Unfettered.

“Alice” said Hubby; somewhat impatiently I might add, down the receiver of his phone, “I have some dates for your diary. Someone else can’t go, so we’re going as proxy guests to a ball. Saturday. Ok? Later”. And he hung up.
It’s getting a bit like this. Dates, venues and codes of dress are barked down the telephone or emailed to me. I then consult my Filofax, which to be honest does not have notable entries such as: Lunch with Brad; dinner with Johnny but instead reminds me of which child is doing what and with whom, how much it will cost and at what time I have to retrieve them again. So, when Hubby informs me that we have to be at a cocktail party or reception, he knows darned well that Brad won’t be waiting for me somewhere and therefore I have no excuse other than to be dutiful.
Poor Princess Diana, I feel an affinity to her, not that I am rich or beautiful, nor I hope, ultimately doomed, but because after an hour and a half of making small talk with the chairman of a local Rotary club or British Legion my feet are beginning to bleed and I am sure the first thing Diana did when transport came to collect her from whatever official function she had to grace, was tear at her high heels and lob them in the direction of the driver. Some old biddy actually gave up the ghost at a function last week where she’d been standing for hours and was found face down in the Axminster. This caused a general furore and several uniformed men ran to her aid and a chair was conveyed forthwith. It was probably a ploy she has used on numerous and comparable occasions. It was an adroit move and the next time I feel a parade or speech is going on a wee bit too long and I fancy a little sit down, I too shall swoon. Knowing my luck though people will immediately assume that I’ve been chugging too many glasses of Cava and step over the heap on the carpet.
Hubby of course is nowhere to be found on such occasions, preferring to swap military anecdotes that I cannot understand even if I were interested enough to try and decode them, so apart from the initial, “Alice, this is Captain Pugwash (for instance), you met when he was commanding officer of HMS Black Pig”. Captain Pugwash and I then smile broadly at each other, shake hands heartily and nod our heads in assent, when in reality neither of us has a Scooby who the other is and so as quickly as it started, the conversation dies. Pugwash and Hubby then discuss, well heaven knows what, as I stand there, feet murderous, trying to will the steward carrying a tray of canapés or Asti to circulate a little closer that I may apprehend him of his nibbles and booze.
Last Saturday however was an entirely different affair and whilst we were proxy guests and representing the Royal Navy, it was nonetheless going to be a do where everyone else was a strawberry.
“As in Fields forever?”, I asked Hubby as I strapped up my high heels.
He held out a hand and hoiked me upright.
“No dear, as in Mivvi”. I looked blank.
“Strawberry Mivvi: Civvy”.
“Oh I see”. Honestly sometimes it’s just like being married to one of the Krays only without the gangland violence.
What followed is one of those experiences that leaves one agog. Used only to military dos which have an inherent dignity (burlesque dancers notwithstanding), where men are beautifully dressed and women appropriately so and the Royal Marine Band are immaculate, my eyes were out like a robber’s horse.
“Alice”, hissed Hubby, “Close your mouth, you look like a goldfish”.
“I look like a goldfish? I? I? Cast your eyes over there then”. Across the room stood a very young woman in quite literally a goldfish orange, iridescent dress, complete with three foot train and jewelled encrusted stomacher. Around her stood other young women in varying shades of orange hue, although this was their skin tone and not their dress colour. Hair was high and platinum blonde, eyes were enhanced by centimetre long false eyelashes; fingernails were painted not just red or pink but had designs as well as diamante on them, toenails matched. Breasts were high and disclosed and tattoos of various conquestadors illustrated necks, shoulders and cleavages. I think they were what are now commonly referred to as, WAGs. I was, it goes without saying, invisible to the naked eye.
“Bloody hell”, said Hubby, eyeballing a girl whose breasts were abundant to the point that it was only her nipples that were concealed and that was only by thin strips of satin gown which plunged down to her, what else - bejewelled navel. The ‘Tit-tape’ – trade mark name, which she’d used to cover her modesty, was under significant duress.
Hubby and I felt as though we were gate crashing this particular party and as soon as it was polite, we left. This week brings its own challenges, namely Hubby is in a parade at the weekend. It’s been a while since he’s done any marching and carrying of sword and he is understandably, nervous. I cannot help but take umbrage at the fact that, to be word perfect, he has taken to practising his lines at home. Now, were he an actor or a singer, it would undoubtedly be a joy to hear his dulcet tones.
“Parade halt! Stand Fast! Division Halt! Eyes Front! Stand. At. Ease!” being bellowed however, with Colonel Hathi-like assertion around the landing is not conducive to familial harmony. Even the dog is whimpering.
He has now been banished to the basement amidst much rancour and the prevailing icy atmosphere has led to me discovering Ernest Shackleton sheltering in the downstairs loo.