​Dressed to thrill at the Met Gala in my Cancer Research UK cardie - Susan Morrison

Here’s one I didn’t try on earlier - Kim Kardashian’s Met Gala 2024 corset

​Unaccountably my ticket for the Met Gala never arrived. Lost in the post, I assume.

I had my outfit ready. Oh, I know the beautiful people had the theme of “Game in Time”, but I’m a maverick, me. I go my own way. “Mad Old Crotchety Besom”’ would have been my go-to look.

I had my answer ready for the red carpet questions like “Who are you wearing?”

A terrible question that brings notions of that serial killer from Silence of the Lambs to mind.

In the main, I would have replied, as I sailed regally past, the fashion houses of BHF and CRUK. British Heart Foundation and Cancer Research UK.

I do feel a bit guilty supporting the heart people. I’m Team Cancer, and you bet I want to see some breakthroughs there, but BHF does have a smashing shop on Great Junction Street.

In mitigation, a dear friend of mine, a fellow-columnist on this very newspaper, volunteers at a McMillan shop.

Apparently no-one can get out of there without at least two more cardigans that they had meant to buy. Which, presumably, is two.

He’s got a great sales pitch, which can involve becoming lachrymose about his friend who has suffered two cancers, and thus needs people to buy double the woollies.

Not dobbing anyone in, but if you find yourself cornered in a cancer research shop by a slightly weepy man with Oor Wullie Hair and a fake Russian name like Vladimir, then be prepared for a sales tale that will leave you richer in cardies and lighter of cash.

Seriously, thank you all. Every penny really does count.

Of course, I would have been accidentally on trend at the Met Ball, since the theme really was re-inventing past fashion, but they meant Chanel, Gucci and Balenciaga.

Obviously, I wouldn’t wear the last one. Can’t pronounce it. I’d be reduced to mumbling “Oh, this old thing? I just threw it on” as I teetered past on heels tall enough to at least let me be seen over the bar.

Got to say, had that invite arrived I’m not sure I would have dusted off my vintage M&S.

The Met Gala doesn’t really look like a lot of fun. For one thing, they can hardly get up the stairs.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been to family weddings where the mother of the bride had to be manhandled up to the reception, but that was due to an allergic reaction.

Salt and Vinegar Pringles, she said. Thank heaven she watered them down with two bottles of Prosecco. At least the reception was a right old shindig when we got her up the stairs.

The Met Ball looks like it's full of women in frocks so tight they can’t sit down, never mind breathe.

Just how you give the buffet a good seeing to when you’re in a dress that you've been poured into is a mystery to me. You can’t be downing the red wine in pastel haute couture.

Stains are one thing, but what about going for a pee? Exactly. Everyone must just stand about like a game of statues gone horribly wrong.

Nah, if the invite comes next year, I’ll have to turn it down in favour of a night in me jammies watching re-runs of Happy Valley.