So I have now reached the end of my frockage nightmare. (Oh, no-no, I’m afraid that does not mean the end of my frivolous ramblings) Luckily my last frock outing (the cocktail party) was ease by a stoke of genius. Or luck, perhaps.
As chief cocktail waitress in charge of all things alcoholic, my place for the evening was mostly in the kitchen. Honestly – it was for the best – I left the kitchen for ten minutes and when I got back the tequila was all gone – apart from a shot on the side with a bit of lemon and the salt sat next to it, waiting in a manner that clearly stated (in an Alice in Wonderland style…) “DRINK ME”. So I did. And that was the end of the tequila.
By all accounts the party appears to have been a success with the majority staying until approximately 3.30ish. Much alcohol was consumed and many hangovers were suffered. Not least by myself.
Despite a blisteringly hot day, I could still be found lounging on the sofa watching rubbish on sky until well past 4pm the next day.
Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that my frockage nightmare was eased slightly by the presence of a pinny. Oh yes, for the night of July 1st, I became the quintessential 50s American Housewife. Serving up mini-party-snack delights, whilst deftly producing cocktails of exciting and exotic appearance for my charmed guests.
There is no need to fixate on the fact that at various busy points in the evening people were admittedly having to wait a minute or two for their cocktail – but come on – a girl only has two hands and if five people are all wanting different cocktails – frankly (in my house) they’re going to have to wait. And I shall not be swayed by the heckling few. (Damn ingrates)
But (for goodness sake), let’s get back to the point. Said pinny worked wonders to relieve the horror of frockage – by covering up nasty bulging bits. Who needs running when they can have pinnies? Pah, exercise is for those fools who do not have the foresight to invest in a pinny.
An Aside
Pinny was actually brought on request by one of the guests – and can you believe it – the colours matched my frock – no need to tell anyone that this was not done on purpose – for that would merely detract from the perfect 50s housewifely façade.
I wonder if I can get away with wearing a pinny for all future frockage events – or if it only works whilst at your own home. I can imagine it would look slightly odd elsewhere – but what with it being such a saving grace… I might try it.
Oh – and last point – I did start the night with some posh shoes on – however due to excessive height, they had to be removed. This led to, later in the night, me stepping back only to find myself with a soaked foot. Turning around, I discovered that SOMEONE had been rude enough to have knocked a full bottle of soda water over without informing me. On closer inspection, it became clear that posh shoes had become the victims of this evil SOMEONE, and were in need of drainage into the sink. Which clearly, is another point in favour of a trainers only policy.
Days to frockage: never again
Dress-body outlook: damn it, just eat that chocolate bar, girl.
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