Dear Mary…
Q. Staying with English friends in the south of France (about whom I have written to you before) my hosts took me to a rather raucous fancy dress party. Being sartorially challenged, I opted for a very short belly-dancing skirt and a minimalist top. My fortysomething hostess went as a Seventies go-go dancer so I did not feel underdressed. The party was made up of an eclectic mix of doctors, designers, artists, rock stars and other exotica, and after supper the music began in earnest. You cannot possibly imagine my frisson of excitement when I was smoothly and subtly led on to the dance floor by a very glamorous lesbian. You can, however, imagine my horror as I went through my saucy dance routine to look up to find my host — his own outfit a Paddington bear straw hat complete with Eton Rambler ribbon and the obligatory tomato-red trousers (oh yes, and those monogrammed espadrilles) — positively ‘leaking’ schoolboy excitement on the side of the dance floor while taking photographs of my dancing partner and me.
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