A Grimm Tale

At least Cinderella had no expectations of going to the Ball.

She knew she was staying at home so she didn't have to worry about the fact that her nails were more ragged than her work clothes. Once she'd finished cleaning the house, she could collapse in a tired heap by the fire, probably nibbling on cheese and having a crafty swig of the cooking sherry. She certainly didn't have to juggle a tight timetable of showers, depilation, hair appointments as late in the day and close to the start of the evening as possible, and she would have had to do that because being a fairy tale babe she'd be bound to have long thick hair intent on obeying gravity, it's an occupational hazard.

It mattered not that the bags under her eyes would not have made it past the Ryanair check-in desk. Even if she didn't have time to lay in a darkened room whilst the chilled Optrex disposable masks did their stuff, a wave of her Fairy Godmother's YSL Touche Eclat wand would have her looking radiant and refreshed in seconds.

Running around the locality collecting, begging ( and if I don't pull my finger out, stealing) raffle prizes was certainly not anywhere on her agenda nor did she have to arrive at the venue a good half hour before anyone else to ensure the table settings had been arranged correctly, place the menu and acknowledgement cards which she'd sat up half the previous night designing, and display the raffle prizes in an appealing manner. Alright, maybe she'd not made trays of pinwheel hors d'oeuvres either but had she thought about it? Huh, had she?

She didn't have the fear that her dress wouldn't fit; that she hadn't taken it to the dry-cleaners since last year ( nothing that a few carefully-aimed squirts of scent couldn't hide, besides after a few glasses of wine they wouldn't notice the mildew round the bottom) or that someone would realise it was the same one she'd been recycling for the last 4 years; or the dilemma whether to opt for the peacock blue sari from 5 years ago which was in danger of becoming a throw for the sofa if it didn't get another wearing soon but could she rely on her own folding abilities and a few safety pins? She wouldn't want to come unravelled when dancing the Jitterbug ( Wham! version) with the local MP.

And all Cinderella had to do was peel a few spuds and sweep a couple of sooty fireplaces every day. It's not like she worked for a living and still hadn't caught up on the backlog from her few feeble days away the previous week. Her journey home wasn't held up by roadworks or the masses gathering together to witness the switching on of the Christmas Lights.

She even got to wear Stripper slippers, which is probably the thing which irks me most.

Bloody Cinderella and her oh-so-perfect-goodie-goodie-bloody Fairy Godmother and her pumpkins. She got to leave at midnight. She didn't have the task of rounding up the drunks and persuading them to leave their drinks/ her bottom alone/ and get in their taxis, collecting up the discarded dickie-bows, handbags, raffle prizes, knickers ( actually, they were mine and I still haven't ever told that story), pay the disco and the caterers and remember to pick up the collection money.

God help Prince Charming if he dared to show his face!