I didn't buy a ticket for the Allan Webb Hall Ball this year because the postponed trip to Jo'burg would have taken up the past weekend. But, with the sad news of Jo'burg, I organised to go, with much rushing around for ticket, dress, earrings, and so on. And by so on, I mean a new bra.
The dress, which was kindly lent to me by design Jess, and which is currently awaiting dry cleaning to remove all evidence of wine-filled fun, is strapless, and despite Jess' cleavage being of similar volume to mine, I needed some help in, shall we say, fulfilling the dress's expectations of my breastesses.
I now own my first Wonderbra.
"You'll never go back", res Jenny assures me. And it seems the hype is based in truth, I was supported and lifted and 'helped' all evening - the dress let me down a little (had to keep lifting it up to cover the supportive black beauty) but I was not failed by the unshifting reliability of the bra. In truth, I feel compelled to attatch the straps and wear it again tomorrow.
So, bra story done, the ball itself was fantastic. Res Ricarda, crazy German chick that she is, claimed me as her drinking buddy, and many glasses of rose/crackling mix were gleefully thrown back. After breaking it down, granny style, to 'Let's get Ricarda in here', it was off to the rat, to too many cigarettes and scaring at least two of my tutlings who I'm sure will be avoiding eye contact with me tomorrow at their 10.30 Prof Comm tut.
This, in conjunction with the wall painting party on Friday, has left me with an impossible amount of work at the moment, but it was worth it. I feel that every event like this chips away at the Truro granny perception, maybe by the end of the year they'll just view us as middle-aged.
Speaking of grans, I am currently knitting a scarf; am one-third into the venture actually. She eeees black, soft, long, and fluffy. Or at least she will be, should I be able to tear myself away from Isidingo and Margaret Atwood's Oryx and Crake.
This is a 
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