Today developed oddly, weather-wise. I stepped out, then stopped and blinked a few times. No, the trough of street really was filled with dense white fog. And, I realized as I walked on, it was cold, which seemed at odds with the dampness in the air.
Winter is coming.
o O o
In other news, I am now the proud owner of an extremely swishy petticoat. It is purple. And very full. I had rather been wanting a petticoat, but the nice ones tend to run 45 quid or more, and I just couldn’t justify it. But for 18… well, the temptation was irresistible. It will fill out my £5 ball gown—the shiniest grey stuff and purple velvet—admirably. Actually, with that volume, it may even save me having to raise the hem on the ball gown. It’s even—can one say it of a purple petticoat?—rather practical in terms of keeping the material away from my feet and thus heading off the parlous possibility of tripping.
And since you were about to ask, Mumsy dearest, I actually do have a place to wear a ball gown. Scottish country dancing is the best. It combines old-fashioned courtesy and elegance with vigorous exercise and modern fun. I do not know whether the dancers of old poked each other across sets, but we certainly do.