Do you know what I’m really bad at? (Aside from clingwrap).
I’m really bad at Posh.
Like really bad.
We went to the Durban July on Saturday.
Not just the Durban July though.
Corporate-posh-over-indulgent-eatwhatyouwant-drinkasyouplease-no-expense-spared hospitality suite at the Durban July.
Firstly, no slops allowed.
Although that didn’t stop me taking them in my handbag. Which incidentally looked MASSIVE compared to the other corporate-wives teeny tiny clutches.
Which, incidentally is a word I can say correctly in my mind but when it comes out my mouth it changes:
‘Hi I’m Kelly, lovely to meet you, LOVE your sparkly crotch. Clutch, clutch, not crotch. Not that I don’t love your crotch, well if I had seen it I would I’m sure’
Help me *downs posh champaign*.
Diamanté heels, fascinator, black mini-dress, shimmery coat, smokey eyes, pink lipstick.
Sounds hot yes?
My feet were sulking and refused to do their one job of walking properly.
Smokey eyes mmmmmm not so much.
And one eyebrow was too dark due to rushing my makeup so I just looked perma-cross.
The dress was okaaaaaayyyyy but everything together, on me: One angry, black-eyed transvestite whose swagger indicated either a definite difference in leg length or holding in a fart.
We arrive after contents of huge bag falls out on shuttle-bus, tampons included.
I concentrate on not tripping into the venue like last year, thinking there’s no chance I’m attempting descending those stairs in these effing shoes.
Out of breath, it was TWO Flights. I’m panting. Runner Guy is judging no doubt.
Hostess Heroes holding trays of champaign: Rose, white or red. I resist the urge to numb my foot pain by taking one of each, and opt for the Rose.
Lift my drinking pinky, it just seems right.
We’re shown to our table where I go in for the hug but Supplier Guy is a shaker.
Go to shake Supplier-Wife’s hand but she’s a hugger so my right hand pretty much cups her boob as I awkwardly caress her back in an attempt to appear in control.
Finally I’m sitting.
I prick my left boob as I attach my name tag and let out a little scream. (Mayyyy have been an F word?).
‘You should try the Oysters’.
I decline the sancti-molluscs and fill my plate with samosas and quiche. I’m so refined.
On way back from buffet I see friend. Yay! We hug.
I can’t move.
My stupid earring is caught in her beautiful lace dress.
I’m literally stuck with my nose in her neck, like burrowing. My fascinator blocking her view as she fumbles to set me free.
Warren pretends not to see. Judging again. I’m starting to sweat as I sense the entire room laughing at this free entertainment.
She smells so good.
We finally come apart.
I ‘transvestite-swagger’ back to our table, still holding my pile of food which I’d hoped nobody would see. That was futile given the earring episode. I pretend it’s to share with husband as I give him the ‘touch my food and I will cut you’ look. I down my wine. And by wine I mean double brandy and coke.
I’m really not good at posh.
I couldn’t tell you which horse won. I care not.
All I know is as we sat outside in the gale-force wind, awaiting the main race, all I could think about was the chances of my hair extensions (basically a white woman’s weave) flying off.
With more Red Fat Bastard (which was the wine by the way, not some guy I had convinced to rub my now crippled feet), so things became less awkward.
I pretended to care about words like ‘accrual’, beamed at phone-pictures of children and may have even heard myself say ‘oh dahhhhrling’. I was on fire. Conversation-ninja?
Time to go, which was a relief since I hadn’t yet pee’d as that involved walking. Even now, I get goosebumps just thinking about that moment of sweet bliss as I simultaneously wee’d and put my precious slops on.
‘Thank you for inviting us, we’ll see you again next year!’
Hahahahahaha. I’m really not good at posh.