Gwenda gives a short nod, and the Revd Wyldbore-Smith continues to conduct the service. After all, this is merrie England – not California – where everything is still kept tucked in, not left to hang out, so the Revd goes on as if nothing has happened. Indeed, as the ancient words roll from his red lips, the same words in the same order that have been voiced here for four hundred years, it is as if nothing has ever happened.

We all sigh, and smile with relief. The show goes on, as it should.

I’m sure Serena wouldn’t, in an ideal world, discover that Gwenda is her new husband’s birth mother on her wedding day, and also find out that there is now clearly some doubt over his father, who might or might not be Sir Michael Hutton. But there is always endless speculation about who belongs to whom. There always will be. The important thing, at this potentially embarrassing juncture, is not to make a pointless dull drama about it and ruin everything.

It’s one of the many reasons why I love living in the country, rather than Barnes.

Mimi

We are in the receiving line by the ashlar stone main entrance to Court Place, known as the Little Hall.

Serena, having flung back her veil, has processed out of the church with her scrumptious gaggle of bridesmaids with as much dignity and composure as the poor lamb could muster, and we are now all pretending, in a very English way, that the little pantomime during the service had been laid on especially by the management, simply to jolly up proceedings a trifle.

Ralph and I are standing in silence, with our children behind us, fidgeting and thirsty. I’m not sure Ralph has taken it all in. The extraordinary business in the church, with Colin Watts. And Gwenda. And even more bizarrely, Sir Michael.

Mirabel is clutching the bouquet, having announced earlier to Ceci, ‘I am so catching the bouquet,’ and her dearest wish, thanks to Serena’s expensive forehand lob, has been granted.

‘You may have lost a daughter…’ Ned is saying to a proud Granville and Cath, with gladhanding bonhomie. As we stand outside I note that Lulu, in a new toga bought specially for the occasion, is standing immobile and expressionless, like a caryatid, at his shoulder, no doubt thinking, in the manner of all beautiful women, how she looks. Celia Bryanston, who is, curiously, wearing black, is sticking to Lulu like a limpet, and I notice has clamped a claw-like hand on Lulu’s arm. ‘… but look at it this way, Granners,’ Ned is saying, ‘lucky Serena’s gained not only an extra father-in-law, but also, possibly, the gatehouse at Hutton Hall, if you play your cards right.’

I think to myself if anyone else makes any more brilliant remarks about losing daughters but gaining replacements, I might scream, but I beam politely instead.