‘I don’t much fancy a hangover,’ he said, almost pointedly, as we discussed it a few days earlier.

Somehow, we make it on time. There aren’t any official bridesmaids as such, but a few of us have been provided with matching dresses and are told to stand and look pretty in photographs. Ben’s brother is the best man. I almost don’t recognise him at first. I must have only met him two or three times in my life, and then only ever briefly.

Everyone is seated well ahead of time, each and every flower and order of service is perfectly crisp and aligned, and there’s not even a speck of dust where it shouldn’t be. Cath looks radiant in her dress as Ben waits at the front.

Once the formalities are over, we’re shuffled off outside, back into the cold again, for photographs. The photographer makes a big song and dance about us trying not to look like we’re freezing, telling us none of us will remember how cold it was when we’re looking back at the photos. I’m pretty sure we will. I’ve a feeling I’ll still be thawing out my toes in thirty years’ time. The photos take longer than they should, because the poor photographer has to keep going inside to find people who should be in the next shot, but who’ve gone inside to keep warm or get drunk.

When that’s all over and done with, we all head inside and congregate before the sit-down meal. By this point I’ve already had three drinks (Why do weddings always have to drag on like this?) and I’m desperate to get some food inside me. I’ve not eaten since breakfast, and we’re now well beyond lunchtime.

When we finally do sit down, Ben stands straight back up again and taps his fork on the edge of his wine glass, signalling that everyone should shut up and listen.

‘Firstly, thank you for coming here today to share our special day with us, everyone. I just wanted to let you all know that we know you’re all hungry, so we’re going to get the food out of the way first, then we’ll crack on with the speeches afterwards.’

There’s a loud cheer and a round of applause at this, and the best man looks a little put out that he’s just been demoted to being less popular than a pork chop.

The food, when it comes, isn’t great. It’s better than nothing, though, and I make sure I fill myself up from the basket of bread rolls as it might be a few hours until the evening buffet is served up. Maybe they’ll have bags of crisps or nuts behind the bar.

And then, once the dreadful speeches are out of the way and everyone’s had enough of pity laughing, we’re told to either stand up or sit down around the edge of the room so they can clear the tables ready for the evening reception.

‘Alright?’ Tom says, sitting down next to me on a chair at the side of the room.