It was simply impossible to choose between the multitude of invitations to Melbourne Cup lunches that floated through my mailbox this week, so I opted for the private party instead.
For my non-Australians readers, the Melbourne Cup is one of Australia’s most prestigious horse races, ie the biggest horsey event in Australia each year, akin to the Grand National in the UK or the Kentucky Derby in the US (according to Wikipedia – don’t quote me). It is the exhibitionist’s excuse to wear ridiculous hats, get off their faces on champagne and spend their annual salaries on over-the-top dresses, that frankly they’ll probably never wear again.
No-one really likes horse-racing, but we all love an excuse to get plastered.
My private party included NC – who happened to be at home studying for exams – and our little Princess, who we let out of the doghouse for this very special occasion.
Fortunately, the old man had been invited to some corporate event in the city, which meant that there was no Grinch to spoil our fun, and more importantly, I managed to rack up 7000 more steps than him on our step challenge before our celebrations began.
The great thing about entertaining at home is that there’s no-one to impress or be judged by, so us three fillies decided that we would take full advantage of our informal surroundings and celebrate the Cup in our active wear; comfort being the ultimate ingredient of every enjoyable celebration.
The organisation involved was overwhelming and at one point I thought we might be forced to cancel. The local robbers at the fish shop decided to raise the price of their prawns to $42/kg on the day, (and an image of the old man shaking his head disappointedly haunted me as I handed over the cash), the selection of dips n’chips proved impossible to choose between at the local deli, and the restrictions imposed by my ‘ugly face diet’ made the task of stuffing my face BIGTIME quite a challenge.
But when have I ever turned down a food challenge?
I justified that if I ate vaguely within the limitations of my new diet, I could quaff a few glasses of Champagne as a fair exchange and then provide the entertainment for the evening as the family watched my cheeks explode to a new scarier, shade of scarlet.
It’s called diet/life balance, bitches.
And who were we wearing?
NC was in Cotton on yoga wear, because she loves the idea of yoga even though she doesn’t know one end of a downward dog from another, while I wore vintage leggings (complete with trendy hole in the leg), a Lorna Jane fitness bra that has always been too small but makes my tits look massive, and a Cotton On top. My hat was statement Byron while NC chose a sweet little fascinator that I wore to MC a couple of years ago when I was popular the old man had a job and we were happy and we used to be invited to corporate events.
The champagne flowed for about an hour, (until NC started moaning about revision), the most expensive prawns in the world were devoured with gusto and we even ate that putrid-looking jelly on the top of the pate.
And to cap a truly, splendid time, we witnessed the first female jockey, Michelle Payne, ride to glory and into the history books.
Hurrah! I’ve realized that I may never have to leave the house again.