As you may or may not know, due to the accumulated pressure of exams, music and even more exams, I have had to stop doing ballet. I have been dancing since I was 3, and today I had my last ballet lesson which was understandably emotional. I almost welled up at the final reverence, but as I swaggered down the church hall corridor for the last time as a ballet student with the well-timed ‘Back in Black’ by ACDC playing in my ears, I was hit by a quick succession of epiphanies about general happiness in life (what is the collective pronoun for epiphanies? A musing of epiphanies? A pondering of epiphanies?) Anyway, as someone with only 15 years or so behind her, I concede that I have little experience compared to others, as I will touch upon later, but this is just a list of guidelines that I feel help a person to be content with their lives. Many of them share some similarities
No.1: Always leap at the chance of a new experience.
The more you do, the more interesting you become, I find. But don’t just go places because you feel you have to, if you fling yourself into your activities, they are more likely to provide even more enjoyment.
Yesterday, I had my last ever (thank goodness) sports day. I am a musician. Typically, musicians and sports do not go together. Yet in a reckless attitude of optimism, I put myself down for the 1500 meters run. You will not be surprised to find out that I did not win this race. I didn’t come last, but I didn’t win. But I can’t tell you, dear reader, how many people have come up to me today and said, “Well run yesterday, Eliza.” I hold a large amount of contempt for sport, and my legs are aching tremendously even a day after, but I still feel proud of what I did, because I tried.
This guideline should be followed in moderation though, as I learned the hard way in the first term of this year. You can do too much, but from the arguably stupid number of co-curricular activities that I took part in this year, I gained memories that I will always treasure, experiences that I will never forget, and friends that screamed my way as I puffed towards the finish line of the 1500 meter race yesterday.
No.2: Make friends of your fears and mistakes.
This follows on from rule number 1. One of the main reasons that opportunities are missed is the fear of possible rejection or failure. And so I advise you to make a friend of fear, but as that one friend who can be great fun but you only like to talk to occasionally. Fear can be a superpower, it heightens your senses, keeps you on your toes. It is good to be nervous before a performance of some kind because these nerves prevent you from getting complacent. But you must never let fear stop you from reaching the full extent of your capabilities.
I play the clarinet to a relatively high standard, but this year that standard has slipped. This is because I did not follow guideline 2. Due to a disappointing outcome from an audition that I had previously thought had gone very well, I became scared of my clarinet, something I have been playing for 9 years. I felt inadequate and so I tanked in my Grade 8 exam through lack of practice.
Lately, I have been slowly getting past this fear and hope to do my diploma in Year 12, but it is scary how scary scariness can be. Just one bad experience like being cat-called once shouldn’t stop you from ever going out again, one time being backed off a horse should not make you scared of ever riding again. It is better to accept your fears and learn from your mistakes, which comes from following guideline 1 (I told you they would share similarities).
No.3: Confidence can get you a long way, so have it in abundance
Now don’t get me wrong, I know how annoying a showoff can be. I am one. But whether you have confidence about your brain, your personality, your speech, your body, or just how straight you can draw a line without a ruler, having confidence is essential for a happy life. I refer to my now former ballet teacher who said that when we danced we should be “modest with a hint of rapture.” We should always be “modest with a hint of rapture,” I feel. Of course no one will ever achieve perfection, and improvements are key to growth as a human being, but the ability to say ‘“That’s my favourite thing about me,” with heartiness and honesty is a very important quality for a happy life, I believe.
Humility is, of course, important, and I would suggest that, in a good balance with self-esteem create a wonderful personality but, to quote Beyonce from her song ‘Ego’, “Some call it arrogance, I call it confidence.” Well said, madam. Well said.
No.4: Friends are like milk. You can add things to them, use them to comfort you or make other beautiful things with them, but you should never neglect them, or you’ll end up with a bad taste in your mouth .
I’m not entirely sure how well that analogy works. My point is, no matter how many experiences you have, how much confidence you have or how well you deal with fear, these are all just metaphorical puzzle pieces that make up the beautiful picture that is your possible happiness. Without the corner pieces, here representing the friends, we can see the picture on the puzzle box but the corners aren’t filled in. Humans are social animals, we rely on bonding and relationships to survive. The longest running (and arguably one of the best) sitcoms is Friends. Queen even wrote a song about friendships.
