Heavenly Beverley : A Tale of One White Shirt and Three Disasters.

I am surprisingly in love with my role as curator and front-of-house at the East End Gallery. Where else in the known universe could I find a profession that I adore? I come to my workplace. I sit surrounded by beautiful, unique and edgy artworks and welcome guests from all over the world. And although the lack of money does cramp our financial style from time to time, somehow we always find our way our of the latest cashastrophe!

With the view that we are here in our beloved East End Gallery for the Long Haul, I decided that I needed to improve my appearance, and look the part of a gallery curator. Whatever they look like. And given that we are paupers, I have had to be quite creative inventing my new style.

So, this winter, I discovered my little black comfy leather boots at the back of the wardrobe. I haven't worn them since we moved to Beverley. (I didn't even know I still had them). My greatest find for the cold weather has been my black wooly stockings. Although I am transported to any one of Enid Blyton's hearty school stories when I wear them, they are warm and are a reasonable item of practical fashion.

If the day's weather is not straight from the Antarctic, I have taken to wearing denim skirts with my boots and tights. I have two of them - black and cream. They are leftover size 14s from the last time I lost some weight. So although they are a tad snug, they do fit, I don't tend to eat as much as usual when I'm wearing them and if I take them off when I get home, I don't tend to spill any food on them.

That's the general idea. Yesterday I wasn't so lucky. Grilled continental roll versus cream skirt. Bollocks. I managed to sponge most of the oily misdemeanor off, but reluctantly accepted the fact the cream skirt was out of commission for the weekend.

The top part of my image has been a bit harder to fine tune. Flannelette shirts, aged leggings and daggy cardigans don't really cut it for the Gallery. I have pulled out a multitude of jumpers that I have been collecting for years and worked out which ones were presentable. I have found pashminas that I had never worn and now I use them. A lot. One of our Gallery artists, Jan George, gave me a beaded broach she had made for me. This is Very Useful for attaching to my pashminas and wraps, allowing me to be hands-free and hopefully, not go up in flames when I am tending the fire.

The final touch to the New Me has been to add a dash of make-up. I have long considered make-up to be a Complete Waste of Time. Let's face it - I am no fashion plate. I am a short, round middle-aged woman with questionable taste in hair colours.

However, I was drawn to a photograph of myself that the gorgeous Jo Warburton posted of me back in the time of the dinosaurs. I was slimmer, with no glasses, dressed up for a Kalparrin Saturday night dinner..and I was made up. Somebody else had done my face, but as I looked back at that younger me, I felt quite pretty. That feeling doesn't happen very often to me.

So, I resolved to try makeup again when I was in the Gallery. I brush on some glittery light foundationy stuff, throw a bit of blush on my cheeks and the lippy and pray I don't look like an escaped circus clown.

A couple of days ago, the bitter weather had returned and I was wearing my good jeans to the Gallery.
Contemplating my appearance, I decided to throw a smart white shirt with faint black pinstripes over the top of all my other layers. The combination seemed to work and I hurriedly added the warpaint to my face.

All was going well until I decided to chuck my bright pink open poncho into the mix. Tossing it around my shoulders, my white shirt also rose and made contact with my pink lips. Bummer.

No time to change. So I strategically placed the poncho to cover the pink mark on the lapel of my shirt. Hurtling towards the front door, I remembered my never stick caramel mud cake and icing in the kitchen. I had already run out of hands carrying my two bags and sundry other items. The solution? Juggle the cake in its pan and put the icing bowl, covered in Gladwrap in my utility hold all. A quick peak suggested the icing was firm. What could possibly go wrong?

Rushing into the Gallery to relieve Michael, I began a hasty unpack. The horror of the situation began to unfold. The caramel icing had deceived me. It was runny and the bowl had tipped on the speedy drive to the Gallery. Inside my bag. the Gladwrap had offered no resistance to the tsunami of caramel that had invaded all corners of the bag.

The delicate rescue operation was launched. Some items, like my pen and waterproof camera, just needed a wash and wipe. My purse was inundated with the goo, so I removed any money, tossed all cards on the desk to be cleaned and gave up any hope of salvage. The bin enjoyed a luscious addition of purse de caramel. I bought a new purse from the pharmacy next door.

A few days previously, Michael had prostrated himself in front of me and piteously begged for a packet of fags. Against my better judgement, I acquiesced. I have been doling them out one a day to him. After the Attack of the Caramel Wave, the cigarette pack was beyond redemption. His cigarettes were hastily transplanted into a clip lock bag. Given that a plastic bag offers scant protection, some of Michael's fags have assumed interestingly elongated and flatter shapes since the awful episode.

The caramel had the last laugh. Added to the lipstick, my shirt was now sporting a diagonal stripe of golden brown on the lower left side. And my never stick caramel mud cake had stuck. In my efforts to prize, to beseech, to grovel to the cake, I eventually had to resort to the Violent Shaking Method to disengage the cake from the tin. Most of the cake existed, except for the remnants that shot in all directions, including straight at my shirt. In my careful attempts to remove some of the caramel meteorites from my shirt, I just added to the mess.

At this time, I was ready to pack up my bat and ball and go home. Of course, I didn't. And for the rest of this fateful afternoon, anyone who saw me collapsed into a giggling fit once they heard the Whole Story.

I just cannot ever, ever wear a white shirt to the Gallery.