Out of the pink


Oh dear. I think we’re back to normal now, but on Sunday I was living in a plague pit. Or a bear cave. Or whatever you call a place where 66% of the populace have terrible terrible hangovers. I was up early because of a hideous tidal wave of work, nonetheless refreshed by the knowledge that I didn’t feel dreffle, and enlivened by the percussion accompaniment of groaning, slams and flushings.

I was out myself on Friday, a day that sadly marked the demise of the pink velour tracksuit. See, I’d been invited to a fancy dress party. Theme: the Ambassador’s Reception. You had to go as the ambassador of anywhere, so I thought, sweet, dig out the pink trackie that stood so well for Kerry Katona at the last fancy dress party, and I can be the ambassador of Peckham. Or Edmonton. Dartford. Newham. Hadn’t really decided. So I lacquered on the orange foundation (if lacquering is the right word for something that waxy, like the stuff that killed that girl in Goldfinger, only a mite less bling)  and then went for the trackie. Primark, natch, and thus undoubtedly made of the finest alpaca/silk mix. Anyway, I tried to put on this garment of spun petroleum by-products, which – I’d forgotten – made me sweat like a hog. Its previous outing had been on an unseasonally warm evening, so I’d put it in the washing machine. Oh dear. Shrinkage. Never mind crossing London in that outfit – which had been causing me some anxiety – I couldn’t even get down the stairs.

By this stage I was so late I just pulled on a T-shirt and jeans. Managed to sand-blast off the orange foundation, leaving the eye make-up behind and a heavily marked face flannel in the laundry basket (never underestimate the laziness) and behold, the Ambassador of the Underprepared.


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