J did his sword dance in the kilt and sporran after tea.
(Extract from diary of 5th January 1990)
I recently found an amazing shawl-type thing in a charity shop. Just right for the dressing up box, I thought. What dressing up box? E and D are just about still babies, so a dressing up box is a bit premature. I bought it anyway. The future dressing up box is already in my head, so it may as well become a reality.
Dressing up is in the blood. I loved dressing up so much as a child, that my best friend stopped coming round to play with me because she couldn’t bear doing it anymore. Fortunately I moved, and found new friends who although weren’t as enthusiastic about it, were very happy for me to dress up so they could launch me on the unwary public (and relatives). I remember one of their mums hid behind her dad when I appeared at the front door dressed up as an old woman.
I can still hear her shriek “Dennis! Who is it?!” When I was a student, my very effective disguise as an old woman nearly resulted in an ambulance being called and I was in big trouble with my friends.
I could tell you more about the difficulties of walking as a spring onion, the unexpected pirate party and the very large hat I wore to J’s primary school. There has been little opportunity to do much since those days, but I’m planning a possible comeback.
The dressing up box was an essential part of my children’s childhood. It contained such things as the wig I acquired with St. Ivel yoghurt tops, green high heeled shoes (not mine!) and a wooden pirate leg. The children seemed to be permanently dressed up –entering fancy dress competitions, planning great performances and playing practical jokes and living other lives.
This is my favourite dressing up story:
L came home from school one day and said they all had to go in dressed as a character from a fairy tale.
“So what do you want to be?”
“The Emperor without any clothes.”
“Right…”
…and so I made her a hairy chest.
The Edda Diaries 