"How many mothers could have her daughter give her away, her son be the best man and grandchildren be pageboys and bridesmaid?", my friend Lynda commented after our wedding.

However, this may not be so unusual. According to statistics, marriage for over 65 year olds has increased, and 2014 saw the highest rate of divorced women over 60 years old remarrying.

So, at 65 years old, divorced, and marrying for the second time, I became a statistic. Not only was I an older bride, with children and grandchildren, but I married a younger man, a bachelor with no children.

My first wedding ended in divorce in 1997, after almost 25 years. It

was a devastating period in my life and that of my children. I’d never lived alone and had no idea about bills, repairs, etc. Desperation, loneliness and fear of the future were companions.

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After my divorce, I wasn’t prepared to perch on a bar stool, waiting for a man to approach. A friend recommended I join a rambling group, where I met Ron. I knew he was more than five years younger than me, but that posed no problem, save for his temporary doubt in the early days. Knowing we wouldn’t be able to have children together may have been the reason for his initial reluctance.

Overcoming that wobble, we settled in to our relationship as girlfriend and boyfriend, then partners. Ron was welcomed, accepted and absorbed into my family. He was loving and respectful to my children and grandchildren and never stepped over the mark, understanding the delicate relationship.

The grandchildren adored him and would often bypass me, asking for him and he was supportive, playful and gentle with them.

In those early days, I was scarred and hurt by divorce. I was uninterested in remarrying and Ron was happy not to marry. That was 18 years ago.

After so many years together, we were accustomed to people thinking we were married and referring to ‘your husband’ or ‘your wife’.

And the cliched, ‘It’s only a piece of paper’ also popped up.

As we became more secure, and my scars healed, we discussed marriage.

On Valentine’s Day 2012, I even considered proposing. (Ron confessed he’d have turned me down!) So we drifted on and he knew if we were to marry, I wanted a proper proposal. This came on Valentine’s Day 2017.

Friends and family welcomed the news. Reactions were mostly ‘Brilliant news’ and ‘About time’. But we did have the occasional ‘Why?’

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People also queried why it had taken so long. The answer was that the time had to be right for us and 2017 was our time. We wanted to cement our relationship in front of our special people.

We wanted to become Mr and Mrs, and to say, ‘my husband’ and ‘my wife’, instead of ‘my partner’. And I wanted to take Ron’s surname, but keep mine professionally.

Before my first wedding in 1973, I’d left my Manchester home to live in Belfast, at my first husband’s home. My parents organised our wedding, and guests were mostly family and their friends.

This time round would be different, with my groom and me arranging

everything, choosing our guests and, of course, footing the bill. Conscious that it was his first wedding, I wanted him to feel special and be fully involved in decisions and preparations for an understated, relaxed, party atmosphere.

His initial estimation of 20 guests was way off the mark. As an older

couple, there was now a large, extended family, friends from before our relationship, and those we’d made as a new couple. We settled on 70

guests. We set a budget for the wedding at £4,000, excluding the cost of rings and clothes. Although below the average wedding cost, we suspected we could do it.

Ron’s 60th birthday was in May and we’d arranged to go away with the family to celebrate in June, but instead decided to marry on that weekend. So our first challenge was the pressure of organising everything in 15 weeks.

Speedily, we booked and bought. Ron had never worn a ring and needed gentle persuasion. My first engagement ring was a beautiful, diamond solitaire. Now, I wanted something non-conventional and unusual.

I ordered a white gold, slim ring, set with 18 diamonds, signifying our time together.

I was excited – it would be good to get a ring back on my bare finger.

Ron’s wedding outfit was sorted speedily. Although internet-ordered, purple shoes proved more pink than purple, they were a mega-success.

My outfit was more of a challenge. We wanted a boho feel, a cornucopia of colour for us and our guests. Seeking a dress that didn’t make me look like an aged hippy, meant hours sourcing, buying and returning dresses. White/cream bridal was out. Scratchy polyester, one-shoulder, and cardigans were out. I found my perfect dress and shoes, in colours to complement Ron’s outfit, in TK Maxx.

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Family and friends began to get excited and involved, as we wished. Emails abounded to and from my daughter, and my daughter-in-law, about the outfits for the pageboys and bridesmaid. The pageboys wore tie-dyed T-shirts. It was an unconventional choice but it was our choice.

My son ensured Ron had a stag night to remember – five men

enjoyed an Indian meal, then tried escaping from a locked theme room.

At home, 12 hens chose items from a pasting table heaving with Hobbycraft materials, to decorate small milk bottles for the wedding tables. My nod towards naughtiness was flashing, bunny ears and willy confetti.

One of the biggest challenges was my bouquet, after I decided on a paper one. It took much longer than imagined. My friend Sherena, who helped, remembered, ‘We’d started with simple origami some months earlier and it was quite a feat to manage a basic butterfly.’

Assembling almost 90 flowers, I became intimately acquainted with The Archers and their cows, while feeling chilled from an open window, to prevent inhaling glue.

Occasionally, I stressed about getting everything done. Choosing appropriate music and seven readings took an age. Two calendars, a blackboard and numerous notes filled our space.

Finally making it to bed, I’d wake, remember something, then write it on a Post-It note to stick on the door. Insomnia interrupted, but adrenaline kept my older body and mind going, when energy sapped.

I tried unsuccessfully not to bombard Ron.

Working in mental health, he successfully calmed me, even my worry that our gift request for store cards on our invitation might have offended some people.

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Our wedding day was everything we hoped for and more. The grandchildren confidently raced down the aisle. My daughter walked me in, and my son sang and played his guitar. The ceremony was meaningful and beautiful.

We decided to honeymoon in Norfolk and it was a chance to reminisce and relax in Norwich, on Cromer beach, and on the Broads, and to get used to being Mr and Mrs.

Proof, if any is needed, that divorce doesn't have to be the end.