RIP my beloved cocktail frock

I am distraught. My best frock, my absolute go to, always looks hawt, covers up the lumps, illegally short but not slappery, good for every occasion from date to dinner, doesn’t scare the horses dress has been shrunk a good two sizes. I am being punished for taking it to the Chinese dry cleaners down the road who only charge pennies to clean. They did such wonders on my tux and shirts that in a mad rush of blood to the head I thought that they could be trusted with a silk, pailette covered dress. WHAT WAS I THINKING?

And it’s all the more frustrating as my body is not easy to dress. This frock wasn't madly expensive, maybe $250 from French Connection, but I cannot walk off the street & find clothes that fit me. This particular dress was the first cocktail frock in two years that I found that both fitted and flattered me.

Plus it's the only posh frock I left out of storage. Which means either buying a new one or spending hours foraging through the cases of junk and random boxes of crud in my container for a replacement number. Actually I can answer that straight away: I'm saving all my money to spend on fast living in Los Angeles next month, so I mustn't buy a new one. (Begone from my thoughts Net A Porter.)

I suppose I've been lucky: the destruction of a beloved dress has only happened once before when Valentina, the wildly expensive dry cleaners used by Vogue House, appeared to have boiled an Ungaro evening dress I bought in the sale, destroying the interior bodice and, with it, the only outrageously expensive piece I have ever bought myself. Lesson learnt. Until now.

(Wld like to point out that the frock was not quite THAT short usually – my arms are raised in pic to embrace les gars. Of course now it's bloody indecent. Unless the Lenten Fast drops me 20lbs my frock is lost to me forever.)