And there I was … sobbing at a wedding dress in a museum in Hobart, Tasmania. I hate weddings. By all means, plan your big day, create your mood board and do the princess thing. I was married in a five-minute ceremony, wearing a Stetson, before heading to the pub. Fancy nuptials leave me cold. This wasn’t just any wedding outfit, though. This was the meringue that I believe sealed my destiny.
It was Charlene’s wedding dress from Neighbours. Backlit and plumped up in a corner while the classic Kylie Minogue and Jason Donovan episode played in the background. The object of my pilgrimage, resplendent in all its glory, was available to view for one month only. High neck. Huge sleeves. Lace. Roses. Ruffles. A frou-frou masterpiece that can whisk middle-aged Britons back to November 1988. School. Lincolnshire. Where the wonderful Mrs Russell let us watch the ceremony at lunchtime on the telly in the sixth form centre. She understood the gravitas of the situation; this wasn’t just family getting married. This was our royalty. The wedding of the century.
