Ah, there you are. Now, what can I tell you that might engage your perpetually-flitting minds? I know. Next Tuesday I am invited to the exotically named Cafe de Paris which, inexplicably, is in London, not Paris, for the Melissa Nathan Awards. Once there, I am reliably informed, there will be champagne.
So far I have got away with it. I have worn Dress Number 1 and Dress Number 2 to the two events that have necessitated my appearance in something other than a duffel coat and socks, and now we hit the main problem - which dress do I wear again? There are a significant number of photographs of me wearing both dresses (no, not at once, come on I don't need any MORE help to look gigantically fat), so I pose you this question; 'which dress do I wear again and hope that people don't take photographs of me which might therefore reveal that I have only 2 dresses?' Futhermore, one of the dresses makes me look as though I have been ruthlessly triangulated in the lower portions, and the other makes me look like a leg of badly-cooked pork. For proof, I refer you to here and also here where there are pictures of people wearing proper clothes, and me in my lampshade or culinary disaster.
And no, I cannot go and buy another dress. For one thing, or a), I don't have any money, and for another, or b) I refuse to buy things that I will never wear again. So until someone invents a dress that I can wear for work (clue, must be laughter-and-mockery proof and resistant to acid), to walk the dogs in (MUST be waterproof, for the love of God, I'm not some kind of masochist), ride horses in (and no, sidesaddle is not an option, have you seen the size of me? Watching horses tip over sideways might be funny for YOU, but you're not the one underneath, are you?) and with the world's most forgiving waistband, then I have to stick to the ones I already have.
I suppose I could try to make the dress look different by standing differently in it. So far I have favoured the 'legs slightly apart' pose, a la Henry the Eighth.
Exactly like this, only without the beard. It both makes me look keen and eager and also slightly desperate for the toilet and, since I am usually all of these, it works nicely. And I'm not sure that I can stand in any other way, not without someone sawing the heel off one of my shoes, in which case I will stand pretty much like this, only with added lurch.
Oh, and then we get to the shoe problem, and, after last time, I am NOT going there again. Wellingtons are acceptable anywhere, all right?
So, if you happen to find yourself in central London on Tuesday night and you meet someone who appears to be wearing a dog blanket fastened around the middle with string, it may be me. Or it may be a tramp. Either way, give them 50p and tell them to have a nice night. And to take it easy on the Irn Bru...
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