Emmaprovement Continues...

Last weekend, I went to my first British wedding. It was also - due to the fact men seem to lose my contact details after the second month of dating me - my first minibreak.

My date, who picked me up in a vintage Mercedes 280 SL, was tall, dark and rich. Unfortunately, the date happened to be a woman named Tessa.

So off we went - two single ladies to a English country wedding. Road trips teach you a lot about character. I, for instance, can't read a map, and have absolutely no topical knowledge of England even after seven years living here, but I can, it turns out, fix a broken windscreen wiper.

Packed away in my vintage suitcase in the trunk was the perfect wedding outfit. Seventeen hours and countless shopping trips had finally resulted in the "dress": Issa, floor-length brown chiffon with a decorated halter neck. Sure, it was three sizes too small and I had to shoehorn my sizable cleavage into it - maybe it was a bit "fat girl in a too-tight dress" but, hey, the look works for me.

I had to look good. The wedding would be the first time I laid eyes on The One That Got Away. A few years back, I had a brief affair with one of the bride's friends. It all seemed to be going swimmingly until he callously disappeared, prompting me to text him six hundred times "cat got your tongue, x e" (I wish I was kidding).

I had a slight moment of panic as we changed for the wedding - the dress showed a LOT of flesh, but I didn't really have time to worry about it as we were going to be late for the ceremony. The wedding, held at Goodwood House, was spectacular. I promised myself I wouldn't get weepy, but during the vows I had to wipe tears away with my wrap. Unfortunately, at this time, I also realised, that while my cleavage was totally appropriate front on, from the side, at certain angles, you could almost see nipple. Classy.

During the champagne reception that followed, I scanned the room for eligible bachelors. The bride had assured me I was going to be at a table with about eight straight, single men. Score. While many of the gentlemen seemed to be checking us single ladies out, not one of them approached us. They changed their tune at dinner. I try and keep it together at a wedding until the adults go to bed. Certain male tablemates, on the other hand, were slurring when we sat down at six pm.

During the dinner and speeches I carefully scanned the room for The One That Got Away. Nowhere. I was starting to worry that perhaps he was on my table and I didn't recognise him - it's happened before - but then suddenly he was walking towards me, smiling, and my heart sank. The memory of our first night together has consistently been top of my sexy-fantasy rolodex, but here he was, in front of me, and he was just so, so much... less than I remembered.

That done, and the anticipated-lust flowing out of my body, I realised that I wasn't going to have fun unless I caught up with the drunks. So I did something very dangerous: I drank white wine. Some of you ladies might be able to drink what my ladies affectionately call "psycho juice". I, categorically, cannot. While I haven't kicked in the windscreen of my ex-boyfriend's car - as one acquaintance did - I'm still, well, dangerous on the stuff.

But this is the thing, it wasn't working. So I drank another glass. And another. The dancing started and everyone split up as they always do. The single men were doing what all single men do at weddings: drinking shots at the bar and slapping each other on the back. The single girls were doing what single girls do: bitching about other girls' outfits. And the couples, they were dancing.

Now, put some techno or indie music on the stereo and I'm at a loss, but anything that involves proper ballroom-style dancing, well, I'm frankly excellent. We had ballroom dancing lessons at my bluestocking girls school, and my father was "Jive Champion of Galway" so I've been dancing since I could stand on his toes. I lingered around the dance floor until one of the 60+ year-old dads took pity and asked me to dance.

Well, once a few of them figured out I knew all the moves, you couldn't fight off the married men with dodgy knees and good pensions. There was almost a fisticuffs over me when Neil Diamond came on. But I am single, and the point of a wedding is, clearly, to pull. The single male guests were a write off, but the wedding singer, he was a stone cold fox. The saxophone player, not bad either. So while dancing with the dads, I smiled seductively at the band. The singer smiled back. I, adorably, pretended to be embarrassed, batting my eyelashes.

Ever the huntress, I went back to my tribe of single ladies to call dibs on my prey. "He sooo wants me", I purred at the girls, cocking my head at the wedding singer. "So does he", I said, indicating the saxophone player. "Give me two minutes", I bragged, holding up two fingers. "I’m predatory".