Going to a ball, Cinders?

The primary fundraiser in our annual calendar of events is the Glittering Charity Ball which was held last week. It's a large affair with over 500 people in attendance, 80 auction items, a 'wall of wine' kindly donated and sold off in mystery lots to the punters, raffles, prizes and much more.

Takes a little organising, of course, which is why my blogging has suffered over the last couple of weeks (mea culpa, dear readers). Amongst all the running around and endless preparation, there comes a moment when the single most burning question just cannot be put off any longer - what the hell am I going to wear?

I had not really put my mind to the question at all, thinking vaguely that I could pull out the standard red satin jacket and put it over something or another when it was brought gently, but firmly to my attention that THIS WOULD NOT DO! While not said in so many words, the Love Interest made it perfectly clear that if he was to attend as my escort I would need to smarten up my act and not even consider any of the crap currently adorning my wardrobe.

Fair enough - one does have an image to maintain after all. But where to find a suitable ball dress in 4 days?

Naturally, I asked the DIVA whose knowledge and ingenuity in such things in legendary. "I may have something for you" she said, after some consideration. "I'll pop it in a bag and post it over." The 'something' turned out to be a hand-me-down from one of the DIVA's internationally successful opera buddies, purchased in London for an extraordinary sum and currently in service as the DIVA's standard function frock. I should note here that the DIVA and I are very used to borrowing from each other's wardrobes and have an almost annual ritual of handing clothes over (or back) depending on the current fluctuations of our waist lines.

"Fabulous" thought I and waited in eager anticipation for the parcel to arrive the following day. It was not an inspiring sight - the mind fairly boggling at how any sort of ball dress could possibly be shoved into a medium sized post pack. The contents, once revealed, were even more unprepossessing. A two piece creation in some sort of weird knitted fabric that looked, frankly, more like an Osti Frock than haute couture. Perhaps the DIVA had run mad?

No time to speculate with auction booklets to finish, seating plans to arrange and only two shopping days remaining before the BIG NIGHT. But it was with a sense of impending doom that I donned the outfit for inspection by Arizaphale and Baby Angel, in the certain knowledge that there would be no quarter given in terms of an honest appraisal.

The funny thing was that as soon as I put the damn thing on it felt fabulous. Somehow the strange fabric seemed to mould itself into a shape that accentuated the good curves and hid the bad while making legs suddenly appear about 6 inches longer. Could be why it had a 2,000 pound price tag in the first place ...

Having gained the seal of approval from Arizaphale, it was simply a matter of finding some bling, painting both sets of nails (not without some difficulty and, in the end, assistance) and heading off for the event, accompanied by a most debonnaire Love Interest and feeling, if not the belle of the ball, at least not one of the ugly sisters ...