I never saw the groom's parents without a small grandchild in their arms.

The entire reception was a big, long affair held together by a family's love. An extended family's love.

Brothers supported brothers, aunties looked after straying children, sisters and sisters-in-law wiped mucky little faces and changed nappies.

And all the time, the girls looked stunning and slim, dangling infants whilst tottering on their impossibly high stiletto heels.

An Italian wedding. Colours, words, food and love. All in copious quantities.

I was made feel welcome; embraced by old laces and wobbly earlobes, the previous generation having flown all the way from Italy to see the latest young boy getting married to his sweetheart.

The newer generation threw paper balls at each other from one table to the next, sultry, smoky eyes with lashings of mascara and freshly cooked hair set in soft waves.

'We are so pleased about S', the red lipstick murmured into my ear.

'What about?' I said.

'You look lovely and make a great couple.'

'No.... we are just friends', I say, darting an accusing eye at him.

S is singing a couple of Italian songs, as he is a professional singer.

'Vedi Napoli e poi muori....' he is bellowing.

'Oh!' They look very disappointed.

'Oi, mate,' a calling voice from a table in the back, as he walks past. 'She is the best looking one we've ever seen you with!'

Only the Italians would consider a woman wearing a dress the size of a handkerchief with slits up to one's own private parts a suitable companion for the only single bachelor in the room.

'Do you own your house?' asks the matriarcal grandmother. In Italian.

'Ermm.. no...' I say, trying to sound very ashamed of it.

'Tut tut', she says. 'No house! How old are you?'

Now we are into child-bearing territory.

'I am not going out with S!' I say.

'He is very nice and generous,' the women tell me, the older ones nodding in unison.

The bride looks splendid and has a smile the size of Iceland. As white too.

As we rise to toast, the groom mentions the dead. People recently departed, taken away by illness or fate. He is very young and chokes on his words. A sweet tear rolls down.

The best man blushes when he is thanked for his help.

In the car on the way back, S makes a speech which must have been rehearsed in his room. How he would look after me, how the family is strong and supportive, how much I need someone to make me secure and self-confident again. How love is all one needs. How all is mended by a caring heart.

'I don't want to go out with you, S' I say, as gently as I can.

The same as I have said a few times in the last few weeks, to a few different people.

I am not confused. I loved the wedding, and was moved by it. I wish the young couple all the best, and I enjoyed the admiring glances by the men. The women did not mind me, and I felt accepted unconditionally.

I just don't want to be part of that.

I think I belong somewhere else.