After all, we’ve only been married for two years. We still (quick where’s the bucket?) fancy the pants off each other. You’re never too old to act like a foolish lovesick teenager, I say. Though a teenager wouldn’t be able to afford what I was methodically hooking and eye-ing.
I worked my hand up the back of the seam, steadily moving the sheer fabric across and placing the hook into the eye. I smiled naughtily at the analogy. Then I reached down and opened the packet of silk, and ran my hands carefully through past the lace to the toe. Beautiful stockings always make me feel sexy.
“Hurry up Vix” he manfully called from downstairs.
I sprayed a little Versace in all the little-explored places, finished dressing, slipped on the heels and ran down the stairs. I threw my confidence over my shoulders, in the shape of a turquoise pashmina, and we headed to the wedding dance.
I’ve never been to a wedding dance before. I’m not sure why. Don’t we have them in NZ? I wasn’t really sure what to expect. Would it be like Four Weddings and a Funeral?
And most importantly, would Hugh Grant be there?
I’d carefully dressed us all, Son was looking Italian-Job smart in his suit, Miss 11 had a beautiful new dress and my Englishman? Well let’s face it he could wear a loin cloth and still pass. The bride was resplendent in a purple gown, flushed with excitement and no doubt relief that the formal part of the day had gone so well. Strawberry Munchkin was looking pretty in a cute little hat and veil and a gorgeous dress that fitted like a glove. I tried not to focus on my second hand dress, after all I had made an effort. It was just underneath. We made our way outside to mingle with intent and then….
…..I felt something ping. And then crumple down my leg.
I didn’t dare look. I maintain that if you don’t acknowledge the wardrobe malfunction neither will anyone else. Let me just say at this point manufacturers of ‘hold up stockings’ THEY DON’T BLOODY HOLD UP DO THEY!
I raced to the women’s loo and averted the crisis with a little geek-girl engineering involving lace on the basque and a cunning little suspender. Crisis averted! Back to chitchatting about cakes and dresses and children and the hen night, which a surprising number of people seemed to remember me from (Note to self, what did I do on the hen night? Rack primitive brain memory banks for remnants of wine-soaked night.)
An older woman dressed conservatively came up to join our little clique.
“Excuse me I just wondered if this belonged to anyone!”
I turned to look and as I took in the full horror of what she held between her fingers my face fried in the stage lights.
“Um, that’ll be mine!”
I snatched it quickly but too late, everyone was looking – my drinks’ companions, my husband, Strawberry Munchkin – all of them together were staring at what lay beneath my dress as they visually devoured the image of my missing-in-action little black and pink suspender.
Oh the shame. I always seem to make an impact don’t I?