Carol’s Column

Who's having a ball?

HOW exotic, I thought to myself when I received the invitation to the Diamonds Today Ball. I love balls — the dressing up, the fantasy of making like a queen for a night.

"We're going to a ball," I said to my husband as he carefully parted his three and a half hairs and placed them decoratively across his pate.

He shuddered, causing the hairs to rise in agitation. "Does that mean I have to wear a monkey suit?" he growled.

"You know I've always thought you look like James Bond in your dinner suit," I said, grinning through the toothpaste foam. "Anyway, this is THE social occasion of the year. Diamonds Today is a jewellery design competition sponsored by De Beers. All the top designers create their masterpieces and the winners are awarded their prizes at the ball," I explained while creaming the wrinkles on my nose. "And, there's fantastic entertainment," I added, "Daniele Pascal is doing 'Piaf in Cabaret', you'll love it."

That was the clincher. My husband has always had a soft kidney for French women.

The ball was on Tuesday night at the Market Warehouse. On Monday I couldn't find my exquisite turquoise silk haute couture dress I'd made three years ago from an Easy to Sew in-four-stages pattern.

My daughter arrived as I was scrabbling through the wardrobe. "Have you lost something, Ma?" she asked.

"My evening dress," I squeaked, panic-stricken.

"I've got it," said Nicky. "Don't you remember you lent it to me for the medieval evening at school?"

The dress was in her cupboard, under her purple longjohns and pink and yellow string vest. It was not wearable.

In a crisis, there is nothing like a friend, so I phoned my good friend Betty. "What shall I do?" I wailed.

"I'll lend you something," she said practically, "you can borrow it."

Betty is tall and slender in comparison to my short, squat shape.

"Don't worry," she said, "the hem is designed to dip at the back, you'll look sensational."

Knee-length on Betty, it was floor-length on me with the dipped hem falling like a train. The shoulder pads were somewhat loose and kept popping out. "Stop breathing and you'll be fine," said Betty as she surveyed me critically.

On Tuesday I washed my hair and Nicky scrunch-dried it for me. "Your hair must make a dramatic statement," she said puffing it up like a pot scourer.

While painting my nails with crimson varnish, the phone rang for Jamie.

Finally, dressed, packaged and perfumed, I walked downstairs to impress my husband. "Do your hair and we can go," he said.

The Warehouse was beautifully decorated. Flowers, soft lights, sumptuous ballgowns, and diamonds dripping from every one else's pores, it looked so elegant.

We were shown to our table with its centrepiece of gold roses in a clear glass bowl. There, like an exotic bloom, sat model Sharon Coetzee in white with a huge flower in her hair. Stunning. Beside her was hairdresser Frank Fowden who took one look at my coiffure and then kept his eyes at collarbone level throughout the evening.

"She's a top model in town and he's a top hair guy in town," I whispered to my husband as we sat down.

"A barber?" he asked, loudly. And then he spotted the programme. "You didn't tell me there was going to be a fashion show," he complained. The tone of the evening was set.

The rest of our table arrived. My heart dropped to my kneecaps. Sitting with us was Spero Villioti, the brilliant young designer whose clothes were to be on show, accompanied by his charming mother Anastasia, his beautiful sister Angela and her husband Mario. They were all so gloriously attired. So tres chic.

I sat straight, pushed the shoulder pad that had popped into my decollete, back into position and learnt that Angela's magnificent ball gown had been designed, fitted and made by her brother that morning. My luck, I thought to myself, I had to marry a chemical engineer instead of a couturier. Instead of ballgowns I got test tubes.

In between the butter lemon lettuce salad mimosa and the fresh poached salmon in tarragon jelly, I noticed that the nails on my left hand were crimson but, alack, the right hand nails were bare. I'd forgotten to varnish them.

After a superb dinner came the awards.

"Ah, it's Rent a Ronge," muttered someone as the lights dimmed and Barry Ronge took the stage as compere.

And then came the fashion show with the models covered head to foot in Vallioti and diamonds. The collection was splendid in true haute couture style.

After remarking that the one model looked like a feather duster, my husband fell asleep, awoke in time to cheer the somewhat see-through wedding gown and then perked up considerably with chanteuse Daniele Pascal.

For me, the evening ended on a highlight. While departing, a pearl encrusted matron in crinkle satin stepped on my train. With a tear it parted from the dress exposing my knees to the elements.

Then came the finale. On the pavement, the heel of my shoe caught in the grating of a manhole cover. It is still there.

It could have been worse. It could have happened at the beginning of the evening, or I could have dropped my 0,2 carat engagement ring down the toilet. Or something.

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