Having washed the newly-acquired deodorant marks off my old wedding (guest) dress before being zipped into the thing by my endlessly patient husband, I am ready for a glamorous outing (my friend's 40th birthday). My pleasure at still being able to fit into this ancient dress is somewhat tempered when he, half-anxiously and half admonishingly asks: "Are you in pain?". "No", I breathe, in a slightly strained way- "it is only tight around the top anyway, so it can expand when I eat!".
Sitting at the station platform, I keep trying to ignore my cleavage. I don't make a habit of showing any part of it to anyone other than my husband and children. Therefore, as I am not really used to seeing my breasts in public, the sight of them, proudly displayed like two apples on a shelf is somewhat distracting and disconcerting. I never did show my boobs, but since having children I am even more reluctant to do so - especially since my eldest daughter once pointed out that they are smaller now, than when they had milk in them. Thanks for that. Still, they look alright when they are all trussed up and pushed out, but even so - thank goodness for my hair, which forms a very useful sort of curtain. Perhaps I should market a fake version, for shy women with short short hair and no sense when it comes to choosing dresses.
Getting off the train and actually walking towards the station exit proves somewhat awkward, as I am not even used to wearing semi teeny tiny heels anymore - not since I re-damaged my knee. Sigh - with these boots and this dress, I do feel glamorous, but I don't feel like me.
Luckily it turns out that I have got the dress code just right for this posh tearoom and by the time I get there I am used to the dress, the boots and the weird little handbag. Sort of. This is good - I no longer feel like a toddler trying on their first proper shoes.
Unfortunately, I feel slightly less sophisticated when I realise how excited I am about the fact that the expensive afternoon tea includes endless refills. Yes! I can eat as much as I want! Still, I stay relatively cool and calm. Until I order the Afternoon tea (finger sandwiches, scones, cakes) and suddenly realise that I am also holding a very comprehensive list of (drinking) teas in my hand. The waitress is waiting patiently while I panic - how the heck am I supposed to know what to order?!I have noticed that the menu states that this tea salon employs tea-ristas (tea experts, I assume), so when the waitress offers her help, I accept gratefully. To be honest, even if a random stranger offered their help at this point, I would accept. She appeals to my inner snob by revealing that, as I asked for a light tea, perhaps I would like the yellow tea, as this is only served in 2 shops in London (presumably this is one of them). Reader, of course I choose that one. It was...well, not amazing, but quite nice. Some sort of apricot blend. Or maybe it was peach - you see - I really don't know much about teas.
Feeling rather full a few hours later, I accompany my friend to the cake trolley (nobody else wanted to, so I foolishly offered to sacrifice myself). The trolley incidentally, is also included in our meal, though whether the re-fills here are endless, I couldn't say. Even if I wasn't stuffed at this point, the fact that we have to walk to the trolley and point to the cake we want is off-putting. After consuming a massive slice of some sort of raspberry sponge-finger monster of a Victoria sponge, I am stuffed. No, actually, make that slightly ill. Add a spoonful of embarrassment at how greedy we have all been. How did we eat so much? More annoyingly, it wasn't actually that much, but the tiny finger sandwiches and the munchkin cakes and scones make everybody look like giant greedy heffalumps as we grab the confections and wolf them down. Plus, eating 12 tiny finger sandwiches makes me feel almost as guilty as if I had consumed 12 gigantic rolls, because my psyche does the maths without taking the size into account.
Still, as I relax in the tiny train seat on the way back home, reading my book and eating some spicy crisps (a far cry from the sophistication of the tearoom), I feel happy and relaxed. What a lovely day : )
Sitting at the station platform, I keep trying to ignore my cleavage. I don't make a habit of showing any part of it to anyone other than my husband and children. Therefore, as I am not really used to seeing my breasts in public, the sight of them, proudly displayed like two apples on a shelf is somewhat distracting and disconcerting. I never did show my boobs, but since having children I am even more reluctant to do so - especially since my eldest daughter once pointed out that they are smaller now, than when they had milk in them. Thanks for that. Still, they look alright when they are all trussed up and pushed out, but even so - thank goodness for my hair, which forms a very useful sort of curtain. Perhaps I should market a fake version, for shy women with short short hair and no sense when it comes to choosing dresses.
Getting off the train and actually walking towards the station exit proves somewhat awkward, as I am not even used to wearing semi teeny tiny heels anymore - not since I re-damaged my knee. Sigh - with these boots and this dress, I do feel glamorous, but I don't feel like me.
Luckily it turns out that I have got the dress code just right for this posh tearoom and by the time I get there I am used to the dress, the boots and the weird little handbag. Sort of. This is good - I no longer feel like a toddler trying on their first proper shoes.
Unfortunately, I feel slightly less sophisticated when I realise how excited I am about the fact that the expensive afternoon tea includes endless refills. Yes! I can eat as much as I want! Still, I stay relatively cool and calm. Until I order the Afternoon tea (finger sandwiches, scones, cakes) and suddenly realise that I am also holding a very comprehensive list of (drinking) teas in my hand. The waitress is waiting patiently while I panic - how the heck am I supposed to know what to order?!I have noticed that the menu states that this tea salon employs tea-ristas (tea experts, I assume), so when the waitress offers her help, I accept gratefully. To be honest, even if a random stranger offered their help at this point, I would accept. She appeals to my inner snob by revealing that, as I asked for a light tea, perhaps I would like the yellow tea, as this is only served in 2 shops in London (presumably this is one of them). Reader, of course I choose that one. It was...well, not amazing, but quite nice. Some sort of apricot blend. Or maybe it was peach - you see - I really don't know much about teas.
Feeling rather full a few hours later, I accompany my friend to the cake trolley (nobody else wanted to, so I foolishly offered to sacrifice myself). The trolley incidentally, is also included in our meal, though whether the re-fills here are endless, I couldn't say. Even if I wasn't stuffed at this point, the fact that we have to walk to the trolley and point to the cake we want is off-putting. After consuming a massive slice of some sort of raspberry sponge-finger monster of a Victoria sponge, I am stuffed. No, actually, make that slightly ill. Add a spoonful of embarrassment at how greedy we have all been. How did we eat so much? More annoyingly, it wasn't actually that much, but the tiny finger sandwiches and the munchkin cakes and scones make everybody look like giant greedy heffalumps as we grab the confections and wolf them down. Plus, eating 12 tiny finger sandwiches makes me feel almost as guilty as if I had consumed 12 gigantic rolls, because my psyche does the maths without taking the size into account.
Still, as I relax in the tiny train seat on the way back home, reading my book and eating some spicy crisps (a far cry from the sophistication of the tearoom), I feel happy and relaxed. What a lovely day : )
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