Christmas parties. Bah humbug. I’m considering cancelling my membership to the mulled wine brigade this December if only to avoid the ‘what will I wear’ conundrum. So far I’ve received six invitations to various incarnations of yuletide cheer from house parties and boozy bashes to Egg Nog tasting and ‘speed carolling’. All I need now are half a dozen outfits that say ‘festive’ yet ‘stain-resistant’; not to mention ‘politically correct’ and ‘fire-retardant’. Let me explain.
Last party season, I chose not to follow the Christmas clobber rule of thumb: after the third drink, no one really cares about your frock. In fact, they are far more interested that you snogged Craig from Accounts who actually thinks Celine is a Canadian balladeer. The less said about that the better.
Instead, I went to Sisyphean lengths to outshine the brightest string of fairy lights, planning more outfit changes than Cher at Caesar’s Palace: big hair, big bling, big heels, little else. Merry Christmas y’all! Unlike the best Vegas performers however, I didn’t have an entourage to ensure my safety should I take a speed wobble, catch fire, or incur the wrath of PETA.
There was the incident involving a La Roux-inspired coif, half a can of Ellnet and a wobbly candle in an unnamed bar. An incandescent thump to the head later and hey presto...the entertainment arrived! I would have quite happily wrapped that fire blanket into a turban and kept the party going, had the smell of singed barnet not forced me to retire early.
Likewise, my five-inch Carvela heels were a stellar idea upon entering Slattery’s in Rathmines. Three hours of snow and ice later, I was pushing a cab back onto the road in stilettos that were ne’er intended to be crampons.
The torn tights and bruised knees didn’t spell quite the same damage as the time I wore my grandmother’s mink stole. ”Is that real fur?” enquired a guest at the bijou drinks do. “Was,” I retorted apologetically. Let’s just say the spirit of Christmas, much like my furry accessory, was not alive that night. Had I stayed at home in my fleece pyjamas watching George Michael warble to ‘Last Christmas’, I would have fared better. At least the house has an alarm.
If the social calendar does get the better of me, I’m opting for a low key LBD and a low lit corner. Let’s just hope I don’t bump into that Craig fella again...
