The coach was due to leave at 18:30 for the conference dinner at the other side of town. At 18:15 I watched TPR cross the road to climb aboard and save a couple of seats for us. I knew that I should return to our hotel room on the ninth floor, get changed, put on some make-up, and hurry back down to join the other delegates (including Amanda Holden) for the half hour journey to the meal. At 18:25 I eventually wandered back over to the hotel.
I was relieved to see that I was not the only person who would be late to catch the coach. There were still two women in the hotel lobby who had yet to cross the road (although, admittedly, they were already dressed in all their finery and would be with the others in a just a couple of minutes). I asked if they would wait for me, and the one in the long green silk dress from Phase Eight agreed to do so. They helped speed things along a little there and then by undressing me down to my vest top.
Time was ticking on when I took the lift up to my room. It was also somewhat embarrassing to be standing in such a confined space next to a clutch of Korean business men and a French man in a kilt while I was wearing nothing to cover my bottom half.
Once in our room I faced a dilemma of what to wear, and how to dress as fast as possible. It was now 18:45 and TPR would surely be wondering where I was. I decided that I would have to give up any idea of putting on any make-up. I pulled out all the clothes from the wardrobe unable to decide on an outfit. I tried all sorts of combinations of tops, bottoms, dresses and shoes, but nothing looked right. Eventually I settled on going bra-less in a black and burgundy single strap top with a black corduroy skirt.
It was now 19:00 and I was in crying with frustration at my own stupidity. The coach could not possibly had waited for me. Then I heard the bedroom door open. TPR walked in, also in tears. He had been asked to leave the party on account of the terrible time-keeping of his wife. I felt so ashamed.