The point is, I have changed my friendship groups over the past few years at Alleyn’s School. I have been good friends with some people who I don’t even speak to now, and I have some friends whom I barely knew at the start of school. But at the centre of these ever-changing friendship groups, a small bunch of lovely boys and girls have remained loyal to me and I to them. I count those as my friends, and without them I am incomplete.
So those are my four guidelines to happiness. I have no doubt that they will change as I follow guideline 1 and become more experienced but this is how I see happiness is achievable for now.
Let me know what you think!
Hello, lovely readers of my mum’s blog. From the few times I have written as a guest on this blog, you may rightly deduce that I think it is wrong to judge a person on how they look without first judging them on what they do. I think to measure a person’s worth on their outer beauty (or perhaps lack of it) is both shallow and wrong. This is one of the many reasons that I am opposed to cat-calling. That being said, you see before you the musings of a young lady who is decidedly miffed because of a certain trip to Covent Garden that my family and I took on Friday evening.
When my parents, brother and I arrived at the entrance of the Royal Opera House to see the beautiful opera, La Bohéme, we were dressed in this manner:
My brother wore a purple and white shirt with stone chinos and black shoes; my father, a shirt with a small floral print that incorporated blues and purples, sand chinos and smart shoes; my mother, a spectacle of summery grace and style in a green silk tea dress with a coral pink cardigan draped elegantly over her shoulders. I wore a vibrant-orange maxi-length number with a denim jacket to add a touch of Bohemian chic to the outfit (at least that was the intention) and custom designed shoes from the company Upper Street Shoes. We all looked like we were going to see an opera.
However, to my bitter disappointment, others had not taken such pride in their appearance. We were confronted with several opera-goers in jeans and trainers and it bloody annoyed me, as the title of this piece may have indicated.
Look, I understand the struggle. It’s a pain to get all dolled up in suits and/or dresses. You have to coordinate colours and patterns and various other factors that you never knew existed but still had to Google because of the certainty that someone else knows about them and will instantly judge you as a lesser being for not sharing their knowledge. You’ve already spent a fortune on the tickets and it is so much more convenient to just leave it. I know the struggle.
But come on. We can do better than that, can’t we? I remember watching My Fair Lady as a younger lady, and being entranced by the beautiful dresses and elaborate featherage of the opera-goers. It made the thought of going to the opera so exciting, so stylish. As an older young lady, I now find outfits such as this:
perhaps a bit much, but I still think that a certain standard needs to be upheld, and here’s why:
Firstly, it’s the opera. It’s an occasion. You wouldn’t turn up to a job interview in a mustard yellow mankini and neon pink flip flops. For one thing, those colours clash. For another, in most professional environments at least, you’d be escorted out by men with tasers. So don’t turn up to the opera in cargo-shorts.
Secondly, making an effort shows respect for the performers in the show. As a person who has helped create a lower school play, I can understand how much goes into a show. The opera was fantastic and I feel as if one way of showing your appreciation for the time, energy and money that goes into a show is to dress up and put effort into how you look. If you show that the performance deserves the extra time that it takes to apply makeup or whatever the male equivalent is, then that is like a standing ovation. It’s a thank you. It’s a sign of appreciation.
Thirdly, assuming that the opera is a black tie or at least a formal event actually makes everything easier. There’s no more ambiguity. You know that the items of clothing that you need to take from your wardrobe are the fanciest items that you own. For men, it’s even easier. Just put on a Dinner Jacket and you’re sorted. But this only works if everyone does it.
That night there was an awkward mixture of ‘black tie’, ‘smart’, ‘smart casual’, ‘dressy’, and ‘I only remembered that I was going to this five minutes before I had to catch the last possible train and today is the day I do the washing so I’ve thrown on the first thing I saw’. This makes the question of what to wear to the opera even harder to answer and so to those who still care after reading the whole of this blog, I repeat the title.
Bloody hell, everyone. Sort yourselves out. If you still don’t know what to wear to the opera, here is my advice for everyone. Watch the film Moonstruck. It not be the ideal film for non-rom-com lovers, but there is a scene where Nicolas Cage takes Cher to the opera. If your outfit seems to fit in with theirs, then you are on the right track. And if that doesn’t help, well, at least you’ve seen the film Moonstruck.
Hello again, lovely readers of my mum’s blog. Usually, I write a guest post then wait for a few months until I have an idea so good, I feel that I can write about it relatively decently. My blog post on catcalling was posted a few days ago, and I was going to leave it at that, however, a certain mystery has plagued me since Sunday. And so I ask for your advice.
