I love it when a plan comes together, and the stars aligned poetically on Friday. I was a bit nervous about the ball because I knew that I was going to have to come face-to-face for the last time with the Major, with whom I wrote the book. We don’t speak anymore because I don’t do as I am told. The main reason for this fallout, for which I do accept some responsibility, is to do with this thread, which Hagar started and then I, in my impatient, foolish way continued and it all went horribly wrong. The Major ordered me to stop. I said ‘no’ and when I pointed out to him that he had no jurisdiction over me, he promptly stopped speaking to me. Then his wife (who I had picked up rocking from the under the table, when she thought he had been killed) said he couldn’t be in the same room as me, and would I stand down from an event we were both attending, which I eventually agreed to, but ended up sacrificing her friendship too. To add icing to a fairly fraught situation, the Major went for a final punch, and ordered the publisher to take my name off the book. The situation got very messy, but ultimately, to cut a long story short and without going into to much detail, my name stayed on, but I am banned from promoting the book other than on my blog, or website, and I have to be very clear, I am the writer, not the author. Not that I have ever said that I am the author, I have always referred to myself as the writer. The Major is moving on to pastures new next week, so this was the last time that our paths were to cross, and to be honest I was a bit nervous.
I was kid-free because my folks had very generously agreed to have them for 3 nights! Bliss, so my main mission on the Friday a.m. was to source some frock. I wanted to go in a flapper dress because I love the 20s. My hunt ended at the door of Giggles in Fleet, where the lovely wardrobe mistress put together a truly fabulous ensemble. All I needed was some shoes. By some miracle, I found the right pair for £12.99 in an Asian shop, called Millies in Fleet Shopping Centre. Yes, yes, I know more Barrat Shoe than Jimmy Choo but I have been to many summer balls, and I can tell you from experience that everything potentially will be trashed at the end of the night, so there is no point paying too much moola for your outfit, or acoutrements.
I was all set. We had four guests joining us, and they were all converging from various parts of the south. Mr Apple and The Lish are the most unreliable friends that we have, and already, we had heard the news that Mr Apple had thought the ball was the next weekend because he is a big dumkopf! The Bionic Pony and Bart the Bouncer were coming in separate cars, because Bart had to attend a funeral, The Bionic Pony had to despatch kids to grandparents, and they were both coming at the mercy of Tom Tom as they had never been here before. We were supposed to be out the door by 6.45pm to go to the boss’ house for pre-ball drinks but it soon became very clear that this was not going happen so we chilled out, opened the Champagne and let the night unfold.
The Homegirls looked fabulous. The boys looked fabulous (sorry, no pics ;().
The mess committee had done a fabulous job at turning the mess into a 1920s Speakeasy joint. The marquee at the front was serving cocktails, which quite frankly were undrinkable and better suited to cleaning cutlery, and so we headed to the bar and I ordered my first rumsy wumsy. My poison of choice for the night being rum, lime and soda and so the whirlwind of drinking and chatting began. The first run in with the Major started early on. Hagar, the Judas, (only joking dear, it is better to be grown up about these things) cooly shook his hand when we were standing amongst some mutual friends but he very conveniently ignored me and that set the pace for the whole evening, which absolutely worked for me. Once this encounter was over, I felt like I could relax and the swirling, whirlingness of time evaporation that is the summer ball fell into full swing. There was some eating, washed down with cheap white wine, mixed with rum, followed by some neat vodka poured down an ice statue of the Empire State building, followed by now, my drink of choix, Red Bull and Rum. We did a bit of shooting and Dead Eye Bart, the fasted gun in the West, guided me through the nuances of the cork hand gun, and I was able to earn myself a small, velour stuffed bear, which was last seen furrowing down into The Lish’s cleavage, never to see the light of day again.
By 11pm, we gravitated to the dance floor and there we stayed until 3.30am. The boys stood around talking manly talk, and occasionally came to the floor to join us and throw some of their own shapes, whilst me and the Homegirls shook, shimmy, spun, gyrated, threw our hands in the air, atmosphere controlled and dominated the stage, until our final carriages were called and it was time to leave. All sweaty, filthy, with very achy feet.
On arrival chez nous The Lish, who despite her natural inclination to debauchary, has taken up yoga, and so she felt that the best way to end the evening was to stretch our limbs. In her finest wisdom she ran the post ball yoga session and Mr Apple felt that this should be recorded for prosperity. And I share this session with you now.
My feet still hurt and I am bit shakey from all the Red Bull but I am still smiling because we had a blast.