A dress to depress

Unusually I am going out this weekend, not once but twice. Friday and Saturday. Going out on two consecutive nights is not something I do any more. Going out at night isn't something I do much any more, unless I'm away from home. I'm looking forward to it. I have even arranged an excellent babysitter in good time. So I won't be scrabbling around at the last moment and end up entrusting my preciouses to the untested monosyllabic, obese barrel-scrapings they are subjected to when I am less organised. The embarassment of having to translate broad early school-leaver for my children always makes me flee from the house early, compounding my guilt. But this weekend I hope, I can party on, safe in the knowledge that my babies are being watched over by pretty, chatty, fragrant Alpha babysitter who knows how to play monopoly, can tell the time and drive herself home. Please don't let her be ill.


What with all the animal husbandry and cooking that I do I tend to wear manky clothes most of the time, which isn't to say I don't enjoy wearing nice clothes. I love wearing nice clothes. I love buying them, thinking about buying them, planning to wear them and wearing them. One of the reasons I love going out is that I get to put on the foxy cool clothes which hang unworn for their own protection for 99 per cent of the time. And do my hair and wear makeup. I will have two opportunities to wear things I don't usually wear on my nights out but with provisos. There are strict dress codes for each event - floor-length on Friday, black tie on Saturday.

On Friday it is a ball at a castle and on Saturday a smart dinner. I had a rummage in my wardrobe yesterday - forward thinking again, I must be growing up. Somehow amongst all the jeans, misshapen t-shirts, smelly fleeces and unworn loveliness I found the sort of dress the regiment holding the ball will deem seemly for their big night. I have worn it once, eight years ago; the last time I went to the same regimental ball at the same castle. It was made specially for the occassion when I was pregnant with my daughter. I don't wear floor-length dresses often so I was pleased to find it and (kind of) to discover that it fitted fine and wouldn't need a belt.


Dressing successfully for a ball in Scotland where you will be expected to take part in rumbustious Scottish country dancing (or reeling as I now call it having married well) has nothing to do with little girl fantasies of gowns and jewels and silver slippers. Its about practicality, comfort, not flashing your boobs and not breaking any limbs. A bit like dressing for the gym only less foxy. Forget strapless, particularly if you have tiny boobs like me. Even in my pre-children voluptuous 34B days strapless was a non-starter, as I finally had to concede after spending a friend's birthday party largely topless. In most of the dances a man yanks your arms above your head and spins you violently, disorientating you and removing one boob from the top of your dress before passing you on to the next guy who will do the same thing in the other direction which removes the other boob before you have had a chance to scoop the first boob back in. In WAG circles it would count as an assault. Sleeves might sound like a good idea but aren't because all the hands above head turning means the dress will be ripped at the armpits after the first reel or the sleeves will be lying trampled on the floor or the wearer of a more robustly seamed dress will have flashed sweaty pit patches 96 times in 10 overheated minutes. A high-cut dress with sturdy shoulder straps is the only thing for it and at a regimental ball it has to be floor length. Which means grannyish ankle length because if it is sweeping the floor or has any kind of train it will be stood on, tripped over and cursed by wearer and fellow guests alike. Practical. Comfortable. Not words I like to associate with going out clothes but which on this occassion I must, or risk bringing shame on the good name of our host. I don't want to go into the details of the practical comfortable shoes I have selected and risk bringing shame on my own name. Suffice to say my daughter has forbidden me from leaving the house in them.

The dress situation for Saturday night is better but, exasperatingly also imperfect. The black tie dinner is being held in a huge freezing pile so we have been told to bring a jumper. I'm not sure a jumper will improve my favourite little black DVF dress but my joy in dressing up doesn't extend to being cold, ever. The hosts can't afford to heat the house now that they have bought it and have chosen feeding us dinner over keeping us warm. I would rather eat crisps and be warm. I would rather not wear a jumper over the favourite party dress that I get to wear twice a year.