Hubbie and I rarely go out. Our-Strictly-Come-Dancing-John-Sergeant-days, we reckon, are long gone. But occasionally there are slight glimmers of hope. Ta da! Only last night I was invited out to a small social (women-only-PTA-organised) gathering at the local village hall. At first I dithered, I felt grotty (as a fully paid up member of a mardy cold) but then again, I thought, go on...give it a whirl...
At six o'clock (remarkably organised for once) I looked up at the kitchen clock and asked hubbie if now was the right time to start to get the children to bed. As there was no or little response (he was working at the computer) I carried on reading the local newspapers (just the headlines!, just the headlines!)...thinking that I might just get away with not doing the bedtime routine...
At 6.45 p.m. hubbie asked whether I was reading to our son or daughter. I told him that I had to be at the party (being held all of five minutes away) at 7.30 p.m. He said: "You can be ready in five minutes, what's the problem?" (Typical blokish reply. I thought to myself.) And usually yes, in five minutes, I can be ready. Except for this night. I was convinced that the ladies would be glammed up to their eyelashes and as such, I did not want to roll in, dressed in my usual uniform of jeans and Fatface sweatshirt swirled in snot...
I read poor wee son's stories to him in the record breaking time of four minutes flat. Felt incredibly guilty as he has the dratted cold too...at 7.05pm I sidled into our bedroom...not having a clue as to what to wear.
Various thoughts did a rapid front crawl through my head:
1. Blue linen skirt (Summer attire...it's sub-zero outside!)
2. Jean skirt (no...too much of a "staple")
3. Jeans. Absolutely not! (due to aforementioned reasons)
4. What the hell else? (Despite having wardrobes full of clothes and one rail having fallen down only last week due to the sheer weight of various "togas/shifts"...call them what you will...)
I finally remembered the wrapover black dress which still fits me fine. O.K. 50% of the dress decision taken. What to wear with it? Pulled out lots of jumpers, t-shirts, sweaters from the chest of drawers I rarely venture into as so many books are stacked in front of them. Discover, to my delight, that the Nicole Farhi roll necked jumper still exists after all these years. (My old faithful.) I'd convinced myself that I'd long since banished it as it was looking distinctly threadbare. (Nay! I shall not abandon it just as Linus, in Peanuts, will never be parted from his faithful old blanket.) But. Oh! Cannot wear that with the black wrapover dress. Can only be worn with jeans. Damn. Blast. Opt for the red woollen roll necked jumper instead.
I crowbar the long mirror out of its hiding place between the window and the chest of drawers. (It had its own stand but the children started swinging off it so all had to be removed due to own household's self imposed health and safety rules.) I take a good look at myself in the mirror and am not happy. Choose to go for that black roll necked sweater. More mole-like burrowing in my other chest of drawers...convinced that it, too, did not exist. And lo! The black roll necked sweater does exist. No longer a figment of my imagination - it is donned. It passes muster. The black Marella coat...still in service from my banking days...(now only used for Christenings and Funerals) gets the thumbs up. Last but not least...what to put on my feet?...I manage to put on one black leather boot but the lever, thingummy jig, breaks off in my hand and with five minutes to go to get there, I cannot believe that I will be compelled to go up the road in one boot (as I can't get it off for love nor money). Cripes. I consider calling in sick. With one last attempt I achieve the impossible and the devilish boot is prised off. I go down, SAS-style, on my belly to see what lurks in the nether, dusty regions of the double bed. Have I got any footwear which would remotely match up to this kamikaze outfit? Again I strike gold with some black wedge shoes which have come back into fashion after ten years. "The Gods must be smiling on me tonight!" I inwardly rejoice. I strap them on, put on some lippy, stride out the door, unfreeze the car and arrive fifteen minutes late.
No mean feat.
I open the door. I walk in. The hall is almost deserted....99.9% of the womenfolk, who were there, were wearing............good old, practical, comfy jeans.