100TWC - Day 93: Simplicity

The noise of a hundred different conversations struck me like a physical blow as I entered the ballroom. I had no idea Elaine had invited so many guests. There had been no dress code in the invitation, so most of the ladies had taken the opportunity to go to town on their outfits. I say 'go to town' but in the majority of cases they appeared to have chartered a private jet and flown it to Rio, rather than catching the bus to Oldham.

Lights from the two gargantuan chandeliers bounced and coruscated off half a ton of diamanté, sequins, paste and lamé in gold, silver and copper. Hair had been coiffed within an inch of its life, in such a variety of hues and shades as nature had never dreamt of. Short hair, long hair, tall hair, flat hair. Bobs, buns, curls, bangs, and a dozen other styles that I couldn't even begin to tell you the names of.

And flesh! Oh, God, the flesh on display was... well, it was distracting is what it was. And not always in a good way. I'm a firm believer in displaying a well-turned thigh as long as it's... well... firm. Before you get started I'm not being ageist. There's plenty of... older... meat that can be put on display without causing one to lose one's breakfast, but I think we can all agree that we don't need to see anything white and flabby, and blue veins should be restricted to the Stilton, thank you very much. The problem is you can't always avoid seeing it. Fair enough if it's one of those dresses that doesn't reach the shoulders, or something backless. But when it's a long flowing skirt that just happens to be gashed to the... waist, and you don't notice that until it opens up right in front of you revealing half a yard of cellulite. I don't know what they're thinking, some of them. Keep it covered up, for goodness' sake.

Although, having said that, even covering it up isn't all that. Not when the covering is... how shall I put it? A little scant in the yardage department. Somehow the word 'tight' doesn't quite cover it. And not quite covering it is also, by some strange coincidence, the effect of these wannabe corsets. Looking as if they are going to burst at any minute and spill out that which we have already all agreed should remain covered at all times. It's not surprising that their partners look as if they are on tenterhooks. Probably all poised with their capes, or hats, or napkins ready to cover up any offending split as soon as it happens. If it does.

And so, since we have mentioned them, let us turn our attention to these partners. While their lady-folk have quite clearly spent the majority of the weekend, if not the entirety of the preceding week, in their sartorial preparations for this evening, the men folk fall into one of two categories. Can't be arsed, and arseholes. Those that can't be arsed can be further subdivided into through a hedge backwards, through a hedge forwards, directly resembling of a hedge, and hedging their bets (by which last category I mean, of course, that they look as if they've dressed for every possibly eventuality both socially and meteorologically).

The arseholes, in contrast to those who can't be arsed, have made an effort. They have, visibly, tried to smarten themselves up. Unfortunately, none of them have a clue. Mismatched colours and styles abound. Dickie bows with tweed jackets. Cravats with... well, come to think of it, cravats at all. Either they don't have a mirror to their name, or they've never asked their wives' or partners' opinion, or both. Or perhaps they have asked for an opinion, and they're deaf. Because no-one in their senses would come out dressed like that, especially to an occasion such as this. Elaine's annual dinner-dance, the highlight of the Droitwich social calendar.

An expectant hush fell over the assembled throng, in all their sartorial confusion, as Elaine appeared on the balcony. Whether by accident or design, she appeared to have understood implicitly that her invitation would have led all her guests to compete for ascendancy of apparel. And in a single leap of intuition she had sought to outdo them by travelling the opposite path, and succeeded. Oh, my word, how she had succeeded!

She wore a simple, one-piece, flowing satin dress all in black. It shimmered and sparkled as she paraded down the wide staircase. Her hair was simply but beautifully cut, dyed black for the occasion to match her dress. She wore the barest touch of makeup and the lightest whiff of her perfume came to me across the still air of the room, utterly and compellingly different from any other.

She stepped onto the granite tiles and swept toward me with hardly a sound save the gentle swishing of that incredibly elegant dress. A playful smile lit her face and her eyes glittered, reflecting a dozen flashes from a dozen different cameras dotted around the hallway. She reached out to take my outstretched hand and looked up into my eyes. I could hardly breathe.

"You look stunning," I said.