On Saturday night, the family and I went to a restaurant to celebrate the return of BW and his admission into McGill University. We were seated next to a wall with a large hole in the middle, through which the end of the restaurant could be seen. Through said hole, I was perfectly positioned to see the table next to the hole in the wall. A diagram may further demonstrate our position.
Now, I like to peoplewatch, and I throughly recommend that it is a hobby you take up. Not only is it very interesting, but I do it to further my ability to read body language, so as to further [Ed. I do not like split infinitives!] my chances of growing up to be one of those highly glamorous people who wear suits constantly, live off whisky [Ed: you need to think about your nutrition in the future!] and can tell the colour of a person’s bedroom ceiling by looking at their feet. So I looked at the people at the table through the wall and I still haven’t worked out what kind of relationship they had, and what kind of dinner they were having. As someone whose very few talents include being perceptive, this has bothered me ever since, so I turn to you dear reader, for your opinions to find the answer. I shall describe the situation as clearly as I can.
The man. Let’s call him… Tim. Tim is quite young, I’d say about late 20s to early 30s. He is quite handsome and his hair has clearly been styled to look smart. He wears a navy blazer and white shirt, his outfit has a nautical quality to it. He has clearly made an effort tonight. Much like his companion. The lady. Her name can be…err…Tiffany. She is an older woman, possibly mid-40s, however, much like her younger dining companion she has clearly made an effort. Her roots are dyed and she wears a sparkly black, semi-sheer top and matching skirt.
At first glance I think they must be on a date. But then, as I watch the man look around the room for a bit, I realise they have nothing to say to each other. So, a bad date with a young man and an older woman. I naturally assume that, as indicated by their attire, they had met somewhere, not being friends before advances were made, and liked the look of each other, but upon reflection they realise that they have nothing in common. Sad but it does happen, I hope they will remain friends.
At my table, the drinks arrive, and so my attention is turned to conversation and mineral water. But I’m troubled. There’s something not quite right about the bad date. I look again, and accidentally make eye contact with Tim. I smile awkwardly and take a sip of my water. Contrary to the smooth recovery I was hoping for, the bubbly liquid goes down the wrong pipe and I have a coughing fit.
From my peripheral vision, I can see Tim is having another go at conversation with Tiffany. At this point I realise what isn’t quite right with the scene. The posture of the lady. Tiffany, unlike the man is not sitting with a straight back, but slumped and slouched over her dessert. Hmmm. Has she just given up on the whole enterprise and the good posture has been deserted along with the prospect of another date? Possibly. I shrug and return to my lamb.
A while later, as one does, I glance about the room and something gold catches my eye. On the third finger of Tim’s left hand. He’s married. But they don’t look like a married couple. He is quite young for her. Maybe he’s attempting an affair, but upon meeting the lady in question, he now doesn’t think it will work out? I look to see if Tiffany is wearing a ring. Confirming that she is not Tim’s wife is the ring on her third finger. Silver. Not matching rings? Perhaps they’re an unhappy couple who, upon their wedding day, had cast aside tradition and bought different rings? But, again, their body language was distant but with a few signs of timid romantic gestures for example, hands unfolded but reaching across the table, flirty hair movement etc.etc.
I am now baffled. I just assume that it’s a business meeting, but then I conclude that this does not look like a business meal. [Ed. Also: it’s Saturday. In Beckenham] Then, dear reader, there is the fact that Tim looks over at a rather pretty brunette frequently and, as they sip their coffees, two rather scantily-clad (I judge not) ladies pass Tim and sit at the table next to him. He looks at them in a way that I doubt is to show admiration for the beading on their blouses. Interesting for a date.
Just when I begin to decide that they are two people, possibly a widower and a widow that have met on some morbid dating website for those with deceased other halves (explaining the wedding rings), on a bad date, something happens that blows my rather unlikely theory out of the water. They split the bill. They split the bloody bill. [Ed: Language!] Could they be friends? Not likely. Then what, I think, what the bloody hell is happening at that table? So, dear reader, I put it to you to try and explain this bizarre relationship. Personally, I’m stumped, and probably won’t be able to sleep properly until the mystery is solved.
Hello, lovely readers of my mum’s blog.
