The Girl in the Cheesecloth Dress.

I was in a nightclub many years ago, and there on the dance floor was a girl clothed in translucent ectoplasm. Or could it have been white samite? I couldn’t tell; I didn’t care.

She disappeared somewhere around midnight, but by then she’d told me enough about herself to track her down the next day. And you know what? In the cold light of day she looked and walked like Dick Emery, and she was married anyway (to a man I subsequently discovered liked his rice pudding cold and got very angry if it was served hot. True.)

And that was when I first realised that life and glamour and cheesecloth dresses are all illusion.

The Bee Gees brought me here.