I went to a fantastic party last night at 33 Portland Place [note to self: great venue for a TBW ball] and it was one of the best parties I’ve ever been to. The decaying grandeur of an Robert Adam mansion, endless rooms where strange things were going on, alcohol flowing like the early spring glacier melt, a hot DJ and interesting look people wearing wild costumes. All the ingredients of a great night out.
The theme was ‘cabaret’ and the women were wearing not very much apart from sequins and feathers or attempted a Liza Minelli look. The men’s attire ranged from the German aristocratic look to sleazy jazz club managers and one guy did a ‘Harry’ and came as an SS officer. What bad taste!
I put together a slinky cabaret outfit that required my recently-purchased-stunningly-beautiful-Kenneth Cole sexy black strappy shoes with 4” heels. I knew I couldn’t walk a block in them but the outfit wouldn’t work without them. So I did the smart girl solution and wore some ballet pumps and changed at the door on the way in. Why is it that high heels make you feel so sexy?
There were fire-eaters in one room and a burlesque artiste doing her thing in another. There was an ice sculpture of a naked female body when you had pour your vodka through a channel in the middle and put your glass between her legs to get your frozen martini, but clearly this had distorted her body shape and she appeared to have acquired the beginnings of a male member.
By midnight people were drifting onto the dance floor and by that time my shoes were killing me. I thought to myself is pain the price of vanity? I know our grandmothers said we have to suffer to be beautiful but did I really have to wear 4” heels? Wouldn’t 2” have been plenty? Who knows if anyone would have noticed. But I wouldn’t have felt the same. I looked around the anti-chamber of the dance area and saw several women taking off their shoes and rubbing their feet. I asked myself how many women have left parties at the highpoint, not because they were tired but because their feet hurt. I know I have. But I wasn’t going to last night. I dashed down to the cloakroom and got my ballet pumps and stayed til the end. Good decision!
By Julia
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