It’s 9 PM on Saturday night, I’m wearing a black dress, long satin gloves and black cloak, and masquerade mask. I pass the mirror on my way out, and have a moment’s hesitation. For a moment the couch, Comet and my pajamas beckon. Maybe there’s still some of the game left.

“Get out, you”, I tell myself and fly out the door.

I arrive at the Swinging Air Force’s masquerade ball only to find all lights out and the door locked. Perplexed, I feel eyes on me. I turn and see a man peeping from between the brim of his fedora and the upturned collar of his trenchcoat. “Closed”, the shady stranger says, “the authorities closed it down. Too many strange goings on”.

-At swing? I say, incredulous.
- Indeed. But perhaps if you’re quiet. Maybe if you’re quiet, and go round the back, you can find a way in… Keep your mask on, do not show yourself.

Oh, I get it. This is like those hidden swing nights of the thirties. Nice effect. I wrap my large cloak about me and check out the back to find a metallic door without a knob at the top of a disused staircase. I climb up and knock. It opens just a bit and a masked, phantom-of-the-opera type in a tuxedo and top hat greets me and gives me a once over. He then opens it widely and hands me a glass of champagne. I walk down corridors filled with masked revelers in tuxes and elegant formal dresses. I feel like I’m at an orgy. In the main hall, balloons are falling from the ceiling while Harlequin-dressed waifs hang acrobatically from dramatic red sashes above the dancefloor, twirling Cirque-du-Soleil style. A big band plays a familiar tune.

I drink the champagne and happily lose myself in the sea of masks, dancing with one mysterious partner after another. To think I was looking forward to just watching the game tonight. Montreal loves to surprise me with special gifts like this.