Ah yes, Twickenham and the cinder paths, I remember it well. I would arrive there looking like I had just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine and end the day looking like a poor bedraggled little urchin that needed a good wash, either fried to a crisp or frozen half to death depending on the weather and where we were sitting in the stadium.
The first time I went I was just 15 years old, not bad looking and had spent hours getting ready. I was eager to impress the lads. I wore a pretty, floaty dress and open toe sandles with carefully polished toes. I felt fantastic! As the day progressed I watched with horror as my beautifully manicured and carefully painted toes turned black, as did my face and hands, and my pale floral dress became a scrap of dirty old rag.