The Glamour Wars in London with a bonus underground train

I was invited to a black tie dinner in London which took place on Thursday.  The proximity of such date caused me to realise that my black tie shoes (see the little bows) were not in the Ottoman. 

 I dug around in Mr Him's wardrobe and found them along with 2 pairs of boots I'd forgotten I had.  Yes I had invaded his space.  No man's wardrobe is his own.  Any man, living with a woman,  who thinks otherwise is very much mistaken and better order themselves an ottoman.  Mr Him has!  

The shoes were bought 7 years ago and have the occasional outing for black tie events.  When I purchased them pointy toes were in,  during their life pointy toes have been out but I wore them nevertheless. Now I'm delighted to find pointy toes are back and I was right at the forefront of fashion.  Dear reader, you are to be impressed by the canniness of my shopping once again.  Also do note that I have kept them carefully in the original box. 

On the night I adorned myself in finery, a Ronnie N dress,  then sprayed a mist of perfume and was dropped at the station by Mr Him.  I carried further finery in my rucksack,  shoes,  jewellery, business cards (fresh clean ones not the curled at the corner ones) and Lulu G evening bag. 

At Victoria I passed a queue for free something.  What shopaholic wouldn't join such queue immediately!   I did and was thrust an open can of cola life.  This I knew would be a disaster.  It was bound to splatter over my Dennis B coat on the escalator.  I just knew it.  I drank quickly to avoid such disaster and found that by the end I had an entirely different sort of disaster.  I can tell you that by the time I had been jiggled down the escalator to the tube platform I was glad of my Oh so slim lining.  (we affectionately call the underground trains the tube in the UK.)

The hotel was in Lancaster Gate.

My first stop was the ladies or restroom to unpack my further finery and transform from flats and rucksack lady to Glamourpuss.  Judging by the thwacks, clouts and almost total collapse of another cubicle door I wasn't alone, someone else was having a violent dispute with glamour and not winning.  As an opponent Glamour should not be underestimated, I warn you now.   Another lady had a complete suitcase opened out on the floor.  She had brought full heavy duty armour for her match, she was going to wear 'long.'  Having slipped on my heels and organised my clutch bag I left declaring myself the winner in that day's  'Gladiator time trials of Glamourisation.'

Gliding into the hall I accepted, of course, the proffered champagne and found the balloons of green that I was to stand under to attract my hosts.  Immediately I felt at home when a lady in an evening gown, admired my bag.  Its Lulu G I proudly declared,  'I know,' said the gowned goddess of glamour as she showed me hers.  We were immediate friends bonding over red statement Lulu lips. Mine had collagen injection by the bucketload.

  

Then under inflated numbers, we ate duck, sea bass and sorbet

and played American raffle.  This is where you put your ticket against the prize you wish to win unlike English raffle in which the same tatty box of toileteries circulate from raffle to raffle.