Another flight of fancy
I came across the following while trawling through past posts and decided to give it another outing. I haven’t altered it much. Bear in mind that this little tale is truly a flight of fancy. In my imagination, I might be slight and fine-boned. In reality, I’m built like a carthorse.
For the one and only fancy dress party we went to, we really did drape white sheets around ourselves and claim we were Romans. There was another occasion, before we were married, which is buried in the mists of time . . .
Nature’s Wingèd Beauties
When the invitation dropped through the letter box and I saw the wording on the card I groaned. Nature's Wingèd Beauties! Archaic words have their place, of course, mostly in the annals of antiquated poetry.
I do not like fancy dress parties. I am never inspired and actually feel rather foolish parading in something unfamiliar. The best I can come up with on my own is wrapping myself in a sheet and calling myself a Roman. I know, inspired . . .
I knew I had to make a determined effort. There was no question of declining the invitation. It was the annual company shindig and my attendance was expected. My husband could go on his own, but it would be unfair. He dislikes fancy dress even more than I do. Military uniform was as fancy as it needed to be for him. I knew most of the people who would be there, apart from the all-important and influential guest of honour and his glamorous and illustrious wife.
Accordingly, I made an appointment for my husband and myself with the director of one of the largest costumiers in the UK. It was an interesting and exhausting experience.
Having been persuaded into hiring outfits we would never have contemplated in a million years, we drove home in a daze, with me secretly hoping the event would be cancelled, but knowing that was impossible. I prayed that the evening would at least be warm, otherwise my wings would be fluttering all night from cold.
We hadn’t really appreciated each other’s outfits while we were trying to decide, but now, as I twirled in front of my husband, he reacted with such gratifying appreciation that we were almost late.
By the way, he was dressed as a magpie, and the long tail caused him some difficulties getting in and out of the cab. In the ballroom, he cut a swathe through the company as he turned to greet friends and colleagues.
I began to wish I’d stuck with my original choice of the blue tit costume. It would have been warmer and certainly less revealing. Nevertheless, the skimpy moth outfit was flattering, and I was receiving a lot of attention. My husband’s chest was swelling with pride as he strutted beside me, and I must say we made a striking couple – he, so tall and broad, resplendent in black and white with iridescent sheen, me, so slight and fine-boned, in soft pastel shades.
A fanfare announced the arrival of the special guest and his consort, and the assembly turned as one to the grand entrance. I craned my neck to catch a glimpse, and saw a large man in black and white – a penguin perhaps, I hoped, or maybe a puffin. Next to him, holding his arm, was a small, delicate woman, dressed in floaty chiffon swathes of delicate hues.
As they advanced into the room, I realised with alarm that they were wearing the same costumes as my husband and me. There was nowhere to hide. Swiftly, I drew my wings over my shoulders and wrapped them around my body, hoping I might pass as a cocoon. Simultaneously, my husband pulled his tail over his arm. He told me later that he wanted to give the impression of a crow gathering sticks for its nest.
We were not convincing, but the VIPs laughed and congratulated us on our impeccable taste and our quick thinking. What could we do but smile and nod our heads in agreement?
