I remember you making my ballroom dress. Trying to stand still while you pinned pieces together to make a bodice. And the kingfisher blue net everywhere, with sparkles of sequins we got on the high street.
The dress danced with me to the hospital to entertain the old people,
To the wedding at the Station hotel where each one of us got half a box of ‘Milk Tray’ chocolates.
We danced at the ball with the boys in their bowties, waltzes, tangos and two steps.
As we grew into young little women, we outgrew the dresses. We added petticoats and adjusted the straps. It hung in the wardrobe door the day the dance teacher died.
My dress is somewhere, who knows where.