The Caledonian Ball.
I was quite pleased about the whole idea until shortly after I awoke this morning.
Suddenly the idea of dressing up in black and standing around in hideously uncomfortable heels and talking to strangers whilst stuffing down canapés seemed like an awful lot of work.
I know. Ungrateful. Perhaps I can snog a handsome ginger-haired lad in a kilt behind a potted plant later in the evening. Hopefully Mr D won't notice that I'm fondling some stranger's sporran.
But I will have to make Herculean efforts to get into the mood for this thing.
"And those efforts are?" you ask. Or don't ask, I don't care. Now I'm really crabby.
More eyeliner. And for the evening. When will the torture stop? I know, I know. Life's tough and then you die.
The up-side of moving every couple of years: I can trot out the same couple of black-tie-event ball gowns that I've had since before the flippin' turn of the millennium and no one's the wiser.
Unless of course I publish the news in my damned blog.
I'll have an extra glass of champagne in your honour, dear