You were a bridesmaid twice. Your debut featured ivory silk, wrenched into stiff peaks. You held yellow roses, wrapped in green ribbons. You ate crisps and fell asleep under a table. So you didn't see much of the groom, your godfather, or his lovely bride, but you flapped your wing as hard as you could when they drove away to their honeymoon.

They're the ones who take you, suddenly an A-Level student, to see Antony and Cleopatra, one of your main texts. You scan for themes of transcendence while Harriet Walter playfully whips Patrick Stewart. Living up to his title, your godfather takes you along with him to church the next day. You can't remember the last time you were in a church, especially for religious purposes. You don't want your ignorance of ceremonies and rituals to offend anyone.

Fortunately, there's instructions, even if you're a beat behind everyone else. The congregation, standing, is asked to turn to their neighbour and make a sign of peace. What, like Churchill? No. That's victory. Your godfather turns to you, takes your hand in his warm palm, gently shaking it. He smiles his broad smile and says, peace be with you. You say it back, stuttering ever so slightly, the chain of words unfamiliar in your mouth. Through an elaborate parade of non-verbal cues, you grasp that you can take your place in the line to receive a blessing.

You find yourself in front of a beautiful woman. You feel guilty for being shocked by this. She has bright blue eyes, well-groomed hair, blonde highlights. She puts her hands on your shoulders. She's looking at you, adoringly. This stranger. You can't quite hear what she says but it's something about love. You're finding this difficult to take, to perceive. The sheer strength of it. Coarse, like pepper at the back of your throat. She's wrong, you think. You find your way back to your place on the pew. She's wrong. Why can't you stop shaking?

***

Your second bridesmaid outing was in floor-skimming blue velvet. The bride was your godmother, a brilliant, kind woman, who found herself godmother to many a girl because of these qualities. All of her goddaughters, all nine of them, are bridesmaids. As the eldest, you are in charge of the flock. The sun is shining for the photos, which are taken in various poses swirling around the ancient arches of the cathedral. The little ones hold their posies and giggle.

The bride wears velvet too, a deep red. She turns her face to the light, then looks to you, her eyes glassy, brimming with tears. You feel your pulse quickening, become very aware of the direction of your blood, the heat of your body. You know this is her second wedding. You know she still loves her first husband, that up until this day, she's been a widow. You know how amazed she is to find love again, how these loves live in her without conflict. This shared knowledge flows between you in this look. You feel yourself start to cry from this strange ecstasy, all of these true things held at once, in her heart and in yours. Your vision blurs but the world is very clear.

You start to suffer in the second hour of the ceremony, which is an unabridged Holy Communion. You are sat with the flock and the choir, in full view of the hundreds-strong congregation. You have to bend down to one of the smallest ones, who has put herself on tiptoes to reach you. What do we do now? she whispers. She is literally looking up to you. You utter, for what you hope is the only time in your life, Just smile and look pretty. She obliges. You take your own advice for once.

***

Time is syrupy. It doesn't pass, it pours. Some days are more viscous than others. You're not sure what this means for ageing but your pervasive feeling of being stuck makes more sense. Your youthful yearning for profundity has collapsed, giving right of way to a wincing awareness. You cringe again, unable to escape the truth that being vulnerable is very different from just saying explicit things.

Before this realisation, you have coffee with a friend who does comedy. You are also someone who does comedy at this point. You are discovering that a lot of doing comedy is having coffee with other people who do comedy and commiserating with each other. He recommends the names of two people who run an alternative night, people he reckons that you might want to get in touch with. You write down the two names. You need to clarify the spelling of one, which belongs to the man you will marry.

Both of your godparents will be there to witness your promotion from bridesmaid to bride. You do not get married in a church but you wear a shade close to white. You feel like a little girl in a big dress. You wonder how you must look to them. You are so glad they came.

Peace be with you.