The Trouble With Dresses
Last Friday, as I’m sure you all know, was the day of the Royal Wedding.
What you may not know, but which was actually more important in our house, was that it was also the day my car was due to have its M.O.T. (Which is an annual inspection, for the benefit of those of you outside the UK, who don’t understand my abbreviations. I actually don’t know what M.O.T. stands for either, to be perfectly honest, but I expect approximately 91 of you will tell me as soon as I post this, so I’m not even going to bother Googling it.)
Well, Terry and I watched the wedding, and afterwards found ourselves with just a small window of opportunity in which we had to drop off the car and walk the dog before it was time to… well, before it was time to watch the William and Kate movie on TV. No, I can’t believe I just admitted to that either. Look, I don’t know what happened to me on Friday, OK? It was strange: I didn’t think I was even interested in the wedding beyond a general “I wonder what her dress will look like” curiosity, which I felt sure would be satisfied by looking at the photos online. Next thing I know, though, I’m sitting in front of the screen shouting to Terry, “QUICK! QUICK! YOU’RE GOING TO MISS WILLIAM AND HARRY ARRIVING!” And then I’m all, “Actually, I think I will also watch this made-for-TV movie about the happy couple. Rule Britannia!” What happened to me? We may never know.
Anyway, in order to solve this little dilemma of ours, we came up with a cunning plan, in which we would both go to drop off the car, and then we would walk back from the garage with the dog. So off we went.
Well, we got to the garage, and Terry went in to give them the car keys, while I waited outside with Rubin.
Now, I was wearing a 50s style dress that day. It wasn’t the one in the photo, which is here purely for the purpose of illustration, but it had a similarly big skirt, which was swishing around in the gentle breeze. The problem with that, however, was that as soon as I got out of the car, that “gentle breeze” turned into a full-on GALE. No sooner had I taken up my position outside the reception area of the garage, than a huge gust of wind came along and…
… blew my skirt right up over my head. And I DO mean RIGHT UP OVER MY HEAD. For a few horrible seconds I was naked-but-for-my-underwear from the waist down, and blinded by acres of fabric. Awesome!
“This totally isn’t what happened to Marilyn Monroe that time,” I thought, annoyed, as I fought my way out from inside my skirt. “Why, she just put her hands down, gave a big smile, and looked positively charming. And here I am, half-naked in a car park!”
It took me a freakishly long time to free myself from my fabric prison. Once I was released, I smoothed down my hair and glanced feverishly around the area to see if anyone had witnessed my disgrace. There were a few people picking up cars, but no one was actively pointing and laughing, so I chose to let myself believe that I had managed to get away with it, and had only flashed Rubin. (Who has seen it all before, to be completely honest with you.)
“Well, Rubin,” I said, straightening up from the defensive, crouching position I had assumed in my shame, “THAT was lucky!”
“Not really,” said Rubin. “Because your bare butt is on show RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND.”
No, he didn’t. Because he’s a dog, remember? Dogs can’t ACTUALLY talk. But sure enough, my nether regions did feel somewhat…breezy. Almost as if I was out in public in nothing but my knickers, actually.
I glanced down, anxiously. No, it was fine: my dress was primly covering my knees. And yet…
I turned my head and looked at my right shoulder. There, sitting proudly on top of it was THE HEM OF MY DRESS. The hem of my dress that was ON MY SHOULDER because it had blown up and got caught there, and while I’d managed to get the front of the dress back down again, I had not been so lucky with the back.
Oh, and my OTHER shoulder? ALSO DECORATED WITH DRESS.
So, you’re thinking my humiliation was complete at this point, aren’t you?
Readers, my humiliation was not complete.
Because when I turned round to whisk that dress down from my shoulders, I realised I was standing with MY BACK AGAINST A WINDOW. The window of the garage reception, to be exact. The reception that was full of mechanics and customers and God only knows who else.
And THEN my humiliation was complete.
I’m not sure if anyone saw me. Terry was inside the reception at the time, and he didn’t see my knickers framed in the window, nor did he hear gales of laughter sweep through the room. We’re assuming I got away with it.
But… but… not ten minutes after we got home (me waddling along with my skirt clamped firmly between my knees), the garage called to say we could come and pick up the car.
It’s never been finished as fast as that before. AND it passed the MOT, which I wasn’t really expecting. Suspicious? I think so.
And that’s why I’m wearing jeans all the time from now on.
EDIT: For those of you who asked, the dress in the photo is from River Island!