Dress code politics: how not to stand out at a wedding.

Aubrey Beardsley: 'The Peacock Skirt'

Difficult thing, weddings. Who to marry for starters. That's a tough one. Where to do it, that's another. And don't get me started on buffet vs seating plan. Diplomatic relations between India and Pakistan are more straightforward. But the angst that gets top billing on my wedding list is what to wear. Sure, if you're the bride or groom it's easy: avoid pale blue and anything that sounds like nouveau cumulo nimbus. But as a guest, it's as stressful as wearing fur to a PETA conference.

My mate Ellen (shout out to you, lady, the countdown's on!) is getting married on Saturday. A top bird marrying a top bloke. OK, so I've never met him but I trust her judgement and, more importantly, we know he likes old Landrovers.

But, what's this? Monday night mayhem. What to wear!? I've come to the laptop in a panic of orange Tommy Hilfilger, high street gold, a navy smoking jacket and a hat last worn at Queen Victoria's court. I dance about in front of the mirror thinking I'm ready to steal the show at this little knees up when suddenly - panic! - I've remembered that's exactly what we aren't supposed to do. And don't I know it. I've got form in this political arena. It's all come flooding back....

A long time ago, in a land further away than almost any other (yes, Australia) I was invited to the wedding of friends of my ex. The dress code said 'Glamourous.' You with me? OK good. Now, if you wrote that dress guidance for a wedding in Witby, you might start thinking 'Spanish Armada' and then notch it down a peg to 'Sea Shanty Chic'. If you read that dress guidance in, oh I don't know, Exeter, you might think 'Versaille' and then step it back to 'county luxe' (that's basically where you dress like an unfamiliar Aunt in head-to-toe Coast). However, this particular wedding was a night time affair on Sydney Harbour at an exclusive location, in the height of summer. Now that is glamour. Glamourous international couple, glamourous international wedding, glamourous international guest list. In fact, it was the second of three ceremonies. That's how top class this marriage was, they were getting married three times. It was going to be sultry and sexy. You get the picture.

I thought it would be the perfect occassion to air the jewel of my wardrobe. I had only just bought  this dress and under auspicious conditions. Firstly, I bought it on a day off work. I almost never take random days off work. Secondly, I found it totally by chance at Notting Hill market (Ladbroke Grove end) when you never know if you'll find a vintage gem, or an old goat. Thirdly, I didn't try it on because I knew in my heart of hearts it would fit. And it did. And fourthly, it cost only £30. All those small satisfactions - as well as the dress itself - magnify this garment in my esteem almost beyond words. I will never sell this dress, or donate it to charity. I will always own it. I will either be cremated wearing it, or find some fabulous girl to give it to (naturally only after they've undertaken some kind of character assessment).

What I didn't know at the time was that this floor length, cream, halter neck dress featured the work of an artist called Audley Beadsley. All I saw on the fabric was the print of two oriental women wearing similarly fabulous gowns. But I'll come back to that.

On the night in question we met our fellow glamourous guests at the Opera House and took a delightful sunset cruise to the ceremonial location. Some of the internationals had slightly downgraded their glamourousness with second degree sunburn, but hey, I've always said that if you think you might only visit Coogee once, make it memorable! But, truth be told, I cannot remember a single outfit of any other guests. I can only remember how amazing my lovely, lucky find looked. I was also delighted not to be wearing it to some nasty City awards ceremony (though it's done its fair share of those), but a proper public occassion of  festivity and hope.

I knew I might have misjudged things when a small crowd began to gather around me. And ask to take my photo. This had never happened to me before, and has only happened once since, in a small rural village in Iran where they were unused to ginger women. I thought initially my God! My 'gangly teen to supermodel' dream was coming true! Albeit at the unlikely age of 26! But soon I realised they were not taking photos of me. They were only taking photos of my dress. And they kept murmuring and pointing to it. They were shooting the dress, and getting quite excited about it. Eventually one of them stopped snapping and explained.

'The print on your dress...it's Aubrey Beardsley.'
'Huh?'
'Aubrey Beardsley...the print on your dress, it's by Aubrey Beardsley.'
'Who's Aubrey Beadsley?'
He groaned and stalked off to find more cultured chat.

Aubrey Beardsley: 1872-1898.

Later at home I discovered that Aubrey Beardsley was a British illustrator and writer who lived for just 25 years in the late nineteenth century. His drawings 'in black ink, influenced by the style of Japanese woodcuts, emphasized the grotesque, the decadent, and the erotic', says Wikipedia. 'He was a leading figure in the Aesthetic movement which also included Oscar Wilde and James A. McNeill Whistler (and) his contribution to the development of the Art Nouveau and poster styles was significant.' So there you go. I had no idea.

In any case, the young man knew how to draw (he specialied in drawing figures with enormous genetalia, though not in the case of my dress. That would have cut a dash!). On my dress was the illustration above, 'The Peacock Skirt'.

I thought perhaps the bride hadn't noticed the kerfuffle. But, as the night wore on and the dress received more compliments I knew the jig was up. Nothing was mentioned on the night, but at one of the apres-party events she singled me out and said quietly, 'I liked your dress. It got more attention than I did.' Ouch. 'Ha ha ha!' I laughed desperately, 'No it did not! You looked AMAZING!' But we both know I had no idea what she looked like because I'd been blinded by the quality of my outfit and, literally, the flashbulbs of appreciation. I felt ashamed. I had misjudged the occassion, and the outfit. If only I had known about nineteenth century Art Nouveau designers. To make some amends I  practically wore a tracksuit to her third wedding...to which she wore a sari.

Now, I am well aware that the title of this blog is Notthestylepages, but this isn't about slavish fashion trends or outspending your supply, it's about politics and dischargement of social duty. Your duty as a guest is to blend into the general gaiety and background of the occassion. As my grandmother in law says, you don't need to be an onion in a petunia patch, but neither should you strive to be a black orchid in a bunch £1 M&S daffodils.

I'm not the only person I know who's had this kind of trouble at weddings. Fellow blogger, Gabrielle Jackson, had a similar experience at my own wedding when, during her reading, her much-anticipated Vivienne Westwood gown blew up over her head in the wind and exposed her backside in its own special wave. It can happen to anyone. At my sister's wedding the features editor of Harpers Bazaar magazine actually turned up wearing the same Collette Dinnigan dress my sister had selected for the big day. They'd even talked about each others' dresses on the phone, but hadn't quite twigged they were describing the same dress. Ms Dinnigan actually happened to be a guest at the wedding and could be heard hissing loudly, 'For God's sake! Someone throw a pashmina over that woman!' Tense.

In an effort to be careful I called Ellen the other week to ask what the dress code was. Flippantly she joked, 'Well as long as you're not wearing a long, white gown...' and I had such a distressing flashback from the Aubrey incident I briefly considered not attending. So, here I am, four days ahead of the day in a full and fabulous orange skirt with an all over Galliano feel, unsure if the look says 'Spring wedding cheer!' or 'Unrepentant exhibitionist!' It's a tough call. And I know I'm not really a reformed character because, when I ask my sensible husband's advice I know, deep down, I'll be disappointed when he suggest the safe pink Marc Jacobs option, even though it's also from a Notting Hill emporium of pre-loved style with an amazing Samuri sword sleeve design you just have to see to believe....

Katherine Burgdorf is an ardent lover of fashion 'with character', which means she'll wear almost anything from a secondhand shop.