The Swan Girls' Christmas Ball
You have to have an eighteen inch waist to even be in the race to find a husband.
For supper, mid way through the dancing ,there were little birds jellied in aspic, towering blancmanges in rose and lavender, iced cakes ringed with Christmas roses and icicle shaped biscuits, cups of syllabubs and frosted bottles of champagne. Port-faced men forked mounds of roast beef and savouries onto their plates.
The girls in corsets could eat nothing at all. They sipped peach sorbets stoically from tiny iced spoons and eyed each other warily, worried they hadn’t many hours left in which to shine…
Please please may the Marchmont chest give me the freedom to escape all this.