A 'trans'gression confession

Now I'm ready to tell him just what I think of his stupid rules and that I didn't think to bring shoes, but a withering glare from my soulmate makes me change my mind.

"Fine," I tell him, and get up to leave. But I wait just outside until I see him at the back of the room full of people and the band, then return to take up a position with Cathy at a table against a wall. The only way he'd be able to tell if I'm wearing shoes is to get down on his hands and knees and look under the table. He doesn't do that.

This dress code seems pretty ridiculous considering that during the day, guests are permitted to wander around in the dining room wearing next to nothing. In fact at lunch time I found it a bit hard to concentrate on the smorgasbord when a couple of shapely young things wearing bikinis made out of what could have been a few postage stamps leaned across the table from the opposite side.

"That's custard you're putting on your prawns and calamari, not mayonnaise," my ever-vigilant wife whispers icily in my ear, just before a muscle-bound male in a brief pair of budgie smugglers makes his way towards her. (Budgie is not really the right word – this was more a young scrub turkey, neck outstretched).

Cathy forgets about me and the custard, then there is the embarrassing sound of cutlery sliding off her plate and hitting the tiled floor.

When we return to our table, we exchange looks of mutual agreement that neither of us will mention our momentary distractions.

So you can see why I'm feeling a bit rebellious about the ridiculous night footwear rule and defying the bouncer who continues to cast suspicious looks in my direction.

But eventually nature calls and I wait until he's out of sight before heading for the men's room. Through one door and there's a small room with another two doors. I open one and see a big mirror, a bench and several hand basins. Through yet another door and there's a row of cubicles, but no urinals.

"That's a bit odd," I think as I'm using one of the cubicles, when suddenly the room is full of female voices, giggling and chatting loudly like a bunch of lorikeets settling in a grevillea bush.

The penny drops. This is not the men's room and there are girls in the cubicles on either side of me, still talking loudly over my head. Somehow I'd opened the cleaner's access between the two toilet blocks which someone had left unlocked.

I duck low and wait until I think the coast is clear before making a runner. But the adjoining powder room is still full of girls who laugh, squeal and yell at me all at once.

Then I'm out the door, the bouncer spots me, I wave frantically to Cathy and head for the nearest exit.

Outside in the cool fresh air she joins me and we agree to call it a night…

Honestly Moira, I promise to totally avoid change rooms and leave women's toilets for women from now on. If ever you join the southern migration to sunny Queensland and join the LNP you'll get my vote!