Hurrah! Wedding Season is over for another year, which means no more B&Bs, no more swearing at the TomTom as we get lost en route to the church and no more warm champagne or cold canapes writes Henry Mackley.

But best of all, hurrah for no more having to explain what I don’t do for a living.

It will be okay next summer because I have done so much semi-drunken ‘networking’ and collected so many email addresses and telephone numbers scrawled onto the back of fag packets and napkins – it’s strange that people never take business cards to weddings – that by this time next year, I’ll have deciphered one, made a phone-call and have gained a fantastic and highly lucrative job.

And you, my darling readers, will be reading some inane guff from a school-leaver with two GCSEs and nineteen kids instead.

I’ve been to some lovely weddings in the last couple of months, but not really enjoyed any of them for one reason: they’ve all been quite smart.

So aside from the fact that I’ve been wearing a musty-smelling morning suit because I’ve been unable to afford to have dry-cleaned, I have also had to lie about my ‘situation’ several painful times.

Invariably at these things I end up sitting next to somebody who has survived the banking crisis only by sacrificing a million-quid bonus or a high-ranking Guardsman who got so fed up with watching his ‘lads’ having their legs blown off in Afghanistan that he’s taken to the Law to console himself with a six figure salary.

I nod, in false empathy, until they ask me what I ‘do’.

I’d like to say “well, I got royally stiffed by my last employer a couple of months ago and since then have been ducking, diving whilst failing to remind Sky that they’ve forgotten to cancel my sports channel subscription. Get in!”

But I don’t, because I’m ashamed.

Instead I say that I work freelance in food marketing, or somesuch twaddle, and they say “Amazing! My friend Hugo has set up his own organic olive grove in Primrose Hill and needs some PR. He was a Para, but had his leg blown off. He’ll be pressing his first oil in November.”

“Excellent”, I say, “That’s what I’m good at. Jot down his email address down on this greasy wine-stained napkin and I’ll give him a call first thing tomorrow morning.”

And so it goes on. Another weekend, another ‘contact’.

I’ve made a few this year and a couple have even returned my calls. Mainly because they want to sleep with me (I’m ginger and unemployed – who wouldn’t) or they’ve found my sunglasses in their handbag, but it’s a start.

So, my message this week: Go to posh weddings, as many as you can, and wait like a bored angler until something hops on to your hook.

If you don’t like it, chuck it back. If you do, make a massive meal of it.

Yummy.

• Henry blogs at This could be Ludlow or anywhere