Growing up reading magazines, I was led to believe that at this time of year we enter something called “party season”, which traditionally requires a series of variations on the sequin, a non-smudge lipstick and a firm grasp on your individual “day-to-night look”, which often involved keeping a pair of heels in your “office drawer”. It was a seductive concept, this season, these parties every night, where you would dash from your demanding office job (lawyer? Maybe a lawyer) to a bar, your dress glittering beneath a rotating mirrorball as you wound your way across the dancefloor, “CEEELEBRATE GOOD TIMES, COME ON!”, hand aloft as your friends cheered from the bar. At dawn, you would check your lipstick, dark red, still perfect, even after all the passionate illicit kissing by the cigarette machine and the next day you’d go again. Party season!
I’m older now. I’m older and I have lived some years, and while yes, some kind souls occasionally invite me to a little party as the cold weather draws in, it would be rash to describe the handful of events as a “season”, the invitations appearing less like a flood and more like a gentle drip from the ceiling as a warning that the upstairs flat needs to turn off the tap. But another thing that’s changed, as I’ve seen the winters come and go, has been the sharp decline in expectations of glamour. Party season today requires nothing more than a “Christmas jumper”. I use quote marks here as if rubber gloves – the words trigger something rotten inside me, a kind of cruel bile rises. Continue reading...
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