The dress was designer, Dad was walking me down the aisle, and I was taking Alexander’s last name in less than an hour.

Before I started wedding planning, if you’d have asked me how traditional I’d be on a scale of one to ten I’d have said a two or a three. Adzo and I had talked endlessly about how to be a Strong Independent Woman Who Just Happened To Be Committing Her Life To Someone. So much of what was expected of the bride was rooted in the notion that she was somebody’s property (i.e. being ‘given away’) and valuable because she was pure and untouched (hence, the virginal white dress). In our lunch break one day Adzo had wondered if Alexander would double-barrel our surnames, or even take mine, and I considered asking him. But, when it came down to it, I actually found huge comfort in the age-old traditions of a conventional wedding day and gave in to almost all of them without much of a fight. I wanted the ritual of it all, the history and the expectation.

My only outward feminist declaration was that I was going to give a speech at dinner before anyone else. At my friend Jo’s wedding she’d tapped the microphone and said, ‘Good evening. Thanks for coming today. My magnificent father and wonderful best man and handsome new husband are going to give their speeches in a minute—’ at which point everyone roared and cheered. ‘But I’ll be giving one first, because over my dead body am I letting a bunch of men speak for me—’ at which point everyone roared and cheered even louder.

I’d thought she was hilarious.

Mum thought it was crass for the bride to speak, but I wanted to do the same.

‘Right then, Mrs Mackenzie, are you ready?’ Dad said, his face suddenly falling. ‘Crikey. Mrs Mackenzie. You’re not going to be a Wiig anymore.’

He turned to Freddie and, in a mock-serious voice, insisted: ‘Don’t you ever get married, okay? You’re the next-generation Wiig. We need you to carry on the family name.’

Freddie playfully rolled her eyes. ‘Daaaaaad.’

‘I know, Fred, but you won’t understand how it feels until you have your own kids who grow up and stun you with the people they’ve become. It’s very affecting.’ His hand went up to his heart, as if he could massage his feelings away from the outside.

‘I’m still a Wiig right now,’ I soothed him, reaching out to his shoulder. ‘And even when I’m not, I’ll always be your daughter.’

‘With the added bonus of giving me a son-in-law.’