Requiem on a gala dinner

And so to the big night out.

Predictably, the night before was spent playing 'musical beds' a game long enjoyed more by the little people than their parents, whereby the household starts the night as a conventional family unit. Children are fed, bathed and story-told into a deep sleep by 8 pm. Mr Q and myself then enjoy a brief spell of togetherness, this usually involves Mr Q reading the newspapers and myself watching the soaps, with a few brief exchanges of conversation between us during the ad breaks. We settle into the marital bed soon after the 9 o'clock news, having assured ourselves that the children have been so tired out by the days activities and look so peaceful that there is no chance of them waking until the alarm clock rings the next morning.

The game starts sometime around 2 am, when child 1 wakes up and runs into the parents bedroom. Child 1 wakes parents, ousts father, and proceeds to fall fast asleep jammed up against mother. Just as mother gets back to sleep child 2 wakes and runs into the parents room, wakes child 1 and mother (again). Child 1 and child 2 then insist that they cannot sleep without mother, whereupon she crams herself into an impossibly small space between them and watches in disbelief as they fall fast asleep. Just as the first light of dawn is coming through the window, she herself caves into exhaustion and passes out. 5 minutes later the alarm clock rings and the little people awake refreshed and ready to face the day. As does Mr Q, safely ensconced in 'daddy's room' since the game began.

Preparation time, as usual is minimal. The new contact lenses are very comfortable and I no longer have bloodshot eyes within 5 minutes of putting them in. If there's any criticism, it's that my vision doesn't seem any better than without them. They'll work themselves into the correct position en route to the dinner I hope. My son, who helped me sort out my make-up bag last week, is refusing to reveal the whereabouts of the magic Laura Mercier concealer that hides all the bags and shadows under my eyes. I think that's called compounding a problem he already created. And my daughter has only landed one chocolaty hand on the dress before wandering off with the babysitter. Nobody will be looking at my left outer thigh area anyway. So we leave the house in relatively good shape.

If whisking means alternatively moving swiftly for a few moments, then screeching to a shuddering halt for several more, then we were whisked along the M50 to Carton House. On arrival we were most definitely moved swiftly into dinner, the pre-dinner drinks having been scheduled with no regard to victims of the city's traffic chaos.

To give credit to my maligned personal dresser, I shone like a brilliant jewel, my magenta dress providing a brilliant flash amongst a sea of black. However, it still could not prevent the eyes-glazing-over effect, with which I have become only too familiar at social events since I chose to stay at home with the children during their formative years. And so my dining companions chatted politely if disinterestedly about children until the tian of crab and avocado with gazpacho vinaigrette and frisee salad arrived, when I happened to remark that I felt the accompanying Chablis seemed a little young, and resembled more a Macon, with the honeyed flavours overpowering the minerality that would develop in another year or two. Now I had their attention. The conversation turned from the predictable subjects of Ireland's economic success and second homes to the much more interesting subject of wine. We learnt that the Dutch representative at the table is also a fan of white Burgundy, and that in Norway, considered such a progressive country in many ways, it is only possible to buy wine from Vinmonopolet, the state liquor stores. My contact lens never did kick in, so I had to resort to bringing home a copy of the menu, and checking out my theory later on, from behind the comfort of my spectacles. It was a Chablis Premier Cru 2005, Bouchard Aine et Fils. A wonderful wine from a highly reputed producer, but capable of much more ageing than the 2 years it was given before being poured into my glass.

My main course prediction was wrong. This time we were served Chateauneuf du Pape 2001, Domaine du Pere Pape. Another safe option from a good vintage, and drinking well now, but as I pointed out to my dining companions, it would not be my first choice to serve with prime Irish fillet of beef, with glazed mixed herbs and peppercorn crust served with parmesan potato and truffle scented jus. I think I would have gone for something weightier, like my prediction of a Bordeaux, more likely left bank with a higher concentration of Cabernet Sauvignon or indeed an Argentinian Malbec. When it arrived the beef course did not have any heavy or overpowering flavours or sauces so in fact the Chateauneuf stood up well to the test. The wines of the Rhone are not a personal favourite, but when matching them with food I find they go better with game dishes and casseroles than with red meats.

And so onto dessert, coffee and cheese (strangely in that order). Enough of wine and the wonderful surroundings of Carton House, it is time for Mr Q and I to be sped home, in time for another round of musical beds.

Personal Shopper

Admittedly it was a long time ago, but I did once live in Paris. I was a beer drinker at the time so wonderful French wines did not enter my radar until many years later. However, I do consider that I learnt a little about style and the art of dressing during my years there, and it has served me well over the years. Nowadays I live in what I hopefully describe as 'casual clothing' i.e. tracksuit or jeans, because I don't even have time to grab a cup of tea before I hit the morning traffic in the mad dash to get to primary school. All this driven by a fear of having to ring some loud doorbell and cause my daughter to suffer from a complex unheard of in my day because she has arrived late for junior infants. Once we get there I am usually to be found lumbering to the classroom gawking slack-jawed at the mothers who appear in co-ordinated 'school run' casual, with full make-up and jewellery. However, a bit of earwigging usually reveals that it is the au pair who gets the children from the bed to the car clutching their healthily filled lunchboxes, while mummy takes her time to sip a freshly made smoothie and apply lipstick.

The years since the arrival of the children have gradually eroded my ability to select an outfit for a night out for several reasons. There are of course the inevitable changes that occur to the body. Damn you Madonna, Demi, Elle, Marcia et al for fooling me into thinking that it was possible for older women to have children and still manage to get back to the shape I was in my 20s. Believe me it doesn't happen to exhausted, genuinely desperate housewives who struggle to get their faces cleaned and teeth brushed before dashing to the supermarket to buy a pack of nappies when baby is down to the last one. That's before I get onto the face, and the hair. Who's that? It can't be me. It is - just avoid looking in the mirror. Then there's the losing touch - not only with fashion which falls way down the list, but current events. Mention something major that happened in the last week and I'll greet it with a blank look. Plane crash? Well, I have been playing with the farm set and singing nursery rhymes all day. Blank look turns to horror, mixed with just the smallest amount of pity.

So with a big event looming, a gala dinner for a group of lawyers at Carton House, hosted by the firm where Mr Q spends more time than is reasonable, I bit the bullet and booked an appointment with a personal shopper at a large department store. My expectations were of a perfectly coiffed, perfectly made-up superior type who would select 2 or 3 classic outfits following extensive discussion of my requirements. What I got was a fashionable youngster, who after the briefest question and answer session - the promised analysis of shape and colour preferences didn't materialise - shot off to scour the store for a cocktail dress. There followed an hour of 'it's not me' or 'I would never wear that' or 'I'm not even going to try that on'. We got there in the end.

So would I recommend the experience? Only if you already have an idea of what suits you, and only if you're prepared to treat your personal shopper as the lady who runs around the store grabbing clothes for you to either accept or reject. Aah, the benefit of age and experience.

And what does this have to with wine? Well, I'd place a hefty bet on a fine Bordeaux being served with red meat and I look forward to giving a full report.