Melbourne Cup 2009

Ah, Melbourne Cup.

It's the time of year when sunny, spring days stretch languidly from sunrise to sunset.

All the glorious blossoming flowers are at their grandest, tall and proud as they stand on the sidelines, waiting for the race that stops the nation.

Women spend the morning giggling, sipping champagne and excitedly putting on their perfect cup dresses with matching accessories and fascinator.

They spend the day wandering around the field, admiring the strikingly beautiful horses whilst slyly sneaking glances at all the men in their finest attire.

More champagne is sipped as the day heats up, everyone seems to be forgetting that alcohol is not the best thirst quencher, but they keep trying to satisfy a parched throat.

It's a day of people watching. Hesitantly watching that no-one has shown up in your frock, or worse still, wearing YOUR frock but pulling it off a lot better than you. Laughing internally at the strange fashion choices for certain body types, yet marvelling at their confidence to pull it off.

Stumbling home barefoot, carrying your high heels. The dress is now a little skewed with stains splattered down the front and grass marks on the bum. The fascinator is not so fascinating anymore, resembling more of a bird accident in your hair than a delicate ensemble.

See, it's not all about being stopped in your tracks by the race.

It's wearing your finest, eating the best and only drinking from the top shelf.

It's a day of luxury and decadence, the day that not blowing your wage on a horse is considered un-Australian.

So, how did I end up in a common cotton maxi dress and thongs? Eating skinny dips with low point rice crackers, and only drinking apple cider? Apparently its the race that only stops the adults of the nation, cause the kids were still going at full speed as we grown ups tried to watch the horses.

Next year girls. We'll chuck an Astra and glam it up in the Emirates tent. No kids.