10 March 2016, 6 pm
I am getting ready to go out and be posh. This is no simple matter, so I have allowed plenty of time and plenty of gin. The event is a gala dinner, at The Savoy. Clearly this is just my type of thing. The invitation said “Black tie”, which means that the men have to dress up as pelican crossings; the women have to hold their breath all evening to avoid structural damage to their Little Black Dresses; and everyone must be sure to brush the straw from their hair before they arrive. (Well, I must anyway.) I have looked out my unfeasibly frivolous frock and carried it carefully all the way from Brizzle on the train. I have Googled “gala dinner etiquette” and found out that I must not show too much cleavage (ha ha) or eat my bread roll all in one go. Or indeed put it in my pocket for later – the bread roll, that is. I am nervous. I do not find it easy, walking into a posh party on my own. I worry I will not know anyone. I will not know what to say. What if I trip over my dress or spill my drink? What if I do that thing where you introduce yourself to someone and they immediately start looking over your shoulder for more interesting alternatives? What if I say something stupid? – It’s happened before. I take a sip or two of gin to strengthen my nerve. OK, maybe more than a sip or two. But not too much, because I do not want to risk putting the unfeasibly frivolous frock on upside down. That has also happened before.
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