Wish me no pumpkins

Did the fairy godmother wave her magic wand and wax Cinderella's bikini line? Was there an enchanted pedicure attached to that conjured dress? Were the mice turned into hardressers before footmen?

Who knows. I only know only magical assistance could get me ready for an, "ankle length evening dress" dress-code event in less than about, oh, forty-eight hours.

And the outfit planning's been going on for weeks.

But now I'm smoothed, painted, plucked and pampered, all by my own hand (ball on a budget, do with no dosh?) and shall shortly depart for the know-less lands south of Cumbria. (There's a line somewhere around Junciton 20 of the M6. I swear it. No-one south of there has heard of Cumbria. "Is that near Scotland, then?" Nine hundred years ago, it WAS Scotland, you ignorant child.)

My brother is in the Territorial Army. Yes, for most people that means a jolly camping trip on a moor somewhere a few times a year. To him it means finding a flexible dayjob so he can devote most weekends and many weekdays to instructing signallers, improving his skills, and supporting his Squadron in various events. It also means lengthy tours in Kosovo and Iraq. He's dedicated.

He's also invited me to a Regimental Dinner this weekend. I'm so proud!

And in order to not let him down, his sister has been attempting the steps towards a Cinderella-like transformation.

Anyone got a magic wand?

(Be back Sunday)