Matchmaker

I am sorry not to have written to you yesterday, but I must tell you that I thoroughly appreciated a day off.

I sat on the taxi rank and did nothing. I had intended to read my book, but very quickly realised that it was still on the conservatory table, and so instead of reading I did pretty much nothing. I thought I might contemplate my story that I  am intermittently writing, or compose some emails to persons I needed to thank for their contribution to our adventures, but in the event I yawned and gazed out of the window and was occasionally interrupted by Numbers One and Two Daughters, who were having worries about the next approaching weekend of adventures, when we are all to congregate in London for our knees-up with the King.

It appears that Ritalin Boy’s Other Grandma can’t now make it, and Number Two Daughter is trying to rearrange last-minute coach plans and Number One Son-In-Law is off on an oil rig until the very last minute and Number One Daughter is wishing that the King would ring up and volunteer to come and do the whole event in their back garden, which would be a jolly lot less organisation. It is all right for the King. He lives above the shop and doesn’t have to worry about whether or not he can afford to include Full English Breakfast in his hotel booking, or make sure that he remembers to bring the matching shoes.

The matching shoes have become an issue, actually, when I put them on with my ball gown last week it turned out that they rest on the place where I have still only got half a toenail and a broken bit, and they were agony even before I started dancing. I took them off hastily, and wore the white ones, which didn’t match the dark blue dress but I thought it was probably better to be weird rather than miserable, and in the event I am entirely sure that nobody was looking anyway. In any case it was only Gordonstoun, where frankly you could turn up in your hiking boots and nobody would notice.

I am now contemplative about my outfit yet again, and deeply impressed all over again with the Cambridge attitude to partying, where it doesn’t matter in the least what you wear, because you are just going to cover it all up with a massive bat costume anyway. I think the invention of this outfit was a most insightful approach to smart occasions, there is even plenty of room in the sleeves for a handkerchief and any certificates with you have just been presented, and even any spare bits of dinner that you are too full to eat but loath to waste. It saves an awful lot of worrying, and since I can’t imagine finding any shoes that might even remotely be considered to match it, unless perhaps they are the long pointy type which had to be fastened to the knee with a bit of string, you can wear anything comfortable, preferably something in which you can cycle back to your own college afterwards.

I don’t know what I am going to wear now. I was going to wear a pretty flowery dress and my cream jacket, but Number One Daughter said they didn’t match. Then I was going to wear a different pretty dress and my black jacket, but they need the agonising shoes, and then I thought I might wear the dress I always wear for everything smart, which looks like a set of elegant chintz curtains, but I wore it for Gordonstoun last week and when I looked at the photographs I wasn’t sure if it was the dress or me that looked peculiarly lumpy.

I am now in a state of advanced sartorial anxiety, and wishing I could just wear my bat costume. I also wish that Ritalin Boy’s Other Grandma was still coming with us, not least because she is an entertaining person with whom to become intoxicated, which was an activity I had thought might make the visit most agreeable.

I am going to have to become intoxicated by myself now, and probably whilst wearing a dress with shoes that don’t match.

Perhaps I will be able to persuade my mother to join me.