I know I’ve got a big head (literally), but it was never more apparent than when I was invited to attend the Queen’s Birthday Parade outside Government House on 6 June.
The dress code was business attire, and hats were optional. Despite the latter casual directive, I thought I would make the effort. Unfortunately, my only formal hat was black with black feathers and black netting that cascaded over the wearer’s face. Perfect for the widow at a mafioso’s funeral, but hardly appropriate for this event.
I asked best friend Lynne if she had something that would work, even though we look like different species when it comes to size. I tried bunching my big hair into the top of two separate chapeaux. No dice.
“Try arranging your hair at the neck,” she offered.
Not only did it not improve the fitting (“It looks… perched,” Lynne offered, diplomatically), but my body temperature escalated rapidly.
The next option was a fascinator.
“How about these?” Lynne asked, shuttling the unsuitable hats into her closet and handing me two wispy hair bands.
Assuming, understandably, that the outdoor function might be a hot one, I put my hair in a bun and donned the first fascinator. The decoration was so small, it resembled a fly landing on my noggin. The overall effect was ridiculous.
“I look,” I said, “like someone who’s ‘being let out for the day’,” as I cringed at my reflection in the mirror.
There was nothing else for it – I was going hatless to the proceedings, settling for an open ponytail atop my head. It looked like an erupting volcano. Well, if Rod Stewart can carry it off…
I don’t know why, but I’ve always had a hard time with events that insist on a dress code. Don’t get me wrong – I’m fine with Island Casual or Formal; it’s the in-between or specific stuff that kills me. Example: White parties, or any other colour scheme not featured in my closet. I like wearing all-black outfits. I’d be the only 50-year-old at a ‘Twilight’ fan club party.
As soon as fashion requirements come with an invitation, I’m officially in a position. Even something as simple as a summer tea party fills me with dread. As we’ve established, hats are a hurdle. I’m also not much one for pastel dresses and delicate sandals. You might call me the anti-Lilly Pulitzer. I was invited to the National Gallery tea party in Ariane Dart’s gardens a number of years ago, and was determined to make the effort to look summery. I pulled a pale, flowery number out of mothballs, and wedge espadrilles that I’d bought on a whim and never worn. I barely recognised myself in the mirror, but I certainly looked deserving of a cup of Earl Grey and finger sandwich.
After parking next to the Seven Mile Burger King, as one does when one is luncheoning, I crossed the road to the location of the function. Making my way to all the other ladies, who looked effortlessly elegant, I thought I’d really managed to pull this off. I was officially going to a tea. In the daytime.
Of course, it’s me, so that confidence was short-lived. The walk to our tables took us through beautiful landscaping and along cobbled paths. I was admiring the scenery, when I felt something give on my right foot, followed by a distinctive smacking sound. I couldn’t see immediately what it was, but upon closer inspection it was clear that the thin sole of my shoe had become detached from the wedge, starting down by my toes and going about a third of the way back. Each lift of the leg allowed the loose sole to hang down uselessly like a slack bottom jaw, and then slap back against its mate when it hit terra firma once again. I was, in essence, now wearing a muppet on my foot.
My graceful advance upon the party was stopped in its tracks. The only way to keep moving forward was to drag the broken shoe along the ground, as would an injured buffalo. It was a creeping pace, and strange looks were thrown in my direction by the gazelles gliding past me.
I finally made it to my table, and explained to everyone why I was tardy. At the same time, I caught the sight of Howie Tipton in the distance. A man, I might add, who has his own dress code, and is about as conformist as an iron girder. Forget the four horsemen – Howie in linen will be the first sign of the Apocalypse.
Knowing that his fanny pack is bottomless, like something purchased at Diagon Alley, and therefore it might be holding some crazy glue, I got his attention and he came running over.
“Hey, Howie. My shoe has broken. Do you have any crazy glue or similar to fix it?”
“Hmmm… don’t think so, but gimme a minute, darlin’,” he said, and headed off.
Sigh… maybe I was out of luck. That was going to be one long, slow journey back to the car.
About 15 minutes later, while cups of tea were being sipped and dainty cakes nibbled, I saw Howie making his way back towards to me carrying a wooden spatula and a gallon bottle half-full of what can only be described as light brown goo. He was walking with a purpose. What the heck was that? Old honey?
“Hey love,” he said, lowering to his knees in one smooth movement. I’d always dreamed of a proposal, but there was a time and a place… “Gimme your leg,” he added, setting the bottle down on the ground.
He lifted my foot by the ankle, dunked the spatula in the goo, and started slathering it between the sole and the wedge of my compromised espadrille, in full view of all. More tea, vicar?
“Hey, Howie, I can give you the shoe to take… ,” I offered, but he was having none of it.
“Nope, all good, this’ll hold it,” he said, happily sporting a tank top and fraying shorts, bandana around his head. I love Howie; he’s a honey badger. If you don’t get that reference, Google it.
Once all the glue had been applied, he put my foot down and told me not to move for a while so it could set. Not a problem, mate.
At the end of the event, I stood up and gingerly tested my Shoe 2.0. It seemed to be good. First step, second step, third… I was off to the races. OK, maybe I could save face and still look like I belonged at Ascot if I made a sophisticated exit.
I chatted with ladies as we walked back to the entrance. Wasn’t it a lovely event? Yes, the weather held beautifully. Oh, you’re the one who won the painting in the auction, congratulations!
Doing well, Wheaton… doing well.
At that moment, in sight of the main road, the ankle strap on the other shoe departed from its base, and I tripped spectacularly, nearly falling onto the grass.
That’s why I don’t wear hats.
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