We arrived early evening to the cocktail party on the banks of Crawley River
The night is warm with a fierce easterly blowing, I spotted ahead woman’s flimsy floaty chiffon dresses, swinging in the breeze wrapping around their legs almost tripping them over, hanging onto your dress and a glass of bubbles. With any luck you had a hand on a prince charming who is supporting you.
Hair whipping around occasionally stubbornly glued to your lipstick, hair covering your eyes, temporarily blinding you.
So nice to see the effort the crowd went to, all dressed up looking stunning for this cocktail party on the shores of the Swan River in Crawley, a light pounding of water hits the shores as the boats cruise by.
We started the evening by joining the long queue to get in, why so slow?
As the wind whips my hair about, hoping against hope that my roots weren’t showing as my hair appointment wasn’t till the following day and at this time of year there is no way I was going to get in earlier. I practically book a year in advance, when you are onto a good hairdresser you are very reluctant to let them go.
What’s the hold up
Ahhh photo queue, we are happy once we knew what’s occurring! The negatives of standing in the queue is that you could smell the smoke from those gathered around a
discrete corner puffing away, the wind blowing their smoke right back in our direction so you couldn’t escape if you wanted to. Several of us looked around to see where the smell was coming from, eyeing up the culprits discretely, well some not so discretely, feeling sorry for the smokers, they must feel like outcasts. I am one of those reformed smokers that are apparently the worst or so I’m lead to believe. Rasberries to you.
As you enter the pavilion, an enormous marquee, a dance floor, a band belting out some tunes, nobody is paying them much attention, I feel bad as they deserve better, I politely clap and smile encouragingly at them, they are probably thinking who is this random woman in the stunning white dress and expensive nude heels who is about to step on to the sandy poxy lawn.
Turning around to face the water you are welcomed by this stunning view of yachts and glistening water as the lights hit the river
Sand and a line of burly bouncers lining the waters edge, preventing you from taking a dip, and presumably to prevent any one from drowning or should they get out of hand they would be quickly and quietly escorted off the grounds.
Come 10 pm I’ll know that all I will want to do is go home to bed; my book waiting for me to turn another page, wasn’t to be though, by the time I do get home its midnight and I find myself too bloody tired to read anyway, such is this season that we are privileged to be part of.
I silently promise myself that the year 2015 I’ll get to read more, unfortunately that will also require me to stay awake longer. I have already given up on reading the newspaper hoping to steal and snatch some precious time, not that I am missing much aside from the days news re-hacked, over and over again.
It was a beautiful night with the threat of a thunderstorm, the Fremantle Dr (wind), settled, we did feel half way through the evening a few drops of rain, thankfully only a few. While we stood around white wrapped bar tables, the odd clear bar stool hiding beneath, chatting politely, looking our finest.
I was busy concentrating on keeping my heels from sinking into the ground
I mean a cocktail party on the river sounds sublime even romantic on a warm summer evening.
A mention of wearing wedges in the invitation wouldn’t have gone astray, maybe if I was more with it and in tune I would have realised.
Some had suggested, that a cocktail party by the river would have some form of stable floor, alas no, grass and sand and yachts, the dance floor was the the only piece of stable footing.
I look on wearily, at all that grass and can only think of my beautiful nude coloured expensive heels, by this stage the balls of my feet and back were starting to ache, after a few hours balancing on the balls of my feet.
I wore a classic fitting lined white sleeveless dress that skimmed my body, finishing just below the knees with a peach coloured silk bolero cardigan, my mesh Oroton bag clutched in one hand a glass of wine in the other. Then juggling both as the waiters came around with delicious bites to eat.
I watched the young ones greeting their circle of friends, we mixed with those we knew, introductions all around to these lovely people, me knowing that I wouldn’t remember names, I will though remember their faces, Michael will mention them in passing months down the track and I will nod and pretend I know who he is talking about, a smile of concentration on my tired face.
I will observe the young ones dancing and jigging away looking fabulous, enjoying the evening
The music, tempo and volume rising as the night goes on
My insides shuddering as the music gets louder as the night grows longer
I tell you that image in my head of a book and bed was looking good
I looked around for one of the very few clear bar stools, spotted one, mentioned to husband that I had spotted a stool, he wasn’t the slightest bit concerned. Too busy sprouting words of wisdom to and amongst his mates.
So I wandered aimlessly about till I found a stool
Which I carried back to our bar table
My endearing husband made some stupid remark
That had eyebrows raised all around the table
All eyes were upon me
I calmly declared
‘That’s okay’ I said, ‘Michael is very good friends and very well acquainted with the couch as he will be again tonight’.
I went off in search off a drink as one of the wives guarded my seat like her life depended on it.
So I found my own drink, my own chair, maybe I should have stayed home with that book a cup of tea and my comfortable bed.
In case you were wondering my shoes survived, till next time.