Under the dousing of first-night perfume, too much of it, sneaking across the chemical trails of dry-cleaned dinner-jackets. The enemy is scattered. Five rows away I glimpse Georgie Shumway gaying it with a rotund fellow on her left.
2010, Maureen Jennings, Except the Dying, page 195:
"I doubt she walked all the way from home without her boots." […] "I suppose she could have been gaying it in one of these cottages,” said the constable. “It's possible, but she's a long way from her own territory. I'm more inclined to think she came in a carriage. Maybe somebody wanted a winter poke."
