According to the "helpful month-by-month wedding checklist" that I ripped out of a magazine in a moment of manic organisation zeal way back when I was first engaged, it's all looking good for D-Day. By that I mean that I am all on track, and bar having to deal with some unexpected calamity - a meteorite landing on the venue, for example, or the best man spontaneously combusting - there's actually not much left to do before now and July 14.

Two months to go: Buy wedding rings. Check. Finalise food with caterer. Check. Make sure passport is still valid. Check. Make sure groom isn't getting cold feet. Check - only joking. Come the week before the wedding I envisage myself with my feet up, sipping an umbrella-festooned tequila sunrise Del Boy-style while some white-coated beauty technician does me a smashing pre-honeymoon pedicure.

Of course by saying that I realise I am wantonly tempting fate, but I do feel a little smug that I have managed to get ahead and buy myself a little time. For example, while I was on holiday enjoying my last precious days of spinsterhood, I made inroads in to the seating plan - and according to the monthly planner, I'm not due to get started on that until the week before the wedding. The seating plan, as anyone who has lived to tell the tale knows, is surely the most vexing of all the wedding chores: a giant, head-scratchingly impenetrable poppy-field jigsaw of a chore that could easily send you mad if you let it. I have spent more time poring over those now scrappy, dog-eared, repeatedly rubbed-out sheets of paper than I have organising the entire wedding - admittedly while sitting by a Provencal pool with a chilled glass of rose in hand, but still...

It probably doesn't help that we have opted for long banquet tables rather than self-contained round tables, which means that one set of what you hope is like-minded, compatible guests leads into an entirely different set and needs careful bridging know-how. And God forbid you finish a row of 24 and then realise you've left someone out - it's out with the eraser and back to the drawing board.

When you get the bit between the teeth, though, it's hard to let go, and even though I've basically cracked the seating plan, I can't stop fiddling with it.

"It's like you're playing God," said one friend when I told her how it was taking over my life. "Just one seating decision could decide the future happiness of another human being. You read about it all the time - the couples who met at a wedding and then ended up getting married themselves, the business deals that have been struck over a buffet table."

No pressure, then. Better get that seating plan out again and see what I can do.