FANCY DRESS — is there any more benighted phrase, conjuring rag weeks, the Sealed Knot, Morris Dancers, and dismal straight transvestism?
Admittedly, the best party I have ever attended was a Feast of Bacchus bash. However, this was as much a directive regarding behaviour; as to dress, its assorted nymphs and satyrs rendering as the norm rather than some crashing novelty act.
Naturally, I did Titian’s take: all vine wreath, brilliant blue bodice, and sixteenth-century