If you have been reading this blog for a long time, you will have seen a few of my guest posts, and you will know how they are all meant to be funny, silly, and light-hearted, whether they are about the relationship problems of high-heels or a fight between two competitive mothers as witnessed by a school teacher. But today, due to a string of different events that have happened to me recently, this post will be about a more serious matter:
Let’s begin with a story (for atmospherical purposes read this with ‘The Girl from Ipanema’ playing in your head). Two youngish girls walk down a road. It’s a sunny day, birds are sweetly chirping from their nests. The two girls walk arm in arm, chatting and laughing about unimportant, but nevertheless, amusing anecdotes. One is taller and wears brown wedges, a black and white tweed dress with a leather jacket and her ponytail swings gently from side to side with each step she takes. The other also sports a leather jacket, a red pencil skirt, white shirt and black ankle boots, with her long hair down.
The girls chat excitedly about the afternoon tea they are ambling towards, how posh it seems, one wonders if it is a bit girly for her but happily walks alongside her best friend, smiling to herself. The trees on the pavement sway to and fro in the spring breeze making light rustling sounds as the pair walk past. Then, from the cars racing past comes the shout, “NICE ARSE DARLIN!”. Yes, dear readers. I am going to talk about cat-calling. I do not like being cat called, yet it continues to happen, so I thought I should make a list of reasons not to catcall.
1. It’s scary. I have been cat-called from the age of 12 because I look older than I am, and the first time it happened, I sprinted home crying. When I was walking to afternoon tea with my friend and we were shouted at from a car, that was the first time she had been cat-called and she was scared.
She was scared even more when it happened again as we were drinking tea outside the cafe.I had been desensitised to it, and made a gesture that clearly expressed my feelings towards the man in that car, she decided to move inside.
When we had finished our tea, my friend was uneasy about walking the short distance to her house, because she was shaken and afraid, as I was when I was 12. The thoughts that rush through your head when someone honks, shouts, whistles or makes kissing noises are, usually, along the lines of, “I am so angry right now, but if I say something will he react violently?”
Chances are, nothing will happen, because yelling from a moving car is not the bravest thing in the world, but there is always that little niggling feeling of potential danger. However, I realise that those who are reading this and do catcall don’t really care about whether the woman is uncomfortable or not so, to the next point, I suppose.
2. It is NOT complimentary. There is a huge difference between politely saying to someone, “I think that you are really beautiful,” and yelling from a moving car “LOVELY LEGS, SWEETHEART!”. Funnily enough, one way rather takes the charm out of the interaction.
3. It makes me feel bad about myself. I like to think that I have a good amount of self-esteem, as I think that all men and women should. But when I walk outside wearing something that I think makes me look nice and someone makes kissing noises and whistles from the other side of the street, it makes me question myself. It makes me wonder if I am wearing something too provocative, when the truth is, that shouldn’t matter. My style is usually smart casual and it gets looks from people, which I actually don’t mind.
Some may disagree with me, but if I catch someone’s eye, man or woman, and they don’t make it obvious that I have, that’s fine, and actually, it feels good to turn heads. But if my style starts compelling men to make a noise about it, it makes me question my clothing choice, and that should have nothing to do with anything. No matter if I am wearing a burka or a mini skirt and crop top, catcalling is never justified.
4. It gives all men a bad name. I just want to say that I have nothing against men in general. I have always felt more comfortable around boys than around girls, because they tend to be less complicated and a bit more straightforward. So, I know that not all, in fact, most men aren’t like those in this blog post. But I have never had a woman cat call me. Not once. It has always been men, and I know that not all men are nasty like those that I talk about here. Even if you don’t care about what women think of you, spare a thought for the poor men that just want to live their lives with respect for women, but when they walk down the street, those same women recoil from and avoid them, because they don’t want to be verbally accosted.
6. (The most obvious one) It’s creepy. Undeniably, inexcusably, almost breathtakingly creepy. Men might do it to make themselves feel good, or make themselves feel big by making a beautiful lady feel small, but the result will always be the same. If you catcall, you are a creepy person. And in fact, all women will think you are creepy if you catcall.
We may feel a bit threatened or intimidated or, in my case at least, angry enough to shout explicit words after your car as you zoom off, but rest assured, at the end of the day, we will always think that you are creepy. By yelling at us, you actually give us women more power, because you have just shown that you are, once again, creepy. And we will laugh about that after you have gone. By catcalling, you earn the disrespect of other, better men, and practically every woman in the world.
