Balls!

There is a diplomatic crisis going on in the street.
It's the mess Christmas ball on Saturday and there is all kinds of rising tension, bitterness and recrimination concerning the seating arrangements.
Husbands who have been tasked to put down names on seating plans in the mess are now finding themselves in serious marital disharmony having put their wife next to someone she doesn't want to talk to for five minutes, let alone through a five course meal.
Wives are hopping into their four-wheel drives and zooming down to the mess to rub out names and frantically re-arrange before the whole thing is finalised, whilst cheerfully lying: "I'm so sorry, I can't sit next to you because Rupert - God, aren't men useless! - forgot that we had already promised to sit on the Robertson's table." etc.
Furthermore, there is a logistical crisis as the wife who was supposed to be doing the flowers now can't, so there is some panic amongst the wives who have now been spammed with the task, and much debate about chrysanthemums and gypsophelia. And this is on top of the usual headache surrounding what to wear, finding a cheap-but-reliable baby sitter "...and God knows when I'm going to have the chance to get my roots done!" and so on.
I am well out of it because we aren't going this year, otherwise it would quite possibly be me stressing about my highlights and the suitability of lilies and roses in the table decorations. (Although even if we were, I can't imagine anyone would be fighting to get on our table as we are without doubt the least sociable couple in the street.)
Which is all a bit scary as I am within a whisker of becoming the stereotypical army wife.
I am just a heartbeat away from buying a breadmaker, renaming the dog 'Trooper' and developing an interest in country crafts.
Whatever happened to the girl who liked roll ups and the Stone Roses? If anyone finds her, please post her home!