A confusing family dinner

I could watch the landscape unroll but I can't keep my eyes open. As always, the train makes me sleepy and I can't stop my head from hitting the window, again and again. I know the landscape anyway. The green fields, the sheep and their wires, the small brick houses. It’s a typical English countryside. I’m on my way to a family dinner. All the way, I can't help wondering why this is happening in England when I am French and so is my family. Still, I feel I have to go.
The train stops at an empty station. A low red bridge over the rails allow pedestrian to get from one platform to another. I’m standing there, still. I should know the way to the house but I'm confused. I hope somebody's picking me up. I think they are.

As I get to the house, I am a hundred percent sure something is wrong. This is not the house I grew up in. Instead of the simple Normand house, I am facing a huge and beautiful Victorian mansion. Once open, the massive wooden door faces an impressive staircase set at the back of a beautiful white reception room with a high cellar.
I go up there to unpack my suitcases and funny enough; this is exactly like my parent's house’s first floor. The confusion gets stronger.
It takes me a while to get ready. I can hear the noise from downstairs, filling up the dining room. Glasses clattering, guests chatting, kitchen staff hurrying. My mum comes up to check on me. She tells me to hurry but I have to pack my suitcase now. I don't want to miss tomorrow's train and am afraid I will get lazy in the morning. My sister's friend is getting changed while she's scrutinizing the room. I am sorting my magazines by languages when she comes to me. I explain to her that some are in English, others in French and quickly summarise their topics which seems to satisfy her curiosity. They both leave me to complete my task. I know the dinner as started and I'm late but I can't get this done. It's taking me ages and the more I pack, the more I need to pack. The bag is full.
I'm nearly ready when I hear the door opening. I recognise the deep and soft voice saying "I have to go, have a good evening". It's M, one of my high school friend. He can't be leaving so early it's only 9pm! But I know he works shifts. I am so angry at myself for having being packing when I should have been with him, talking, laughing and enjoying his company. So I drop everything I hold and start running downstairs as fast as I can. In my hurry, I didn't think on putting proper clothes on and half the way down I realise I am wearing one of my sexiest black bustier and a string (1). This is not exactly a family dinner outfit. Never mind, I don't have time to go back upstairs and get changed. I grab a kitchen towel lying on the banister to cover my ass and keep running toward him. He laughs at my sight but he doesn't judge my outfit. I know him for a long time, he saw me looking much worst and (if possible) more stupid than now. He gives me a hug and apologies for leaving early. I apologies for taking so long (2). I can feel my family staring at us and more precisely at my bottom through the open doors but decide to ignore it. And wake up.

(1) Bridget Jones' style
(2)This is when I decide that we are definitely in England. Nobody ever apologies that much in France.