The mini-dress that brought the claws out
Tell me again, why can't a bride wear a short-skirted wedding dress?
Well, because it's too informal.
Too cold for her knees.
Not bridal enough.
Unsuitable for kneeling during the blessing.
This has been the conversation in my office this week as we recuperate from the cultural onslaught of the Kasmine nuptials.
We do also occasionally talk about serious things.
But the Wedding of the Year has prompted many women to observe Jasmine Yarbrough's Aztec-themed wedding dress was not quite the thing, and many more men to ask what exactly the problemo was.
"Well, if you wear a miniskirt to your ceremony, what do you wear for your wedding night?" asked one lady.
"It's supposed to be a formal occasion," sighed another.
"Because you don't want to look like a hooker," observed a third.
Of all the occasions upon which women do not wish to be mistaken for a prostitute, the wedding night is perhaps the most significant.
And, as we know, streetwalkers commonly do wear $30,000 bespoke ivory creations to lean on car windows in.
Cue baffled blokes.
"Isn't it good for your wife to look super-hot on her wedding day?"
And there's the issue.
Women love few things more than the opportunity to quietly rip to shreds a close friend's choice of outfit for the happiest day of her life.
We usually do this from behind a canape.
But the celebrity/royal/rich-list wedding allows for this analysis to be conducted in a much more rigorous setting: the open-plan office.
"What a missed opportunity," my glitziest friends moaned after Meghan Markle drifted down the aisle in a long-sleeved, loose, ultra-simple Givenchy gown.
"Looks like she needed just one more fitting," said another.
There's a deeper meaning here, and you probably don't need my guidance to work it out.
For all women's manifest gifts and frequent acts of selfless kindness and charity, we all harbour in our hearts a jealous she-devil who really doesn't like her own thighs and absolutely cannot stand Jasmine Yarbrough's.
And we can always fall back on tradition to justify ourselves.
For it be true that when thou art a 34-year-old model with an apparently unlimited budget and a promised spread in Vogue, thou canst wear whatever thee damn wantest on thy wedding day.
And thou shalt look fine as hell.
And all the green-eyed matrons will tear thee limb from limb on Instagram.
But by then thou shalt be in Aspen on honeymoon.
And thou shalt live happily ever after.
Claire Harvey is the deputy editor of the Sunday Telegraph.