Dear Marc, I was so happy with my packing for this NY/DC adventure.
In my suitcase I had fitted (and left room for new purchases):
* One little black Jackie O dress
* One proud peacock dress in all the colours of the rainbow
* A crepe-de-Chine pantsuit
* A skirt and shirt set
* A black velvet top with white collar and matching black velvet pants
* My favourite pair of jeans
* Tops and tees
I was set to go, prepared for a formal banquet with the physicists at the awards show but just as ready to have a drink with friends in NY. The flight was nice and easy. We travelled joyously, with the exception of the moment when a few cups of coffee were spilled strategically on my seat.
I'm going as the translator, but my English is so rusty, I've tried to persuade my friend to introduce me as her mute translator. I want to make a sign saying "I work with written words, not spoken."
Then we arrived at the hotel and I unpacked. It was with no small amount of horror that I noticed I had left my shoes at home. All of them, except for the canary Chuck Taylors I was wearing on the plane.
Yellow sneakers don't count as formal wear do they?
Perhaps if I wear the black and white velvet costume and go into mute translator mode, the shoes won't be such a big deal. I'll be a mime at the awards show, my yellow shoes a natural adornment on a natural clown.
Must go to bed, jetlag has me on its sharp stick, shaking me over a fire of dreams. I'm falling.