My gown will be the talk of the ball

I have vowed to stop eating for the next five days, or the guests might mistake me for one of the ugly sisters. Or maybe a pumpkin, as I intend to squeeze into an orange Topshop lamé dress, which I have tweaked with gold thread and pearls. Classy.

Does that sound like it might be a bit much?

I mean, I think my outfit is a bit of a masterpiece that will add fashion flamboyance to the night.

But Mother thinks my little number could give some farmer or retired colonel a cardiac arrest.

The Teen thinks I look like a sausage in a skin. Oh how droll is the wit of the young.

It’s her fault, and her friend’s fault that we are going to this Tally Ho shindig anyway.

If it wasn’t for them I could be happy shuffling about at home munching on chocolate in my pink fluffy dressing gown by 8pm.

Their heads have clearly been turned by the promise of snaffling a few sneaky drinks in the champagne and beer tents.

Let’s face it, it has to be the promise of contraband booze, rather than the entertainment – which includes the loudest horn competition – that has propelled the girl who lives in jeans and jodhpurs to go shopping (which is her least favourite pastime) and return with a pair of three-inch heels and a blue lace dress.

I can count on two digits the number of times she has worn a frock.

I have told her that she must practice walking in her new shoes, because her John Wayne swagger looks a bit odd in heels and a lace ensemble.

Mind you, if there are as many drinks tents as promised, the John Wayne walk will be the norm, and at least if my attire is wholly inappropriate, I will be able to drown my sorrows in the Pimm’s tent.

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