By now you are probably as bored as I am on the dress saga—but I am happy to report that we had a fabulous night and an amazing number of our female friends are still able to slink around looking seductive and stunning in their original 90s wedding outfits. My chintz dress just about held its own—which given the amount of stiff petticoats incorporated in the design it can do in all but the strongest winds. One of the gentlemen (and I use that term loosely) at the party remarked that I was looking voluptuous in it, possibly a fair comment in terms of all the billowing going on in the way of fabric and flesh. I have always felt voluptuous was polite speak for fat, but I have decided to charitably interpret the remark as voluptuous in a Renoir-type of way rather than Rubens or horror of horrors, a Lucien Freud rendering of the female form.
The magnolia outside our bedroom window is out and I came across a large sulfur-crested cockatoo enlarging a hole for a nest this morning. It was in fact throwing out wood chippings with such vigor that the surrounding pavement looked as if we were into “how much wood can a woodchuck chuck?” territory. There is nothing like the feel of spring to bring a smirk to the face and my mood has also been improved by listening to the ongoing saga of the travails of an Australian politician who in a previous existence as a union boss reportedly had his official union credit card used by someone else (obviously) to order room service in various hotels in which he was staying, from a variety of busty blondes and ravishing red heads. Use of one’s credit card by another person whose name cannot be revealed strikes me as either out of sight loyalty of a touching degree to friend or alternatively a “dog ate my homework”-type excuse taken to the limit, but I am storing it up as an explanation for when Husband demands to know the origin of various frivolous charges on the credit card.