An unironic curtsy
My daughter just became the ACT’s 2023 Junior Ambassador for the Fred Hollows Foundation. Yes, that Fred Hollows—the Foundation that works to eradicate preventable blindness around the world.
So I was rather pleased and proud of her, and happy enough to bother taking the family to Sydney for the ceremony. “Lounge suit” was mentioned as a dress code (with school uniform allowed for the kids) so I knew it’d be a little bit fancy but although I looked up “Lounge suit” at one point the only thing I remembered was “not jeans” and that it was at Government House. Lizzie already had a nice dress, and Chris and I were incredibly pleased that Tim permitted us to buy him a pair of chinos and a short-sleeved button-up shirt.
On Saturday night, worried about parking (a long walk from a car park is painful for me) I googled the venue, and. . . uh. . .
That is Government House in Sydney.
It’s 175 years old and hosts royals when they visit. It’s directly next door to the Sydney Opera House, situated within the Botanic Gardens that are in central Sydney, overlooking the harbour. That carpark alone is worth more than all the houses on my street. (And, I’m happy to report, parking was free for the event and about 50m from the door). It’s also the residence of the governor of Sydney aka the vice-regal. There are proper, official protocols for the governor, which don’t require curtsying but do allow it.
I was excited and terrified and delighted. It was immediately clear that I should have paid more attention to what a “Lounge suit” dress code means (it means dresses below the knee and heels for women, with suits and ties for men). Not as formal as black tie or white tie, but a whole lot more formal than my wedding (at which, for the record, I wore white sandals when I wasn’t actually barefoot). I started practising my curtsy (and it was extremely unimpressive; my balance sucks… I was also never going to wear heels, even if I owned a pair).
I would be wearing crocs. My ‘good’ crocs, that are the same approximate shape as regular black non-heeled shoes, but are made of plastic.
Chris doesn’t currently own a suit.
I began psyching up. Confidence is more potent than any dress code. I could do this.
I began consciously flipping through personalities in my head. Would I be charmingly witty? Ironic about the fanciness? Would I act as if I went to this kind of event every day, and conduct the most perfectly boring normie conversations ever? Would I focus on networking with the rich and powerful, hoping to gain money, influence, future patrons, or some combination of the above? And if so, which of my many selves would be the most likely to gain something useful (the Castle of Kindness self, obviously, since that’s what Lizzie was getting the award for)? Would I chat with the governor about the intricacies of living in a semi-public imitation castle, as I plan to do one day?
On Saturday we visited the beach, enjoying the tidal pool at Collaroy (also fancy, but in a very different way and with a very different dress code).
The big day came around, and fortunately we had all morning to get ready, which I kicked off with a massive panic attack (stifling the sobs so as not to wake Chris). Nowadays, I get a panic attack every time I want to try to look vaguely presentable. I guess it’s officially part of my process as an extremely overweight woman. It’s a factor in my not going to markets any more. Luckily, I don’t get panic attacks for job interviews, because in job interviews I’m trying to look reliable rather than pretty. Still masking in a big way, but that’s a legitimate part of the job interview process.
The kids looked spectacular though. I think it’s been at least 5 years since Tim last submitted to a button-up shirt, so that was very exciting. Lizzie is wearing my jade necklace.
I am not coordinated enough to apply lipstick well (on either Lizzie or myself, it turns out), but so be it. I used a hair straightener on Lizzie’s fringe, which I was happy about. Her shoes are too big (we were in a mad hurry at Kmart when we bought them for her “Limelight” performance), and Tim’s shoes have holes in them (he kicks stuff a lot) but… oh well.
Chris does at least own a jacket and several ties.
I informed Lizzie that she should still smile in photos, and off we went. It was muggy weather and some of my meds make me feel the heat. That and anxiety makes me sweaty, which is… not ideal.
Still, we arrived and went inside and (eventually) realised Lizzie was meant to sit in the front row. (This gave the organiser conniptions which I didn’t know about until later because she could see Lizzie’s empty chair and was calling and messaging and emailing us, but we had cunningly turned off our phones when we arrived forty minutes early.)
