Dear Honey

I’ve just found out that amongst the guests at the stylish media wedding I’m attending tomorrow will be a couple of actual celebs. Proper Hollywood celebs. My Phase Eight ensemble with ‘quirky hat’ now looks cringingly frumpy and it’s too late for me to lose three stones. What should I do? Mount an early morning raid on Selfridges? Wrap myself in cling film? I feel like there should have been some warning on the invitation…

Yours

Starry-starry Fright

Dear Starry

Oh, it’s easy! Pop to your nearest teaching hospital, have your leg set in plaster, insist on being wheeled into the church with a shawl draped over your entire body, exposing only the thinnest parts of yourself, ie, your head and feet. No one will ever suspect that underneath it you’re wearing your Phase Eight Verity for the fifth time this year.

No, really. Calm down. For a start, imagine how much more frantic the bride must be feeling. There she is, in her dress that costs the same as a secondhand Fiat, and all she can hear is the faint sussuration of people muttering, ‘What was it she was in… Was it that thing with Alec Baldwin? No, you’re thinking of the other Baldwin, what’s his name? The good-looking one. With the hair. The hair. Anyway, she’s in the row behind the Richardsons. Ooh, doesn’t Becky look enormous next to her, sort of burly…’

Hollywood stars are aware that people will be gawping at them wherever they go, and never more so than at a wedding. That’s why they generally dress down. (I’m not including wedding guest-from-hell Liz Hurley and her leopard-print matching knickers here – that was plain rude. Bad show, Hurley. See also, Raquel Welch in her ridiculous ‘yoo hoo, vicar!’ floppy hat at Fred Truman’s daughter’s wedding.) I’m willing to bet that whichever Hollywood stars are at this wedding will be gracious enough to be drawing as little attention to themselves as possible, and anyway, it’s not as if they’re followed round by a gaggle of fashion journalists doing a running commentary on the outfits, including yours. It’s the bride’s big day, after all.

In a way, you’re in a positively relaxing position. The competition to be the thinnest, most glamorous guest at this wedding has already been won, so all bets – and crippling support underwear – are off. Wear whatever makes you feel most attractive, try to avoid getting into the same shot as the star (she will render everyone else weirdly out of proportion, in manner of swan standing in field of milking cows) and see if you can get any gossip about Jon Hamm. Cough. Sorry, I mean, try not to get drunk and ask her embarrassing questions about her shoes. I’m sure you’ll have an amazing time.

Yours matrimonially,

Honey