The bride’s family hadn’t even paid for a stamp and envelope. The invitation came in the Christmas card from my MIL. One of my husband’s nephews was going to marry. (In eight months’ time. The invitation extended to my husband, our daughter and me. My son wasn’t included.

Standard invitation – quality paper, a bit of ribbon (ooh, must have paid extra for that) – which suggests the importance people attach to the few hours they’ll have forked out thousands for.

The last wedding I went to was a sister-in-law’s. She’s separated now. Let’s hope this pair has more success.

The reason I sound bitter is because the communication we’ve so far had with Father of Bride (henceforth referred to as FOB) has been alarmingly rude.

We were honoured to be invited to both wedding and reception (ooh, three more guests, must have paid extra for that). The voucher – oh, sorry, invitation, just said: ‘Join us for the wedding at X time and place and after for the reception.’

All we wanted to know was when the reception was likely to start and end. Maybe that’s not proper wedding etiquette either but we have our daughter to think about and a disco with boozy, slavering guests using foul language and behaving inappropriately at 11.00 at night isn’t going to be much fun (for her either.)

We emailed FOB. FOB replied saying ‘As it says on the invitation…’ and offered no more detail. Maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe he won’t even be there and doesn’t give a damn.

He added something like if we let him know our surname, he can tick us off his response list to say he’s communicated with us. What? A response list! Will he and his wife be at the door with a clipboard and pen ticking people off as they come in? Has he made a wedding spreadsheet? With formulae calculating the trouble each guest has caused and what they spent on a gift. Pompous ass.

If he’d have thought a bit about his P.S., he’d have known that his future son-in-law is my husband’s nephew (‘as it said in the email…’) So, same surname duffer.

There’s all that and the prospect that we will actually go. For our daughter. It’s her family.

I know, it’s mine too by marriage. Which means (clink glasses here) is that you, dear FOB and I are soon to be family. Hurrah! Cheers! Tears welling up, high emotion, quivering lip… That’s the effect such bad news has on sensitive people.

My husband’s nephew seems like a nice lad. But maybe he’s not good enough for FOB’s little girl. They never are, are they? (Was Kate’s family a tad disappointed at her choice?)

But I’m jumping the gun. Did I mention a gun? Regarding a wedding? Oops. They may well have had an off day and are really adorable people.

It’ll be a test of my humility. Though I don’t think I’ve got much.

Smile at this inflated, jumped up probably portly, (possibly ex-army with his wedding response unit team) red-faced, seven foot, crate-of-Prosecco-a-night buffoon and thank him for inviting us. Thank him!

Maybe I can leave that bit to hubby and give FOB my best Elizabeth Bennett smile: all-knowing, a little haughty myself. Or does he have to thank us? Blooming well should.

It’s not a good start is it? Like the story of the man who wanted to borrow an axe from his neighbour.

I think I’ll have to report back on this one. I have until August to prepare mentally.

And the predictability gnaws at my bones.

She’ll wear white (despite being the worldly, experienced lass); the food will be a pate or mousseline-type slab followed by a version of the roast dinner (thinner slices, matchstick potatoes) and a fruity, creamy mini slab of something with a drizzle of jus or trail of melted chocolate across the plate. Maybe some mints on a plate after (ooh, that’ll be extra…)

The best man’s speech will include a rude anecdote about the groom, humour and something affectionately teasing about the bride. (it’s all in the Best Man Book for Idiots.) There’ll be the disco and it’ll be too loud with 60s tracks sandwiched between 90s pop. God.

I’ve never seen anything so stupid as a bride in her billowing dress trying to dance to Having the Time of Our Lives – like a giant white plunger or hovercraft… Stop, Rebecca.

Humility. Courteousness. Patience. And a touch of understanding for poor, hapless, foolish FOB. No, sorry, that’ll be extra.