I've booked a day's leave (yes - officially!) so that I can spend some time with one of my sisters. I head to Liverpool Street where I meet her train, and then we head off to the "Ballgowns" exhibition at the V & A to ooh and aahh over Norman Hartnell, Belville Sasson and Elizabeth Emmanuel creations. The dresses are gorgeous; although I find I have to avert my eyes from the endless blah about court presentations, Queen Charlotte's Ball, and the fact that a particular gown was once worn by a minor scion of the aristocracy while dancing reels in a draughty Scottish castle...
There's some old film footage of a line of women waiting to meet the Queen Mother, and as they genuflect on her passing, it seems to me extraordinary that people would willingly abase themselves before another human being, and yet be so resistant to acknowledging a Power greater than themselves....
Oh well. There is still nothing I like more than spending hours peering at elaborate beading, pintucking, embroidery and ruffles!!!
My sister is incredibly easy to be with. Ever since emerging from our teenage years when we regularly displayed terrifying levels of violence towards each other, we have simply just got on. I can't think of an occasion when she has annoyed or vexed me (although I suspect she would be unable to say the same of me!) and I always feel extremely relaxed in her company.
We have a lovely lunch in the room with the splendid lamps, then head off to Oxford Street for some retail therapy. We try on lots of items, most of which we conclude either look ghastly or are over-priced: but as I have an innate psychological resistance to going home without at least one purchase, I buy something nice I find hanging on the sale racks. (Yes. A dress. "Only" £30 as I later inform Husband...)
My sister and I part with great amity at around 6pm. I get a text from her later saying what a lovely day she has had. And I feel exactly the same.
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