We know love really is lovelier the second time around ...

BECAUSE of next weekend’s royal wedding there’s been a rash of nuptial reminiscences. So here’s mine. It was November 1986. A second marriage for both of us, hastily arranged only three weeks after my divorce came through – our son Jack was then six months old and we were both eager to get on with it.

No time to arrange a formal “do”, just a quick trip to the local register office with our closest family, my nine-year-old twin sons, and a grumpy little Jack.

Imagine my horror when I realised that the room in Jackson’s Row, Manchester, where Richard and I were to be spliced was the exact same one in which I was married first time around. I was so embarrassed, especially when my brother started taking photos. I felt a bit jumpy and so Richard said in a stentorian whisper: “Come on, Judy, don’t be silly. You’ve done this before.”

As he subsequently had to explain to all the guests at our post-nuptial pub lunch, he just meant I was used to us both being photographed together as we co-hosted TV shows. But I was mortified, convinced he was referring to my first wedding.

One sweet thing. It turned out I was carrying something infinitely more precious than a bouquet. As we went off for our two-day honeymoon Richad asked if I felt “different” now we were married. I told him I did. In fact I felt very odd indeed. No wonder. I discovered shortly afterwards that I was pregnant with Chloe. She was unplanned and I had no idea. But I’m so glad she was there at our wedding. A special little iced bun in my oven.