As I watched the report, a pink, frothy dress of dreams emerged. I was as transfixed as if it was calling out “Tonight Matthew, I’m going to be Rebecca’s.”

I knew I had to focus and formulate a plan if I wanted the dress to be mine. I called the shop – it was closed. Emailed – no response. Maybe someone else had beaten me to it?!

There was only one thing for it: I was going to have to get to the dress before anyone else did.

The next morning, I left the school run to my husband and set off on a mission to Lewes at 7.30am. An hour later, I parked up in front of the St Peter and St James Hospice Shop on the High Street. Peering through the window, trying to catch a glimpse of what I already thought of as “my” dress, an elderly man stopped to tell me the shop had been mobbed the day before. 

It wasn’t looking good.

My spirits lifted when the manager arrived and asked if I was the woman who’d emailed the night before, and would I like to come in and see the dress?

Finally, the girl-meets-dress moment was here. I stood in front of the dress and wondered if it would work. Although it was labelled size 8/10, it looked smaller; it was also more sheer than I expected.