So finally, I just want to send a message. To the two men today that honked in their vans as I walked past in white jeans an a blue shirt; to the two men that yelled at me and my friend, scaring her and angering me; to the other man yesterday that honked at me as I made my way to my friend’s house; to the man who came up to me as I was walking to the shops saying ‘‘Alright,” and when I didn’t reply, saying it again, while coming closer, making me back up against the wall; to those boys that whistled to me across the street when I was 13; to the man who made me cry by yelling out of his car window when I was just 12 years old: stop it! It’s not big and it’s not clever, and it certainly isn’t attractive or endearing. It just makes you look like a ****.
Hello, lovely readers of my Mum’s blog.
As you may or may not know I have posted two items on this blog before (although you probably won’t know this as I posted them a couple of years ago). I have a love of writing and I feel I should write as often as possible, but busyness keeps me from committing to a certain project for too long!
A lovely lady from Upper Street Shoes , see in other posts in this blog, came to interview my mother and me, and as photos were being taken, I asked my mother, ‘If your shoes had personalities, what would they be like?’ This preceded the conception of an amusing idea to write a short-ish story on this very idea. For example, Hippolyte is a shoe that has a high-ish heel with crystals on the front. It seemed to me that this would be a very posh, slightly snobbish shoe, and I proceeded to think of more personalities for more shoes.
So here it is, I hope you enjoy, there is mild swearing at one point near the end, but if you can read my mother’s review ’50 Shades of Garbage’ and understand what the she’s referencing, I don’t think the words will disturb you too much.
Miss Darling Daughter xxx
P.S. No, I don’t know how they hold up their glasses. Maybe it’s magic. Yeah. I’ll go with that. It’s magic.
The setting is a Cocktail party at Hippolyte’s house. Jane is drinking a tumbler of tap water, Hippolyte sips a Martini, Ocean has a Bloody Mary, Electra holds a glass of whisky and Dorothy has a simple glass of red wine. In the corner, Crusilla is sipping a Mojito that Hippolyte had practiced making for this very occasion. Smooth jazz plays in the background and the friendly murmur of mingling guests adds to the chilled ambience in the living room. The five friends eventually converge in a circle and catch up …
Hippolyte: almost shrilly Well, this is simply marvellous! We simply must do this more often!
Jane: startled Y…yes. It is quite nice, isn’t it, Electra?
Electra: Mmmh hmm. We had a DD a bit like this the other day.
Electra: Drinks do. That’s what we call them at Head Office.
Jane giggles. Electra raises her snakeskin stripe at her.
Jane: apologetically Well… It’s just so stylish and trendy when you talk about your Head Office, what with you working at the Stiletto and all that…
Hippolyte: Oh, Ocean, darling! You simply must admit that it is rather exciting!
Ocean: It’s not that I’m not pleased for you, Electra. I’d just hate to be enclosed in an office like that, with my creativity trapped in glass and steel. I don’t think my soul could cope, it could be weighed down by the deals and money, never to soar through the pollution that surrounded it, drowning in Powerpoint presentations and emails… silence ensues
Dorothy: So… Hippolyte, how was your holiday?
Hippolyte: brightens It was simply one of the most divine experiences of my life, darling! Rupert and I adored Shoe York, the sights and the sounds were to die for! The hotel had a buffing and polish treatment center and not a speck of grass in sight!
Ocean: What airline did you use? I’d like a bit of luxury for my next trip. I was thinking of taking part in a protest in Shoesbekistan. The human rights issues there are too unignorable to ignore anymore!
Hippolyte: with a false smile Ocean, darling. Let’s not get political now, you might upset my little cocktail party! I insist that everyone has a simply glorious time, and maybe get a little squiffy!
Jane: giggling Well, I wouldn’t know about that…looks over at Crusilla Oh dear.
Electra: checking her phone She’s really gone for it tonight, hasn’t she? Dorothy pointedly coughs. Electra mimes ‘what?’
Hippolyte: laughing nervously She’ll be fine! I know you two had a shaky start, but it must be such fun living with her, Jane. Isn’t it?
Jane: taken aback Oh, um, yes, I suppose it is. Although, I do wonder…
Hippolyte: I thought so! Although I haven’t seen you in that wonderful red insole in quite a while? I suppose you’ve no need for fancy clothes anymore, having bagged such an eccentric girl like that, eh?
