a distraction and we pass a delightful hour, but it leaves me feeling slightly resentful that outfit hire is not so easily defined for MOGs and MOBs. The store manager commends Himself on his research before entering the shop. I see Himself modestly preening when he hears, ‘this Italian slim fit is perfect for a man of your stature; it is so refreshing to have a customer who understands both wedding etiquette and his own physique’. Meanwhile my best friends are experiencing the same love bomb in Brighton’s Moss Bross and send me a photo of elated husband sporting full tails – albeit it with a rugby shirt (he hadn’t intended to go shopping that morning). He too is delighted to be ‘locked in’.

Wife of this friend (OF – my oldest friend but not in birthdays) sends me a photo of the most immaculate claret coloured coat and dress that she intends to wear, ‘oh, these have been in the wardrobe for years – vintage – just waiting for an occasion’. She tells me that she has an appointment at a millinery shop (I am not sure that we even have one of these locally) and I ask her if she would like to stand in as my MOG body double, even though she is half my size. She reminds me that I fashioned my own dragonfly bra when we styled out the MoonWalk together; I think she is intending to remind me of my creativity but I find myself seriously wondering if I can wear said brassiere – Madonna-style – over one of the dresses still languishing in my wardrobe. When my son advised me to ‘be myself’, perhaps he was referencing my weirdness? I fear I may embarrass him and fit out rather than fit in.

I ‘lock in’ to the purchase of a fascinator (Himself drags me back to the mall after showing me on a calendar how near we are getting to the Big Day). We agree that a fascinator in a neutral colour, even if it does not know which outfit it is accompanying, is less expensive than a hat and will be a move in the nuptial direction. When I model this flying saucer in John Lewis (accompanied by thick jumper and jeans) I am heartened by a total stranger who compliments me on my look and agrees that wedding attire is a difficult dress code to nail. ‘My son is still not speaking to me…’ It is only later that I realise she may have been complimenting my jeans rather than my fascinator and wonder if this could explain her disclosed estrangement.

I go to pay for said fashion frippery (never knowingly oversold, but still an outrageous sum to pay for a fancy headband, John Lewis) and bump into a friend who has just navigated her own daughter’s wedding. ‘I wore a jumpsuit on the day,’ she says. ‘It just felt more like me. Do your own thing’. As I walk across to the till, I swear that a velvet jumpsuit starts sending siren calls across to me and I decide that, ‘sod it’ I will actually try it on – I will go old school, I will try out a real outfit, in a real shop, no on-line magician called for, just a pair of Spanx that I collect en route to the changing rooms.

Fashion spoiler alert. Current thinking is that I am ‘locked in’ to a velvet jumpsuit with a neutral fascinator and some old faithful kitten heels. If I wobble on the day (not in the shoes, I have standby pumps on hand), I have three reserve options and a dragonfly encrusted bra on standby. If the Spanx work and the heating fails in the church, I may even share my OF’s coat – perfect colour and she will still have a very posh hat to keep her warm. Reader, thankfully I now have options. I am being myself, I am fitting out and I can not wait to see my Favourite Son wed the most gorgeous bride – whatever the weather forecast.

*Expect a flurry of activity on Vinted come January