Do you, Thirty Something, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?

This is not the sort of question where you just throw in an “I do” without giving it some serious thought.

I have friends (not to mention my sister) who are single one minute, married the next and pregnant before you know it.

Have you seen what happens to the female body after one or (shudder) more children?

I have.

It’s not pretty, I fail to see how willingly debasing your body is a badge of honour, and when I am 40 something, I have no desire to let gravity decide what clothes I will be wearing.

I have been more than happy to ‘I do’ my way through many of life’s adventures; such as “and do you want to try another glass of that Perrier-Jouët Belle Époque?” Of course I do.

Or those lazy, rainy afternoons, with the fire going, nothing to do but indulge yourself, no problem more taxing than the question “do you want to do that again?”

Well girls, of course we do.

I know I certainly do.

Sort of the do-over you can’t do without – at the time.

Which brings me back to the question at hand.

“Do you?”

Well, do I?

Because once you cross that threshold there really is not turning back.

This isn’t the Victorian era; it’s way too late to suggest this potentially unholy union hasn’t been consummated (see above, the bit about do you want to do that again?) but before I am carried over the threshold, I want to be 100 per cent certain I’m not getting carried away by not being asked the right questions.

You can sense my uncertainty about finality.

It has been a fun ride to this point – the drama of bridesmaids notwithstanding – and it truly is a delight being the centre of everyone’s attention, almost for as long as you care to drag this out.

See, all those negative words keep popping into my head – does drag this out turn into a drag?

Am I really the monogamous type because I am certainly not going to be the little lady in the kitchen (I hardly know where mine is)?

Or the little lady waiting happily at home for her knight in shining armour to come crashing through the front door each night – regardless of how big his lance is.

Girls I would turn to you for advice, but I know where that advice will fall – on both sides of the line.

The ‘I do’ division will assure me it completes them (and even if it doesn’t, they’re not going to admit they were wrong).

The ‘I definitely do not’ camp will simply mock me, call me hurtful names such as anachronism (mostly because they’re envious of me and think I can’t see it) and tell me about their adventures sans commitment.

Then I think about the money already invested in the first day of the rest of my life, sorry, our lives, and would that cash not be better invested in a whirlwind tour of Europe’s nightspots and hotspots (post COVID of course) through a run of five-star celebrity sanctuaries; the kind of place where I am a much better fit than in a designer’s studio trying to work out how a few more stitches tightened will complete the sultry look (with a capital S).

I worked through several submission from some close friends who dabble in design – you must know Jenny Packham, Inbal Dror, Ines di Santo and the darling Galia Lahav – and there were genuine tears from the ones who didn’t make the cut – as it were.

But the finished product is a sight to behold (so was his face when he accidentally saw the bill), especially when I am wearing it.

Still, I cannot help feeling is this how I want to be defined being me? Because I really have been doing just fine on my own.

And yet, and yet there have been times, in the afterglow, or early in the morning when you can reach out and, well, and discover that unlike your past you haven’t fled alone to your own bed, or haven’t ushered someone out the door at some ungodly hour because you have an early start.

You actually touch someone; and that touches something in you . . .

“Darling, you seem away with the fairies, are you listening? It’s time,” my father said, offering me his arm.

OMG.