sashinka | observation orientated, with a twist of lime | a blog

O What a Night/Day
So I dropped into two great parties I would have liked to stay a while longer at, just wearing my fauxarishis and new t-shirt, and then rushed home to do a whole magazine-stylee makeover for the "evening do". I know you want to know what I wore: a black, silk, slightly twenties, beaded bias-cut knee length dress, sheer black tights (my calves are not up to summer display, not when it's dress-up, anyhow), purple velvet shoes (that matched the beading at the bottom of the dress), and a creamy/brown chinese wrap and matching handbag that matched the beading at the top of the dress. Marilyn style eye-makeup. R didn't recognise me, but then I didn't recognise him because he was looking remarkably like Samuel L Jackson.

People-watching is the best. And it has to be when you go to a party where there are two hundred guests and you only know the hosts. Of course, we fell into conversation with a few people (an orthopeadic surgeon who wanted to give up work because surgery's not cut-out for motherhood; three women who's common link was that they all knew a woman who wasn't there), and for a while, I figured that R knew everyone there, but then he told me "it's a black thing" for guys to nod and acknowledge each other. I can't help thinking there are parts of London where everyone's nodding like a dog all day. Jewish people do it by conversation: you out the other person by making more and more obscure references, watching the recognition ratio till you can collect your money at the bookies. I prefer to think that people thought they recognised us in an aren't-you-famous? way.

[Aside: this is not so interesting, as I am often mistaken for Tracey Ann Oberman, a woman I was at University with, who is now a sucessful actress. We lead parallel lives, as I read on IMDB that she has also taken up pilates as a result of back problems. And she goes to the same gym as me. When I was at college, my own mother couldn't tell that it was her on the front of the local rag, campaigning about something I had no interest in, I forget what. The strangest thing is, that I know she was a year or so ahead of me at University, and now she seems to have lopped a few years off her age at IMDB. OK, aside over.]

Great DJ, who played the best mix of soul-style music, and had everyone strutting their stuff on the dance floor. There was one really annoying woman: she looked like the backing singer from the Human League, lopsided haircut and all, and she was wearing a dress like a very long boob tube, and danced as though she was playing a game where she had to keep one hand behind her back, and the other high up over her head to show that she had had an expensive depilation treatment recently. Of course she had to keep yanking up her dress, even though she was sticking her boobs out, and making a strange, pained (drunk?) face, and shuffling around like it was the Wigan Casino all over again. There were lots of eighties clothes: off the shoulder stripey t-shirts, three quarter-length satin trousers, you name it, any fashion that's not kind to the curvaceous woman, it's back with a vengeance.

We left about eleven, after a full two-hour work-out, and my muscles are aching, which is good, as I was planning to go back to the gym sometime soon. It's been eight weeks since I sprained my ankle, and it's still not good, but that's another post. Must go to work. Later.