A British Summer Ball

Each year I go to the British horse races. One year, about five years ago. After the races, my partner in love and I were invited to an after race-course event. A ballroom dinner-dance. The person who invited us, was also a usual horse-race goer. In other words, we met up with him every year. He was a livewire largish, red-faced plump northern man. He had a large belly hanging. He loved his food. He knew his list of fine wines. My partner in life and I, felt somewhat sympathetic to this northern loner.

He never brought his so called ' Mrs', alongside. We felt a loneliness of emotional kindness towards this fellow. Consequently, we invited him to join us upon our evening after horse-racing meeting romantic dinner occasions. Choosing from a vast assortment of English Sussex countryside restaurants. Our choice was often a duet. Or, we took a chance each way.

One way or t'other, many a fine evening was spent rolling along ' Sussex' country lanes. Music from various romantic old timers poured from an unreliable stereo in our friends car. Often driving miles to find one spot. Each location we carefully hand-picked. Chosen delicately. For each restaurant had a unique tone of it's own.

The story I am about to unveil is connected to an invitation poured upon our duet of lovebirds that we once were. Our northern friend bubbling with smiles. Invited my lover and I to a ballroom dinner-dance. After a day of good wins on the track, within a horse racing trainers tent. My partner had a horse running in-fact. Not a winner though. I was, however empowered to obtain entry directly inside where the big numbered trainers hung-out.

We usually over-packed our race-course attire. One never knew what British weather would throw. In the midst of summer-time fun. A heavy spell of thundery showers may bucket down at anytime. British weather is as unpredictable as love. Henceforth, a smart raincoat was always packed. Amongst the gowns for each day. Every slash of cloth had to be co-ordinated alongside one's shoes. Don't forget a matching handbag. Suits, ties, for my accompanying gentleman. The addition of many colourful hats to match one's racing outfit. Although it was not deemed an essential, until Ladies day. I think one always looked more dressed with a hat to match.

A fine spread of race-course dressing wardrobe was henceforth required. That's not including one's evening dinner dress requirements. After packing for the races. We usually threw everything into the large trunk at the back of my partners translucent pearl green sparkling Bentley. His pristine ensemble of dress to impress accompanied his car. Yet, he was no show off, as far as gentleman go. I cannot bear show-off people, infact.

Sometimes, it's a thrill to float into another world. Everything looks serene, as though no- one has a problem. Sadly their trunks are as full as yours or mine. Days in fairy-lands are good for one's equilibrium. Even though, it's a short lived thrill. These occasions have the desired effect on one's soul. An escapism form the world in current hysteria.

I wore a long ankle-length black-dress to the ball. One can never go wrong in black. We were led to our table after revealing our ticket, which had been handed to us after-races. The table was large, rounded in style. A Seating capacity for at least twelve. There were many round tables in the grand dining hall. All were filled. The cost of the ticket we never saw. Upon overhearing gossip, I overheard ,was for charitable purposes. The event.

We were escorted to our seats on the round table. A strange lady sat on the right of my partner. Our jolly big-bellied northern red-faced friend sat on my left. Another strange woman sat upon his left. The other surrounding persons already looked out of their minds. All rather like they'd just stepped out of the local horror show. Not, the most beautiful of people. In-fact as ugly a table set of humans one could imagine. Be it, it was the end of a long racing day. They all looked zonked up to the nines on something. I have seen drinking beyond the pale at British horse races during my many years of race-horse gatherings. I being practically a teetotaller myself, have an open eye to drunks on course. I am not condescending those who wish to let one's hair-down and have a jolly good time. Rather, I am stirring the pot on a point. The English do hit the bottle at times, leading to all kinds of drama and paraphernalia.

We reclined into our chosen seats with dignity. Glimpsing out of the corner of my eye. I observed the mish-mashed table of lost souls. In sour lives living within marriages or relationships consisting of jail-bed chambers.

There is a particular ambience when one enters an ensemble of strange humans, one has never met before. The energies transmit secret crying codes. If one is inclined to feel one's surrounds, as many artists do. They are desperate to escape. Down-trodden through burnt egg-shells. Hearts that cry out for help. They put on false greetings, as though their faces will crack if they try to smile. I felt an immediate unease due to the horror show before my eyes. Wondering how we got lumbered with such a fowl set of humans. I bit my upper-lip. Put on the good girl show. I had been planted into this set of human cactuses through no choice of my own. They all looked like they were ready to stick their finger-nails into me. Oh, well let's get down to the business of dinner. I thought. Seated myself amongst the cactus set.

Before I could even say grace. The creature on the right of my lover, dug her claws into his skin. Before you could sing' Jack and Jill Went Up The Hill'. In no uncertain terms. The ugly half-headed large badly dressed uncoordinated, unflattering female. Had a face like something out of Madam Tussaud's horror chamber in London, Baker Street. A London tourist attraction which has a chamber of horrors. If you haven't been, go. It's a jolly good show.

She, being the female cactus, got into my partners trousers under the table, Even on seeing me. I'd rather be dead, than look like the back of a truck. I can't think how those creatures that call themselves women get themselves into such horror puddles. Or, how the man I dated flirted with such tramps. Indeed, I was dragged to a table of cactuses, in human terms.

The one I loved. I found was the biggest flirt in town. Plus, it didn't matter what the geese he laughed with looked like. Let's order a cup of green organic tea to calm our nerves before I ride on.

Before long, a finely dressed waiter arrived. To be honest the food was really bland. Pretty basic, especially as we were now connoisseurs of west Sussex restaurants, which we had numbered to a fine' T'. So, ballroom dining wasn't anything to get excited about. The human cactuses on the table were far more inviting to tease.

Outside, this large ballroom spread, where many mouths sucked on sour food. Which had been badly cooked with added cheap wine to make everyone even more distempered. A horse merry-go-round carousel stood going round and around playing fair- ground music.

Enough was enough. Sitting with human yokes. Eggs gone off in the human experience. I took my man by the hand. Grabbed him up from his chair. Off we went to dance. Grabbed our horses manes. Leaped onto their saddles. Sat upon the carousel of dancing horses. Laughed at all those cactuses on round tables with yokes gone off. Through the looking glass we waved. They were all stuck on the table with the dull crowd.

We were dancing on the carousel.

Delila Reddit ( pen-name)

Yvette Louise Melech

copyright vocal/author