Bridget Nolan, 20

I cry at weddings. I should say that up front, because you'll see it happen and I'd rather you didn't worry — I'm not sad, I'm just the sort of person who hears the first four bars of the processional and starts leaking into the ribbon. I'm the one with the shears and the bucket, the one who pins a boutonniere on your grandfather and tells him he looks handsome, and yes, I do carry a spare handkerchief, and no, it isn't always for me. Also: if your family has a photograph nobody can put a name to, bring it in. I'm working on one myself — a bride from 1953 who's been hanging in our workroom longer than any of us have worked here — and I've got two theories I'd defend and one I'll happily admit is only a guess. Two hundred-odd weddings and I've never once sat down in a folding chair as a guest, so tell me what it's like from the front.

— Bridget Nolan

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