Anyway, after an hour of foul Francophonery, I was free and teased poor old Okely Dokely by hiding from him all break.
I have an upcoming public performance at Her Majesty's Royal Naval Dockyard, same as last year, playing a Victorian street urchin. Last year I was a chimney sweep, this time I'll be Actor #1 in a tragic tale about child slave labour and poor working conditions before the advent of the Health and Safety Police, leading to a death on the job. How uplifting, I hear you cry, well it certainly is uplifting when one of the characters gets his neckerchief caught in the axle of the mill and is hoisted aloft to his death by strangulation, oho.
Speaking of pulling it off, first I had to try on my old warm undergarments from last year, picture definitely not available. The Dockyard is a cold and windy place in winter, especially when you're standing out there all day begging for sixpence, Guv'nor, to clean yer chimbley. So you have to wear leggings and extra layers underneath your costume. And just because you're wearing leggings, it's got nothing to do with being a girl, apart from where it stops your peanuts getting frozen off, and making you into a girl, er.
And every time you put close-fitting clothing on, you are reminded of Stupid Sexy Flanders on the ski slopes, whose tight-fitting ski-suit makes him feel like he's wearing nothing at all, nothing at all. We like doing the quote and the special movement so much, Jof has banned us from saying it, so we do it when she's out. One pair of leggings wouldn't have fitted a hungry 4 year-old so let's hope that the charity shop can sell them to a hungry 3 year-old.