I have no photos to document my prom night... twenty years later oh how I wish I could be digitally inserted into Oona's cute little stretch mini... but here is my description of the event. Perhaps you will understand why documenting it seemed unnecessary and indeed borderline masochistic.
In England we had these awful things called “Balls,” that were basically bastardized versions of old-fashioned Debs nights out, but gussied up for slutty English girls who wanted to drink and snog. The "Balls" weren’t affiliated with your school, but were thrown by entrepreneurial young society men who saw an easy way to get 30 pounds ( a huge sum of money for a middle-class teen) out of lots of girls and boys and lock them in a room with purloined Shandy and some Duran Duran on endless loop. The guy who ran this particular one - Eddie Davenport - has since been embroiled in many incredibly sleazy English sex / money / title type scandals. I never met him then but he had a pretty yucky reputation even in those early days.
The good girls bought their dresses from this vaguely bridal-ish shop on the Fulham Road, that sold dresses made out of shiny stiff synthetic silk-ish fabric. Very 80s, and very awful. Mine was lemon yellow and a two piece, I remember it having long sleeves and a short skirt and looking like some bizarre out-take outfit from Melanie Griffith’s character in “Working Girl.” It really was horrible. As a seamstress is blows my mind that I was ever the kind of person who bought dresses like this, and I still feel a twinge of guilt that my (at that time struggling) Mom put down a meaningful amount of cash for it.
The boys wore expensive tuxedos that had been handed down through the generations and Wayfarer sunglasses. Converse sneakers if they were trying to "go rogue."
I went with an awful boy who kept trying to look down my top and who I never saw again. Thank God.
And of course after I showed up in my Lemon Popsicle outfit my best fr-enemy showed up in this incredibly sexy crushed velvet, skin-tight dress with feet and feet of black fringe at the hem. She was the kind of girl who would go to the pub at lunch and drink vodka and limes while I had a ginger ale. Bitch. She looked super hot and "fashion-y," and I think that was the first moment in my life that I became aware of the divide between girls who were still reading "Just Seventeen" and girls who had moved on to read "Elle."
She actually went on to become a sort-of society-model. The kind of girl who was regularly featured in "Tatler" with her name printed beside her face. In 1980s new-old-money England she had the slightly tarnished currency that comes from being pretty and rich but untitled.
I went home on the No11 bus, no snogging, no drinking, and I lost one of my horrible pointy toe flats in the scrum. I seem to remember they were an odd shade of green.
And this explains why there is NO photo documentation of this particularly horrific event!