I’m a guest at a wedding at Hever Castle in Kent next weekend; the ceremony will take place in the Loggia Terrace, overlooking the Italian Garden lake. It will be followed by dinner, dancing, fireworks and ‘love celebrations’ until 1am.Let’s just say the preparation has been intense, and detailed: not for the bride, you fool, but for me. I ordered a clutch online from Carvela: never mind the parcel-delivery anxiety, when it arrived and I did a dummy run (essential), it turned out to be too small to house an iPhone. Who designs a bag and makes it too tiny to hold a phone? What do these brands think women carry these days? A lipstick? Snuff?However, a wonderful designer called Suzannah is lending me a baby-pink lace gown (the dress code is ‘Ladies, think ball gowns, sparkles, sweeping skirts and wow factor’) worth £4,000 (I really must not smudge it with make-up) and a matching headband. (I wish I had thought of a dress code for my wedding: no jeans, no leather jackets, no nose rings. You know who you are.) I have had my own wedding shoes – Bottega Veneta – reheeled. I am stopping off in York for hair and beauty, then staying at the new Zetter hotel in Bloomsbury before catching a train from Gatwick in the morning, then a taxi to my hotel for two nights.It’s the first time I have been able to go away overnight for over a year, because of Mini, and Nic’s injury. I feel I need a break from the dogs, from the grind and knee-trembling danger of looking after the horses. I want to be the old me for two days.I care not one jot that I am not taking a plus one. Why is it called a plus, when it’s always a negative? They complain about traffic, then immediately make the hotel room untidy, raping the minibar. A hotel room means you share a bathroom! What is all that about? (Marie Helvin told me the reason her marriage to David Bailey lasted as long as it did was because she always booked two suites. Wise.) The last wedding I went to was that of my niece, in Edinburgh. It was a disaster. I ordered a clutch online from Carvela: when it arrived and I did a dummy run, it turned out to be too small to house an iPhone. Who designs a bag and makes it too tiny to hold a phone? The preparation has been intense, and detailed: not for the bride, you fool, but for me!I paid £900 for a dirty Airbnb apartment with no cafetière and a plastic tablecloth, not to mention the cost of a takeaway and taxis, yet my plus one* insisted on starting an argument during the wedding breakfast, meaning I missed the speeches (it turned out that was the last time I would ever see my brother, proud father of the bride), and I vacated the apartment a day early. My plus one actually called me the ‘c’ word from the spare room, via text.So, I am all set to go. Nic tells me I must not have sex with anyone having met them only two hours before. When my best male friend got married, the reception was held in the ballroom of Claridge’s.I was in my early 30s, wearing Comme des Garçons. I was convinced I would meet an eligible bachelor. Fat chance. The bride sat me on the table with her Filipino cleaners. I left halfway through to go shopping on South Molton Street. I wonder if I can get my gift of 800-thread-count Conran Shop bed linen returned...?*David 1.0. Who else?An addendum: in 2007, I travelled to meet one of my readers, Chris, whose daughter, Nina, overdosed at Glastonbury in 1998 aged 19. Her heart stopped for several minutes, meaning she suffered severe brain damage. Nina, such a beautiful young woman, was in a facility in Yeovil in a permanent vegetative state, needing round-the-clock care. Chris and her husband visited every single day. Their daughter missed her 20s, never got married or had children and went through the menopause, all without knowing. I’ve just received a card from Chris, saying she’s so sorry about my losing Mini Puppy. Her husband has died but she told me that Nina, now 48, is still alive, her glorious hair still long but now completely white. A mother facing unimaginable sorrow, yet still she took the time to write.JONES MOANS... WHAT LIZ LOATHES THIS WEEKA week after Mini died, Pissy Missy, my approximately 11-year-old collie rescue, gagged, then collapsed. I took her straight to the vet. Turns out she has acute heart failure. I contacted Petplan insurance: the amount claimed was £243.15. The excess? £105. Daylight robbery.