Now that the dust has somewhat settled (moot point), the
suits have been return, dresses stored for an indefinite period of time and the
photos are being [subtly] photoshopped (makes them more amusing), perhaps this
soon-to-be lengthy dissertation will flow a little more easily than my last
attempt. I really doubt it.
After several minutes preparing myself, a few embarrassing
“you look great!”s and a nerve-racking 45 minute
chase-to-beat-my-partner-to-the-befores to boot, the ball unofficially
commenced with a fun, albeit slightly awkward party of sushi-boxed corsage
exchanges, poking each other with pins (buttonholes) and far too many camera
flashes.
“My face hurts…”
The girls were stunning, the guys were immaculate and the
food was, for the most part, untouched. After clogging an affluent Dalkeith
street with hopelessly amateur photographers, the limousines arrived and we all
crammed in for the smooth ride to King’s Park for more photographs, happiness
and merriment away from those dastardly apparent parents (God bless them), and
a liberal dose of freezing-off-of-the-posterior, along with, it seems, the
entire extras cast of Planet of the Apes (ie. the other limo-ed guys who’d also
decided King’s Park was a great idea). We got to better know* everyone’s partners,
admired the magnificent view (topped off with some fireworks on the river
shore) and successfully avoided the ever-apparent potential tumbles down the
embankment made so near-inevitable by those quite popular spiky shoes.
“Welcome to the 2007
CCGS Ball!!”
The tables were set, the DJ was prepped and the Head Boy’s
date was half his size. No, really. Half his size.
“Lookin’ sharp there…”
To backtrack a week or two, my fantastic apparel was
carefully selected from a myriad of variety to reflect my inner feelings
regarding such events. Oops, I lie. Upon arriving at the fashionable suit hire
shop thing, I was dismayed to learn that the attractive young lady behind the
desk was, in fact, not going to select my suit for me. I was quite perturbed,
but not to worry, mum was on hand to lend a hand; until it came to actually
selecting, which pretty much involved closing my eyes, turning on the spot and
pointing at a jacket. To calm any questions of couth-nicity, said technique was
employed only for the jacket. I mean, they’re all the same anyway. Choosing a
shirt and the rest was somewhat easier (ie the girl behind the desk finally
relented…).
“What a nice bunch’a
girls ‘ey?”
It would be fair to say that without the charming partners
we had all selected from the multitudinous thousands (ahem), the night would
not have been as great as it was. Everyone appeared (at least on the surface)
to get along well, with, I gather, only one case of partner-partner outrage;
well, what do you expect if you ask your date if you can ‘grope her’… silly
boy.
“The truth is here;
the truth is now…”
The Ball music was interesting, to say the least. With
perhaps too great an emphasis on trance music, however countered by some great
‘fully-sick-subwoofer’ness and 1500 glow sticks, dancing was quite something.
Admittedly, I’ve never been one for dancing at discos, balls, dances and the
like. Simply throwing your hands in the air, stamping your feet and making an
ass of yourself in front of all your friends isn’t quite up my alley, so to
speak. Slow dancing is great in my esteemed opinion, although the poor DJ
doesn’t get to use his strobe as much…
“Who’s the hottie? You
know, the one in the dress.”
Overall, the ball was a night to be remembered. A great
night with friends, a celebration of all that is adolescent-adulthood, I doubt
anybody could forget it. Now school has died down to a certain degree, back to
the general monotony of Year 12, no longer inspired by the increasingly near
Night of Nights. At least we have photos to be admired by grandparents. Yay, I
can’t wait. Nope, there I go again. Kill me now.
“That was the best
night of Year 12. It’s all downhill from now…”
6 months, 10 days.
*I
gather split infinitives are now admissible in the Oxford English Dictionary.
Correct me if I’m wrong.
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