As we walked into the building I heard music and correctly guessed that it was coming from a musician’s gallery. That was fun. A navy guy stood up to tell us the protocols that I’d already studied from the web site, and then I recognised the MC—TV and radio smart and funny guy Adam Spencer—which was cool too.
Everyone was dressed well, although some commoners were dressed in cocktail style rather than lounge suit.
Unfortunately the room was fairly warm, and I spent most of the ceremony fanning myself with the program, knowing it was probably rude and definitely distracting but that it was also necessary. You can’t easily install AC in a 175 year-old building that is painted and gilded on every inch of the walls and ceiling. And of course one couldn’t possibly have ceiling fans—nor would they be much use with a ceiling so high.
Sitting up reasonably straight for 1.5 hours was beyond me. My back hurt so much that at one point I had to go outside (after the Junior Ambassadors received their certificates, thankfully, or I would have stayed no matter what). There is a stunning Moreton Bay Fig just outside the entrance that is only slightly younger than the 175 year-old house. I took several photos and it may end up on the revised cover of “Bali B&B” as there is a giant banyan in that story (and it needs a post-comp cover).
Lizzie’s phone went off promptly at 3:05pm, which would have shattered our illusion of classiness if it had still been intact at that point.
The ceremony ended at last (I’m sorry, but I really do hate speeches even when they’re not causing me physical pain) and we were invited to the eastern side of the building for canapes and drinks. I took some photos of the gorgeous Lizzie before she was whisked away for the pro photos.
She was returned to us eventually; I tried and failed to secure a mini lemon meringue pie for her; and then it was time to go home.
That is a nice verandah.
I didn’t actually talk to the notables, and the people I did talk to mostly had some kind of role that I was unable to remember (so I spent my energy trying to hide the fact that I didn’t know who they were even though they’d definitely been introduced to us all during the ceremony). Then I talked to a parent because they were a Muslim woman standing off to one side and I hated seeing them excluded even if it was both purely symbolic (they were certainly not being shunned; few people present knew each other) and entirely due to them keeping an eye on their kids. Which, after all, gave us something in common.
So kudos to me I guess for not being tacky and chasing the rich folk.
Then we left, pausing only to thank Her Excellency and Mr Dennis Wilson for their hospitality (I performed a real live unironic curtsy and a very appropriate court bow, respectively) on our way out.
Something extraordinary (for me) happened as Her Excellency complimented Lizzie on her dress and tried to engage her in conversation. Lizzie, nervous, did a perfect imitation of me joking about her and Tim from a few minutes earlier.
I was stunned to hear myself repeated so accurately and I knew I hadn’t said anything inappropriate so it would be okay. Chris heard her gently mocking Tim and cut her off before she could say how annoying he was (which was not actually where the sentence was going).
I realised with all the clarity of a voice from Heaven that our autistic Lizzie isn’t a masker, exactly… she’s a mimic. Which is a type of masking, but a very specific one. I’m still very much thinking about what that means for her in social situations. Mostly it makes her seem weirdly stilted because of course she’s imitating someone else—especially tone and humour, which in this case was super weird for a child to use. But now that I understand her so much better, I can teach her… something. Not sure what, but something. I’m still thinking.
So in the end I think Tim came across as the most normal, sane, and classy member of our family. Here he is running away from the camera after dancing in front of it.
Here’s one of the professional photos, from this article.
Due to the sweatiness, boringness, panic attacks, and (more than all the rest) physical pain involved in fancy events, I won’t be seeking out anything fancy in future. Unless it involves sitting down (with the ability to move around as needed), excellent parking, no speeches, great food, and interesting company. (Ideally super rich and powerful company that is desperate for someone to mention charities and projects that they’d just love to immediately throw money at.)
But I’m glad I got to curtsy for real, just once in my life.
And then I changed my clothes in the carpark, because I couldn’t cope. Realised later that of course security watched the whole thing—they have to.
My body is really not my friend, and really really not classy. But since I knew that in advance, I had set aside clothes to change into that prevented me flashing anyone. Yay?
Felicity Banks 
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