She laughs a little too hard
Electra: to Dorothy How much has she had?
Dorothy: I’ve no idea. As they converse, Ocean gives a slightly tipsy lecture on the importance of a clean mind in relation to clothing items
Electra: quietly We have to keep her away from talking to Jane about Crusilla.
Ocean: -and my last psychic used to say-
Dorothy: Well, you know how she gets. She’s tactless even when she’s sober!
Ocean: -and I find that bright orange is important to my star sign-
Electra: She needs to stand up to Crusilla. She hasn’t been the same since they started living together. She used to be almost as loud as Hippolyte.
Dorothy: I don’t want her to hear us. C’mon lets go to the loo.
Ocean:- but homeopathy has really helped me! It can clear up your skin blotchiness in to time.
Hippolyte: offended I didn’t think I had any-
Dorothy: loudly I think I might just go and powder my nose.
Electra: replying to a text I think I might join you.
The two shoes leave for the toilet in silence. Jane thinks for a bit and leaves after them, unnoticed.
Electra: Oh don’t be like that, you now I’m right.
Dorothy: I suppose you are. But what can we do?
Electra: Tell her to suck it up and dump her! Crusilla has pushed her down for too long! She needs a shoe to look after her and bring out the platform heel of her personality, not crush it into ballet flats!
Jane: behind them WHAT did you say?
The pair turn around, shocked.
Dorothy: Jane, I’m sorry.
Jane: So that’s what you really think.
Jane: Well…this…this is just…
Jane: elated This is fantastic! Finally, it’s not just me that sees it! I thought I was just being hyper-sensitive! I hate her, she makes my life miserable! I haven’t had a bloody glass of wine in seven years, because she didn’t want me to! Seven years! Do you know how long that is? And wearing this brown leather constantly! I mean, nude is good for occasions, but all the bloody time! She turns to Electra. Give me that! She downs the remnants of Electra’s whisky in one.
Electra: alarmed Woah! Slow down, Jane!
Jane: spluttering, hoarsely What is that?
Jane: Fair enough. I am not going to be oppressed any more! Crusilla has got the better of me for the last time! No more arriving back at midnight, no more smells of perfume that isn’t mine, no more shy Jane and no more arriving back at midnight!
Electra: You said that already. Have you eaten tonight?
Jane shakes her head
Dorothy: Maybe you should sit down…
Jane : No! I am making a sand. Stand. Sand. Stand!
Jane begins to advance towards the living room, her heel shaking slightly.
Dorothy: Wait! Jane! What are you going to do?
Jane: slurring her speech Something I should have three years ago done. Is that the line?
Dorothy: panicking Jane!
Electra: Let her go, Dorothy. Either, Crusilla will leave or she’ll realise how horrid she’s being and soften up. Personally I hope it’s the former, but either way, I think what Jane is about to do has to be done, even if she needs to be slightly pissed to do it.
The two shoes follow Jane into the living room.
Ocean:-and your stitching really can tell your future, I swear-
Jane: EVERYBODY SHUT UP! I have something to snay. Say.
Hippolyte: Jane, dear. Whatever is the m-
Jane: Shhsshhhshshshhshshhh. Shhsshs. Sh.
Hippolyte: Oh, Jane, you simply must calm down! Everybody’s staring, dear.
Jane: I want them to stare. Crusilla! Crusilla looks up from across the room, surrounded by laughing guests
For seven years, you have made my life dull and uninteresting. If I weren’t for the friends I met at Shoeniversity, and the posh one, my life would be unbearable. You’re the most horrible person in the whole Shoeniverse and I’m leaving you.
Crusilla: hissing angrily What are you talking about? You’re making a complete fool of yourself!
Hippolyte: Shrilly Rupert, maybe you should bring out some…
Jane: I won’t stand for it anymore! I’m going to find the right shoe for me instead of..of settling for less!
Hippolyte: flustered Who wants a game of charades?
Crusilla: outraged You, madam, are acting like a complete and utter Croc!
An astonished silence falls over the room
Hippolyte: My goodness! How dare you say that to my dear friend!
Ocean: That is not cool!
Electra: Even I don’t use that word!
Dorothy: And that’s saying something!
Jane: softly Get out. You can clear your polish from my house tomorrow.
Crusilla leaves in silence
Jane: turning to Hippolyte I have to say, this is the best cocktail party I have ever been to! have you got any gin?