Byline: Elaine Morgan
# I CAN'T say I ever suffered withdrawal symptoms when the days of wine and roses came to an end. Fame was good fun, but it faded over the decades to the level of ``Didn't she used to be a writer?'', which I found pleasantly relaxing. Then I got an invitation to attend the Welsh Bafta awards ceremony, and it all came flooding back.
Feeling badly out of touch, I read The Western Mail Magazine's advice on tiny bejewelled handbags etc. It warned me not to bare too much skin, nor risk vital bits of my anatomy escaping from their moorings.
More relevant would have been stuff like, ``If the material is thin, don't wear that vest, or the Damart label will show through.''
My final ensemble was a pink effort, greeted by the organisers with, I thought, a touch of relief. I recently made a song and dance about the rights of senior citizens to be as eccentric as they like, so perhaps they'd feared I might turn up in slacks and a cardie, smelling of Vicks.
The huge hall was embellished with a million coloured lights; there were limousines, bouquets, champagne, photographers, fireworks, celebrated Edwardses from Huw to Gareth, some old acquaintances, and the always moving sight of young contenders thrilled at getting their first break.
The ambient lighting was so low that I couldn't read the menu, possibly in order to make us all look younger than our real age. It certainly succeeded. On meeting two …