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9:39am Friday 11th April 2008

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Three times a bridesmaid, never a bride, so the saying goes, but in case anyone reading this is unmarried and about to play the matron of honour role for the third time, my advice is don't worry.

Having been a bridesmaid three times myself, the fact that I eventually bagged a groom is cast-iron proof that you can escape the curse of calf-length lavender satin.

The new film 27 dresses, in which the heroine has played the supporting role to so many brides that her wardrobe is overflowing with taffeta, recently prompted my friends and I to reminisce about our own frocky horror shows as extras on someone else's big day.

To be fair, I should admit that apart from a tiered mauve satinette effort, smothered with appliqué cotton flowers worn at some point during the early 1970s, my bridesmaid dresses have actually been rather nice.

If I say so myself, at the age of three I looked quite cute in dark blue velvet with a pom pom of yellow flowers and a dinky coronet at my uncle's wedding, and when ten or so years later, my Tudor-mad cousin chose to marry in an Anne Boleyn-style gown, the three teenage bridesmaids, including me, actually looked rather fetching in sweeping, bell-sleeved, peacock blue velvet dresses copied from a painting.

So, apart from the folksy purple effort, a colour that made me look slightly bilious in all the photos - although that might have been the large amount of sausage rolls I consumed at the reception - the rest of my bridesmaid dresses have been triumphs.

Having swapped notes with friends, however, it seems that my happy sartorial experiences tend to be exceptions to the rule.

The main problems seemed to arise with older bridesmaids. Everyone knows that any little girl under the age of ten looks adorable running around in a big frilly pastel-coloured dress. Unfortunately, lots of brides expect their 20-something friends to model something similar, prompting unsettling comparisons to Bette Davis in Baby Jane mode.

Let's face it; frills, furbelows, ribbons and ruffles, a look pioneered by Little Bo Peep, is really best left to the nursery.

Colour-blindness seems to be an issue, too.

If there's one shade that does absolutely nothing for the average lettuce-toned British complexion, it's yellow. Uncannily, it also seems to be the hue inflicted time and time again by brides who obviously don't mind being trailed by handmaidens who look as sour as lemons.

Mind you, given the fact that these 'friends' are trying hard not to breathe for fear of splitting the primrose taffeta stretched to breaking point around their midriffs and are painfully aware that the blood supply to their bingo wings has been eye-catchingly cut off by a big, fat pair of elasticated puffed sleeves, you'll probably understand the reason for their miserable expressions.

A particularly horrendous bridesmaiding experiences was related by a friend whose most striking feature is her lustrous red hair. At the age of 28 she was flattered to be asked to be matron of honour by an old college pal whose family came from Edinburgh.

Although she knew the wedding was set to follow a traditional Scottish theme, little did she suspect when she accepted the invitation that her dress would feature a particularly vibrant tartan.

Having sent her measurements up to the bride's mother, my friend arrived a couple of days before the wedding and was horrified to see the yellow tartan monstrosity, complete with ornamental sporran, laid out for her in the guest bedroom.

She gamely struggled into the ensemble for a final fitting, but even her hosts had to admit that it didn't look good.

Quite apart from the general tartan tastelessness, the main issue was her clashing hair. Their solution to the problem - hiding those ginger locks under a big beret made from the same fabric - only made matters worse.

"I've never worn anything so dreadful in my life," wailed my friend, adding: "I actually looked like a Colorado beetle."

I have a sneaking suspicion that some brides use their wedding as an opportunity to settle old scores. For years they may have silently resented the fact that their oldest, dearest, friends were slimmer, taller, sexier, prettier or more popular than them, but putting them on public display in the kind of fabric you'd normally choose for a shower curtain represents the ultimate in payback time.

The Italians say that revenge is a dish best served cold, but it takes an absolutely ice-cool Machiavellian spirit to devise a torture scheme that involves the enforced wearing of a strappy dress made from billowing lime green, man-made fibre on a frosty day in April.

And then photographing the suffering for posterity.

When it came to my own bridesmaids, I think I was more than generous.

I invited two of my oldest friends out for a pizza and gave them the happy news that I'd like them both to play a pivotal part on my big day.

One behaved impeccably, the other regaled me with a list of things that she "absolutely would not wear".

This included bustles, bows, low backs, tiers, ribbons and puffed sleeves - and any of the latter in a pastel shade.

Quite apart from the fact that this afforded a hurtful insight into what she considered to be potential failings of taste on my part, I suddenly began to wonder whose wedding it actually was?

Resisting the urge to march straight out to the nearest branch of Pronuptia to select something in baby pink that featured all of the above, I just about managed to swallow the last chunk of my Veneziana and assured her that the dress I actually had in mind for them both was a moss green silk effort, cut on a slightly 50s-style A-line with a boat neck. Rather elegant, actually.

This seemed to placate my friend, but I was still seething several weeks later.

Taking my cue from the Italians, I did indeed serve up chilly revenge.

Come the day of the wedding my demanding, newly-single bridesmaid was really looking forward to the traditional bridesmaid's perk of getting over-friendly with the best man.

How satisfying therefore, was the fact that my husband's best man' was called Judith.