Diner en fancy

So we all like to feel a bit fancy.  I personally love a bit of fancy until about six hours before I have to be fancy and then I start to moan about my lot in life and why this fanciness has come to ruin my evening.

Saturday night – The Artist and I – along with around 3998 other people attended Diner en Blanc.  It’s this lovely event each year – secret location – tres adventurous; everyone wears white – tres like a wedding; and tickets are hard to come by – tres lucky to get one!

Except I didn’t read the fine print.  Because The Artist always reads the fine print (accountant and all).  I didn’t tell The Artist that I had booked until a month before because I knew that there would be extensive resistance (please read with French accent) to this – he is tres not in to fancy, in fact dressing up is wearing a t-shirt as opposed to a singlet (summer, autumn, winter and spring).

Then the preparatory emails started arriving – bring your own fold up table, chairs, table cloth, crockery, cutlery, glassware – and NONE OF THAT CHEAP NASTY PLASTIC STUFF.  Had I not already purchased my grogg through these people (compulsory) I totally would have been Toodalooooo!!!!!!! (Lauren for Au Revoir French People)

Now here is something you might not know – The Artist and I are not good at picnics or camping.  In fact I have never been camping and our idea of a picnic is ordering pizza/sushi/whatever and sitting on the grass in Centennial Park eating it – and I say the grass because I would never remember to bring a picnic blanket.

After a lot of fuss and bother – and the buying of white shorts and a white singlet – The Artist graced the halls of Westfield Bondi Junction on a Saturday morning (tres traumatic) after much screeching that he simply HAD to play the game on this one – we were good to go.

Laiden like pack horses, table and chairs in hand with our cooler bag we trotted off to The Opera House.

It all started off relatively well, we jumped the queue, we were the first to arrive on our row (weird) and we were located next to the VIP area – tres chic and we laid ourselves all out.  The Artist went to collect the pre-ordered wine and champers.  He was red wine, I was champers.

I have never really seen a bottle of red explode like that on opening.

It was windy too and the people next to us didn’t get the memo about the cheap nasty plastic plates (that were not allowed!) that they were happily eating their sushi off with soya sauce.  The Artist’s shorts were now decidedly grubby and no longer so white after the aforementioned plate had made like a UFO in the wind and crash landed on his lap. My tablecloth was deceased.

Mass destruction

A small insight into the destruction of the white shorts

We looked at each other and by unspoken agreement decided it was time.  So two people out of 3998 others leopard crawled over the Opera House stairs clanging our table and chairs as a spotlight shone on a woman in front of us singing Ava Maria – not the quiet unobtrusive exit I was hoping for.

As we passed the entry checkpoint where they had confiscated my favourite umbrella (weapon apparently) I asked the security guard whether it was possible to retrieve my brolly.  Once we established brand he whipped out a state of the art specimen in a cover, same brand.  I didn’t miss a beat, claimed my win and thanked him while The Artist stood there incredulous whispering – that’s not your umbrella.  Quiet, I hissed, keep moving.

It even smells new. Excitement (read in French accent please)

And that was the end of that. Forever.  Some people are just not meant for fancy. (I think the other 3998 had a good time.)

Love and light

Lauren xxx

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