Working in a company of primarily young women means that an office outing is a curious affair. Dresses appear behind the doors of those who have them, and when we key off at five thirty, the otherwise fairly sober corridors of Pedantic turn into a Sorority House as women queue for the limited facilities, frocks draped over their arms like swooning heroines. There's a great deal of handle rattling as some of us take rather longer than others to arrange themselves into shape (okay me) and even the upstairs loo with the door that doesn't lock is pressed into service with a post it note saying:
stuck on the door. Desks are cleared of great works of literature and make up mirrors appear. Heels are whisked out of bags and everyone shoots up 3 inches so that when the phone dares to ring at 6.05 and we are flocked by the front door, frocked up and lipsticked, ready to hit Happy Hour at the Zetter, we all look at it, affronted. Don't you know we have a wedding to get to - albeit with three manuscripts wedged into Mathilda's bag and editorial notes for Why Steve was Late inside Sarah's.
The wedding was lovely. The bride, as expected on such occasions, looked even more amazing and beautiful than she usually does with her killer peroxide blonde hair and matching dress - for all the world like she had been made out of icing sugar. There was singing - an Icelandic folk song whose introduction and explanation seemed to take even longer than the many verses and choruses, and then someone tuned up a guitar and played all those songs that no-one under thirty should know but nevertheless, do, and can sing along with word perfect. Some supposedly ironic Pulp Fiction, hitchhicking, swimming, drowning, type dancing took place. At least I assume others meant it ironically. I wish I could say the same for myself. Sadly, when I dance my kids fall about laughing and make me promise that this isn't really how I deport myself in public. And then I really try to ham it up with faux rap/Pussy Cat Doll movements and, astonishingly, they can't tell the difference from my ordinary dance steps. It's deeply worrying and they have traumatised me so that I can hardly bring myself to jiggle from one foot to the other in case I'm committing some crime against common decency. But then, this was a wedding. Mums are supposed to dance like Mums at a Wedding - nobody really needs to know it's your default setting.
However, the problem with any occasion that requires movement if you're a woman, is what do you do with your handbag. Men, though they're saddled with suits, have those incredibly useful inside pockets for tucking loose change and credit cards into, while women have stupid little bags that are neither use nor ornament, as my ever practical mother used to say. She was never seen without a bag big enough for a fortnight in Blackpool.
I have another solution because, if you think about it, we already have two inside pockets whatever outfit we happen to be wearing into which you may not want to stuff your housekeys, depending on how much you have packed in there already, but are more than adequate for - say - a folded twenty pound note with perhaps a pair of glasses, slipped under the hydraulics. I'm not the only woman to use a necessary undergarment as a storage facility. At Seb Hunter's book launch there was a guest who used her bra like Mary Poppins' carpet bag - when her phone rang she patted each breast until she found the one where it was wedged (not set to vibrate, obviously) and pulled out all sorts of things while I was speaking to her including a small purse and a fountain pen. I was half expecting a rabbit, a pair of doves, and one of those long chains of silk squares that magicians specialise in.
So there you have me with my emergency twenty quid safely secreted away. Shuffling gently to I can't stand you now... (Odd choice for a wedding, but I merely hummed along, not chose the play list) and I noticed my glass was empty. I approached the bar where an uncle (one assumes) told me with his hand patting me very familiarly (as he introduced me to his wife) that I would attract the wrong sort of man with that sort of dancing (comatose presumably). I ordered another glass of white and got out my cash praying that it would cost a nice round fiver so I wouldn't have to contend with any change. It didn't. Unfortunately.
The evening progressed in high spirits. More dancing ensued. Girls walzed with girls due to the dearth of men. There were numerous group pictures. A video circulated of Sachna, aka our Publishing Manager, competing for the bouquet like it was a contact sport. Needless to say she succeeded. If there's a God the clip is going to be posted on You Tube.
And then finally Alan, our Production Director sang the blues, complete with mournful mouth organ. Let it not be said that Pedantic People are not multi-talented.
We sat down to finish off the canapes. And that's when I noticed it.
I whispered to Lyns, my across the office colleague. 'I'm going to show you something that may not make any sense now, but later - when you read the blog - all will be clear.'
'What are you talking about?' She asked, swirling her ice in highball glass with the teeny straw - drinking gin and tonic since she claimed to have had enough wine (?)
I took her hand.
'I love you too,' she muttered, looking just a little taken aback - I think she had also had a run-in with uncle earlier in the evening, 'but not like that...'
'Shhh, feel that,' I said and placed her hand on my knee.
'What is it?' she asked, reluctantly and then as her finger traced the outline of my leg the penny, or rather the fifty pence piece, dropped as she felt the heptagon that, mystifying seemed to have migrated from its supposedly secure resting place down through several layers of clothing to end up in the knee of my tights.
Don't ask me how.
As I said at the beginning - This post does not cast me and my fiscal management system in a very good light.
