Dressing up

We went to a fundraising dinner dance last night - our local rugby club are raising funds to send their under 16s team on a tour to the southern hemisphere. We rarely go to any of these dressing up type of events and, as is ever the way, I had nothing suitable in my wardrobe to wear. So last Saturday morning I went and bought myself a little black number. I have to say it was quite a racy little black number and very daring compared to my normal attire. Well, let's face it, anything is a little more racy than jeans and a jumper. It was a very close-fitting, halter-neck all-in-one trouser affair with no back (yes I know halter necks don't have a back, that's the whole point of them, but this really had no back as what there was at the back was cut very low), plunged at the front and barely covered my modesty. The question of what supportive under-garment I was going to wear under it didn't arise, there was no way said garment could be worn under it. No bopping around the dance floor for me then! But it was one of those outfits that made me feel good as soon as I put it on and it had to be had.

There were, however, two things I forgot to bear in mind.

Firstly, trying something on in the morning, before you have eaten, is very different to trying something on at the end of a day when breakfast and lunch have been consumed. Especially when it's a very snug fit. OH managed to zip me into it but any breathing out on my part was possibly going to result in disaster. I spent a very uncomfortable evening sitting bolt upright and moving as little as possible.

Secondly, I hadn't given a thought to what going to the loo might entail. I discovered that what it does entail is the total removal of said outfit. In a drafty rugby club loo, this was not fun. Neither was trying to zip myself back into it. My arms simply do not bend in that direction.

Talking of dressing-up, when we got home, OH turned the TV on and the Rocky Horror Picture Show was on. That has to be my all time favourite romp of a film although it does always leave me wondering how Tim Curry manages to look sexier in a basque than I ever could.