There’s a busy afternoon ahead of me. It’s already been a hectic morning. I barely had enough time to eat breakfast before I had to run into the city for the first fitting of my inauguration reception dress. Standing around for two hours being poked and prodded by two seamstresses trying to fit my breasts and waist into a corset is not the way I want to spend some of my time. And I don’t need a corset, for the sake of Amhrita. If my waist got much smaller, it wouldn’t exist anymore. But that’s not the worst part. No, the heinous aspect comes under the heading of traditional attire. The proscribed costumes for evening functions are based upon centuries of precisely recorded patterns and endless minutiae for such petty things as trimmings and yards of material permitted for underclothes. It