We got our cancellation. Due to move tomorrow. The builders are on course but we have so much to do by way of packing, I am not sure we are going to make it. I decided last night as I tried to get to grips with stashing my life in cardboard boxes that I really rather disliked my husband. Communication is the key to a successful relationship. He said: "Do you resent me for making you do this again?" This is our third move in two years. I said. "To be accurate, I resent and dislike you in equal parts." We have been invited to a party where you have to "come as a feminist". Only the fact that my husband then clambered into one of my old skirts and stuffed a pillow up a jumper to form a pair of low slung breasts, succeeded in tipping the balance in his favour between me staying and leaving that night.
I am very excited about going to the party. Despite the fact I droan on endlessly about my pursuit of friendship, I never went to parties in London. Here, I went to a fiftieth birthday party soon after we arrived, and a 30th birthday party a few weeks ago. The only problem, people never say: "Come as you are." The fiftieth party was seventies themed and the 30th party was also fancy dress. My husband acquired a severe work crisis within a minute and a half of seeing what I was wearing for the 30th. I had to go on my own. I stood at the community club bar for a considerable period of time wearing my orange frock and even more orange silk blouse, black and white stripey tights and red suede ankle books. Oh and my long, curly, dark brunette wig. And my silver beaded purse slung across my body diagonally the way you carried your little ladybird leather purse at school when you were seven. The theme was fifties, sixties, seventies and eighties. I had sixties clothes and seventies hair. In the right light, it was conceivable I looked like a Vogue model, circa June 1971. In the wrong light, it was conceivable I looked like a "dog's dinner". Not even Batman. Not even a Blues Brother came over to talk to me. I am hoping I shall have more luck as Mary Wollstonecraft or Emmeline Pankhurst. If I decide to go as a suffragette, I may invest in a rubber feeding tube to thread up my nose and down my throat.
My most recent dressing up experience was on Saturday, I spent the afternoon, dressed as a Victorian to sell cakes at the school fete and the evening in a gown at the hunt ball. The Hunt Ball. It is worth repeating. "How was your weekend?" "Oh, y'know. Did the shopping. Trip to the beach. Went to the hunt ball." I was slightly disappointed because I had thought we would eat dinner on horseback but they insisted we sat on chairs at a table. I had thought we would eat roast fox but it was braised Northumberland beef. I also thought we would burn an effigy of Tony Blair before the dancing started; instead, we were entertained by white-fleshed belly dancers. It could have been a chartered accountant's annual thrash had it not been for a couple of clues. The raffle prizes for instance, included an £80 voucher to "buy new tack for your horse (saddles, bridles, bits)" as well as a pallet of "haylage (which) provides the ultimate in high nutritional forage...sweet and appealing to even the fussiest of horses." I was so disappointed when I did not win the haylage. Another clue were the chaps in red tail coats who are the masters of the hunt. I think that means if they point at you, you are obliged to have sex with them.
Lovely women in silk and beaded frocks cantered around on high and skinny heels; occasionally they whinnied. I had decided against high heels. This was possibly a mistake. The organiser is particularly beautiful. Very tall. Her legs are as long as I am; the top of my head is about level with her midriff. I looked up at her. I said: "Well done. Everyone is having a fantastic time." She smiled brilliantly at me, a vision in bronze and black satin. She said: "Oh, thank you. How nice of you to say that." As she turned away, she patted me on the head. I wondered briefly if she was going to offer me a sugar lump. After dinner, there was dancing. I am not sure what they are like on the field, but they are bloody dangerous on a dance floor. Gusto does not cover it. Hooves pounded the ground, sweat flew from flanks; they leapt over "Come on Eileen". The hounds scented their prey and they thundered on past "I predict a riot", ploughing through the mud, the blood beat in their ears. One idea filled their heads: "Should I go as Germaine Greer or is Margaret Thatcher a safer bet?"