1920s

I was lead impromptu to a little private function at a traditional English pub, where it turns out, the theme of the night was the 1920s. Not being in the least twentified, I convinced myself and others that I was a chambermaid of the time, wearing the ragged old clothes passed on by my rich mistress, a tatty skirt, a grey ageing jumper (which I bought second-hand anyway), and a friend's red lipstick applied in haste to bring on the pout. Oh, and my name was "Gazelle of the Desert"; much more Kamasutra than Surrealist, but I've started to get bored of "Like the country?" at the sound of my name...
In any case, it was all pretty fun, seeing the length to which people fit the glove of the theme. I could imagine a dusty part of their Millenium closets from which they whisk out the feathered head bands, the sequined dresses, lace gloves, bowties, tweed vests and bowler hats. Everyone looked very authentic, and played the part perfectly as they tweaked their accents to match the clothes. Apart from a couple of stray futurists, everyone was very Moulin Rouge. The Three-Piece-White-Suited Count who flew the glass of white wine out of my hand even gracefully replaced it with a shiny white smile and bow of the head. Perfect 1920s manners...
The only fault to the seeming perfection was the anachronistic breakdown of class segregation: the paperboy flirted with the Madam, the mine worker conversed with the Courtisane, the chambermaid (me) with a Baron named Marcus...
Oh, a perfect world...