There's nothing more frustrating or panic-inducing for a woman than choosing a dress in which to seduce a man she hasn't seen in 15 years.

Did my childhood sweetheart even know I was attending the same wedding as he?

Either way, few things require more focus.

Perhaps it was my frazzled state of mind, as I tweezed every last stray hair from my eyebrows, and took control of my complexion (which was starting to look more like Bosnia everyday) that I chose the wrong dress.

Frump Fest 2009 was upon me, courtesy of ruched green satin.

To make matters worse...

I have 45 body-hugging, pro-cleavage dresses hanging in my cupboard, and I chose the Heidi look.

To make matters worse, promises made by the weather station of clear skies hadn't quite followed through, we were in fact facing sleet, and my ever-increasing nipple rise pushing through the puckering fabric was going to poke out the nearest eye within a three-metre radius.

It wasn't a formidable start.

When you look like a dog's breakfast, one tends to fall back on one's own reservoir of self-esteem.

Perhaps my dazzling personality would pull me through this shortfall? Perhaps he liked the ruched satin sack look? Perhaps he'd lose and eye when looking at me due to aforementioned erect nipples, and it would come down to my incredible conversational skills?

Perhaps it was better that there wouldn't be a shadow of a doubt I'd made any effort on my part to impress him at all. I was that nonchalant; that uncaring.

Besides all I wanted to really prove to myself was that I could talk to him like a normal human being, not a flustered completely intimidated teenager with metal teeth.

'Hanging limply like fresh seaweed'

The ceremony started, and I hadn't looked over my shoulder once to see if he'd taken a place in the pew directly behind me. In fact, I was trying to keep my breasts in check with the collection of hymn books instead.

Despite the sleet outside, mingling was occurring, and champagne was being poured in the nuptial aftermath.

My heels were wedged deeply in the mud and my sack dress was decidedly despondent, hanging limply on me like fresh seaweed. Scouring a crowd for a fallen god shouldn't be a difficult quest, especially when you're immobile.

I strained my head a little to the left, and then to the right, taking note of all the faceless guests around me. Mostly couples, nostalgic and misty eyed, and one or two members of the party whose hands were itching to catch a flying bouquet.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted an interesting character, and felt immediate relief. He'd also clearly had a wardrobe crisis prior to the wedding, and while I had refugees from Zitville taking residence on my face, he'd obviously eaten all the pies as his own retribution.

A Welsh gaylord?

He didn't look unlike Daffyd Thomas from 'Little Britain'; he was a poster boy for Welsh gaylords. His shirt was synthetic black mesh, and he was wearing heels. He caught my eye and came striding up to me. I was at least making friends, even if they were fellas from a side of town I didn't usually venture to.

Having an ally in a situation where I was trying to source my childhood sweetheart wouldn't be a bad thing, even if it was a transvestite. Or a raging queen. Or both.

'Well, well, well... if it isn't Lucy Hunt.' You know where this is going.

But before I relay the tragedy of queerdom to you, it must be said, that illusions, expectations and pedestals are there to ensure we don't get too cocky about what we think we know.

Thanks to pedestals, expectations and speculations, the psychic industry has never really become a multi-billion-dollar industry. I'm just saying...

Because this tyranny in front of me was my man. The one in black synthetic mesh, and on closer inspection, two round nipple clamps. My nipples had nothing on this specimens. He was Him.

Turns out, he'd found the rainbow colours shortly after starting varsity and has never looked back. We compared notes on how not to dress for a wedding replete with sleet, clinked our champagne glasses to bad taste, and went our separate ways.

But one must always look at the positive of course. For one, I never wear (completely) synthetic fabrics. For two, I managed to speak to him using whole, complete, fairly succinct sentences. And for three, he remembered my name. He remembered me.

And now he's gayer than Dutch tulips in springtime. And I will wear a padded bra for any marital celebrations going forward.

It's what we take forward that counts. Or something...