I remember my debs – and there was no envelope full of cash

DO YOU remember your debs? I do. Well it was called a grad in my day. They probably changed the name because ‘debs’ sounds way grander. The first one I ever went to was probably the best. A friend who went to boarding school in Waterford invited me. So not only was I going to a grad but a grad in a different county. That was considered very cosmopolitan.

I borrowed a dress from my brother’s girlfriend. She was about five inches taller and a size bigger but I didn’t care. I swanned around in this white and red satin creation like I was Vivienne Leigh in Gone With The Wind. From what I can recall we got a lift to Waterford in a sausage van and it was a right night. Few drinks, a bit of a boogie on the dance floor, party in someone’s house afterwards and we all walked into town for breakfast as the sun was coming up.

The few other debs that I attended, including my own, were more or less the same sort of thing – bit of drinking, bit of dancing, bit of shifting if you were lucky and then you went home at some unearthly hour to sleep off the hangover.

Well it seems the whole debs concept has moved on from its humble origins to become something akin to a dry rehearsal for a wedding!

These days apparently, a debs requires all sorts of extras such as stretch limos, pre-debs parties, post-debs parties and – wait for this – debs cards that you’re supposed to put money into like a

Holy Communion card.

I know.

So I was in my local cafe the other day grabbing a coffee and I noticed it was unusually busy for 3 p.m. I casually asked the girl behind the counter why. ‘Oh it’s all the debs. People are coming in to collect the food,’ she explained.

‘Do they not have sitdown meals any more?’

I asked innocently. She laughed. ‘Oh no. The food isn’t for the actual debs itself. It’s for the parties before the debs.’ She then went on to explain that nowadays, the parents of the debutante hold a party before the debs and invite all the family, relations, neighbours in to have a gawk at the aforementioned debutante before they go on their merry way.

In exchange for a gawk and a glass of cheap prosecco, they are expected to hand over a card with a few bob in it to the debs person. The debs person says thank you and stuffs his or her winnings into an embellished clutch before heading off.

Initially I was appalled at the idea of it all. It just seems so crude to invite people over and then embarrass them into having to give your offspring money to go out and enjoy themselves. But then I thought, hang on now. The Eldest is 15. He’ll be having his debs in three years’ time.

If I plan this wisely and keep on good terms with all the neighbours (quite possible), family (not likely) I could be on my way somewhere exotic in 2020.

Integrity is overrated. St Lucia here I come!