12 November 2017
I am supposed to be preparing for my Grand Visit to The Palace, at which I am to be officially OBE-d by whichever member of the royal family drew the short straw. The visit is on Thursday. So it is time I got grown-up and decided what to wear. At moments like this, there is a small child in me who stamps her feet and refuses to do as she is told. I do not want to wear posh shoes; I cannot walk in them. I do not want to wear tights; they are uncomfortable and also insufficiently robust. I do not want to carry a handbag; I do not like handbags. And do not talk to me about fascinators. They are silly. End of. But I have bought a posh frock, and I have gone without chocolate for nearly two weeks in order to fit into the posh frock (because it was bought before I went to France, consumed cheese and wine toute la journée pour amuser maself, and became une poids-lourde), and so it is that with a heavy heart (but a light stomach) I shove into a suitcase the rubbishy things that are supposed to accompany a posh frock. Shoes. Handbag. Tights. Even a fascinator. But because I like to keep my options open, I am also going to take to London: one pair of boots, in case I lose my nerve with the shoes at the last minute (or indeed half-way through); one rucksack (because there is room in a rucksack for all the things I might need at The Palace, such as Red Bull®, snacks, a spare pair of tights and a Sudoku); a hoodie, in case the fascinator looks too silly; and gin, in case I have to throw a tantrum and need sedating. I pad out the corners of the suitcase with straw. There is no particular reason for the straw; it is just habit.
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