You shall go to the ball... just this once

Dear Mum,

At the weekend, I attended work’s Summer Ball with my colleagues.

I may have been exhausted after a day’s nine hour shift and desperate for a wallow in the bath but I prized my swollen, tired body into a Little Black Dress and reintroduced myself to heels. As I immerged from the changing room in my LBD and leopard print heels, encouraged by wolf whistles from my titivated girlfriends, I felt fabulous.

This was short-lived.

Stumbling inexpertly to the Underground as blisters surfaced on my feet, I clung to the arms of my nimble girlfriends.  I was bundled up in a coat while the other girls’ heads, shoulders, knees and toes were exposed to the fierce winds.

On arriving at the venue, I was pretty disenchanted. Our soiree was located in a poky bar where a few measly balloons had been strung up for decoration. The words “Free Weekend Hire” were emblazoned on a blackboard wall, meaning the £15 entry ticket was questionable.

The ‘complimentary’ glass of champers did soften the blow of the location and comforted my bruised tootsies. But on pursuing a further beverage I was horrified to learn a Malibu and coke would cost me £6.50.

The characteristics of this bar were not what I would identify as typical of a ball. This seemed more like Freshers week, particularly when one guy vomited fountain-like eruptions on the street outside, which, I hasten to add, I gained the backsplash of on my carefully fake-tanned legs.

 If this atmosphere was not enough, one of my supervisors rang for an ambulance to have the chunderer’s stomach pumped. It was at this point that the bar’s manager asked everyone to vacate the premises – an hour before the closing time specified on the ticket.

Perhaps it was naive of me to presume this affair would’ve been more glamorous and ‘ball’-like.  But I have done the whole being squashed and jostled on the dancefloor, getting home at 3am, rubbing my friends’ backs while they vomit.

I struggled to understand this claustrophobic, binge-drinking atmosphere when experiencing it at uni. Why anyone would drink to the point where they’re convulsing and vomiting is beyond me.

And how this ambience inspires men and women to smack lips and grope one another amidst a crowd of other party-goers is disturbing. Particularly for those nearby who are subjected to these occurring passions.

Now that I’ve graduated and I’m earning a salary, I am simply too tired for such shenanigans. Call me crazy, but I don’t desire to blow my hard-earned pay on achieving this bodily experience.

Thank heavens these ‘balls’ don’t happen every weekend.