I write this in hold up stockings, sequinned hotpants and a bowler hat, which I agree, sounds like the opening gambit of a sex chat line but is actually, weirdly, true. Thing is I’m off to another fancy dress party (Liza Minnelli in Cabaret in case you were wondering).
These are the same hot pants which I consigned to history the day I turned 30, the idea, I think, was to age gracefully. Strange thing is, since moving to the country five years ago, these hot pants have had more action than they ever did in London.
Come to think of it, I can’t think of a single fancy dress party in almost 20 years of living in the capital. They say you have to make your own entertainment in the country and in this Dorset backwater dressing up seems to be the drug du jour. But at least it's not crack cocaine.
Who knew I’d get so much wear out of the 100 per cent nylon nun’s habit? Got to say there’s nothing quite like being behind the steering wheel in a full wimpole – I’d recommend it. Call it a throwback to my staunch Catholic upbringing (isn't everything?), but doing tequila shots with a monk and a man dressed up as Jesus (smock, sandals, thorns n all) is the ultimate buzz, I find.
The other day I was telling a friend that it was exactly five years since we left London.
‘Which stage are you in, then?” he asked.
He explained that whenever ex-townies told him they were rearing pigs or keeping chickens, he found himself thinking: 'Ah they’re in the pig stage. Or, they’re doing the home-grown veg thing. That won’t last.’
Having scrupulously avoided anything as potentially taxing as pigs, chickens or vegetables, the only real change I can identify is a thirst for dressing up. I wonder what comes next? Worrying isn't it.