No time for post-honeymoon depression as London return piles on the glamour

On the plane back to Heathrow, I was thinking I'd had enough excitement, and it would be nice to get into a quiet routine for a while. Honest.

Clearly, I hadn't checked the social and work diaries before having that thought. If I had, I would have seen tickets for the Royal Opera House after the first workday back. Piers' annual company social ... a grand masquerade ball ... on the Friday night. The next week, off to a cruise ship to the Channel Islands for three days on the Communications Directors' Forum. So much for a quiet life.

Heading to the opera on our first night back wasn't ideal, but it was the only night we could get my father to the performance before he went back to the States on Wednesday. I've never seen anything I didn't like at the ROH, of course, and it's the grand, established blockbusters of the repertoire like La Traviata where they really hit their stride. Even the great critic of Italian opera, my new husband, can't say too much against this particular work. Grand setting, great music, good pacing. What's not to like?

This is a production first created by Richard Eyre in 1994, and is one of the ROH's most regularly revived works. The sets are a show in themselves. The first party scene is a dramatic two story affair with guests coming up and down curving staircases as action takes place in the drawing room at the top. The gambling den at the end of act 2 is smoky, a bit sinister yet echoingly grand; a perfect evocation of the raffish end of late 19th-century Parisian high society. The action wraps in Violetta's simple, impoverished bedroom, but the tall windows and use of space convey an almost church-like atmosphere as our heroine reaches her end.

You've barely had time to settle into your seat at the start when the rousing drinking song "Brindisi" makes you want to jump up again and raise a glass. (We didn't, of course, but we did exchange warm smiles. Remember, dear readers, this is the song we played as we entered our wedding meal.) Russian soprano Marina Poplavskaya and American tenor James Valenti were excellent as Violetta and Alfredo, not just in the quality of their singing, but in their acting. This is perhaps one of the most poignant yet believeable stories in all opera. Violetta, the courtesan with the noble heart who finds true love, then gives it up for the greater good of family honour. Alfredo, passionate and impetuous, who is too thick to see the sacrifice his one true love makes until she's on her deathbed. The couple played out the arc of falling in love, falling out, bitter recrimination and regret, ending with understanding, love and loss with a passion that had me reaching for the tissue.

The PWC annual party later in the week wasn't quite so grand as Violetta's salon, but it wasn't far off. After years of cost constraints at my own company, it was delightful to get treated to such a sophisticated and well-funded display of employee appreciation. Maybe I should have been an accountant. (Hmm. Would have required maths skills. Maybe not.)

The venue was the headquarters of the Honourable Artillery Company, a hidden gem in the City of London. The HAC is a voluntary regiment of the Army, founded in 1537, prestigious ever since and now acting as both a registered charity and an active military unit. Their headquarters is a gracious Georgian house a stone's throw from Moorgate tube, fronted by six acres of garden. This is all ringed by city buildings, so you'd never know it was there unless you were actually seeking it out. Once inside their grounds, you have the bizarre spectacle of country house and expansive lawns entirely ringed by urban tower blocks. We were in the Prince Consort Room, a modern, purpose-built function space to one side of the house. Smaller parties can take over the main building itself which, as the website shows, is an early Georgian blockbuster replete with wooden paneling, impressive portraits and glittering chandeliers.

The PWC party didn't need the glitzy background, however, since the guests themselves were a star attraction. This was a full on masquerade ball, heavy on the Venetian influence. Women in glamorous evening wear, men in dinner jackets, and the whole assembly in masks ... with a good portion of the masks large and flamboyant enough to hold their own on St. Mark's square any night of Carnevale. The girl who won the best mask of the evening award had gone to a makeup artist earlier in the day and had hers painted on, swirls of powder blue and gold to match her gown, highlighted by sparkling crystals affixed in curves across her brow and cheekbone. Another of Piers' colleagues had a full mask topped by a tricorn hat and flamboyant feathers, worthy of Casanova. Had I known how seriously Piers' colleagues take their dressing up, I would have made more effort!

As it was, we got lucky. I grabbed a mask I'd brought back from Venice off the shelf in my office for myself. With a bit of time to spare on Wednesday evening, I went to the craft store, found a blank plastic plague doctor's mask (the traditional one with the big beak) and jazzed it up with some baroque-style wrapping paper and red feathers. I was just trying to get something that vaguely matched my headgear, but it turned out he was awarded the best home made mask prize. Now, this might have been because in this sophisticated and free-spending group, most people hired masks rather than making their own. Or maybe they just felt they should be nice to the newlywed. I like to think it was an honest acknowledgement of artistic ability. (My mother would be proud.)

Whatever the case, it was a nice conclusion to the first week back. So many friends have warned me of post-honeymoon depression, where you get all glum and bored because your post-marital life is dull in comparison to the excitement of planning the wedding and traveling afterwards. If this week is anything to go by, I think I'm safe from that complaint.