Go to a ball. You know a full-on crystal chandelier under canvas, chequer-board dance floor with groovy local jazz band ball. One where I’ll not only be raising money (thus guaranteeing a potential photograph in the local glossy magazine) but also indulging my inner Princess. I’ll get to hire a long, bejewelled dress, dig out that uncomfortable strapless bra and buy the cheap supermarket version of ‘Spanks’ in nude. Next I’ll book a spray tan, a ‘hair up’; potentially involving a fishtail plait and lots of grips and buy over-the-top fake eyelashes from Boots. I’ll borrow a friend’s ‘bestest’ fancy clutch, use Dylon to match up the Bridesmaid shoes I wore 11 years ago and as the date get’s closer start the Cambridge Diet. In readiness I’ll have sorted the kids out for a two-day stay at The Mother’s as that’s how long it’ll take to prep, attend and get over said event. I’ll even bear an entire day ‘fannying’ around in several ‘salon’s’. Here I’ll endure long-winded and at times painful primping in order to find my inner Princess who is currently very well hidden under a stressed singleton who currently isn’t arsed with body maintenance; I’ll wash obviously, I’m not an animal! I’ll silently allow hot wax to be put in places I’d forgotten I have then pray to retain what I was born with and pretend my sniffles are caused by a summer cold. I’ll risk yet another cornflake adorning each side of my mouth to remove my stubborn ‘Burt Reynolds’. And take care whilst painting my toenails and ‘pumicing’ my dinosaur heels. With the ‘carriage’ (taxi or Jim next door if he’s visiting his Dad in hospital whose having his piles tied) due I’ll enlist a ‘very’ good friend (for what has seen cannot be unseen) to help me dress. This may or may not include positioning chicken fillets to produce the best possible ‘top bollocks’ to suit the frock or squeezing anything that’s appeared overnight. Finally the good friend and I will sip Prosecco and check my clutch for essentials. Money, phone, ticket, lippie, emergency sanitary pad, tweezers (seriously shit grows quick post-45), a couple of Rennie, Paracetamol and a miniature sewing kit (I won’t risk another wardrobe malfunction after tripping over the hem of my trousers whilst trying to quietly follow the bride up the aisle after fucking Jim was late dropping me off). So there it is…I wanna go to a Ball; any offers and I’ll polish off my tiara.