“Mum?” I asked. “How old should a pageboy be?”

“Any age,” Mum said.

“But how old are they usually?”

“As I say, any age,” Mum replied. “Why?”

“Because when I tell people that I’m going to be the pageboy at Natasha’s wedding, they keep saying I’m too old.” I told her, slumping my chin into my fist and sighing. “and I’m way too old.”

“You’re not too old at all,” Mum replied.

“But I will be when Natasha gets married.”

“You’ll still be a boy and that’s the only qualification you need.” Mum smiled. “You’re going to look ever so smart.” she smiled.

“I don’t even know what I’m wearing yet,” I replied.

“Neither does Natasha but she’s still keen on a short suit of some sort.”

I puffed out my cheeks and sighed. “So long as she doesn’t make me wear white knee socks,” I grumbled, recalling a potential outfit my sister showed me a while back; a royal blue velvet waistcoat over a white shirt, with narrow velvet knee length shorts. The waistcoat and shorts looked pretty bad but the boy modeling it also wore girls’ white knee socks and shiny black shoes. I disapproved of the velvet outfit but detested the girlie knee socks.

 

“It’s Natasha’s big day so you’ll wear what she chooses.” Mum reminded me. “Think yourself lucky that she’s not asking you to be a bridesmaid.”

I snorted and said, “Boys can’t be bridesmaids!”

 

“You’d be surprised,” Mum replied. She rummaged in the magazine rack, removed one of Natasha’s wedding magazines. “Look,” she said, drawing my attention to the final featured article on the cover, titled Boys in the Bridal Party. “There’s a whole feature if you want to have a look,” Mum said.

“Not really.” I grimaced, reading the tagline; Being a bridesmaid or flower girl is no longer just a girl thing.

“Well if you’re worried about looking like Little Lord Fauntleroy…” Mum suggested as she flicked through the pages, then held the page up for me. “Imagine how worried these boys were,” she said.

“But they wouldn’t have been a bridesmaid if they didn’t like dressing up,” I said as my eyes hesitantly looked at the handful of featured photographs. “Are they trans-kids?” I asked.

“No… according to the article, they’re all typical boys just like you. Boys with a wedding to attend, just like you.” Mum said. “Would you rather wear this…” she asked, tapping on a picture of a bridesmaid. “…or a Fauntleroy suit?”

I gasped. “Are you sure that’s a boy?” I asked. Mum confirmed he was and drew my attention to the text which stated that ‘Paul wears a white taffeta dress with a pastel pink sash’, and suddenly the thought of wearing a pair of girl’s knee socks doesn’t seem so bad. “Is he wearing make-up too?” I grimaced.

“He is part of the bridal party… so yes,” Mum replied. “…but he’s only wearing a little bit,” she added as she peered at the picture and commented on all the flowers in his hair.

“Those sleeves!” I grimaced, before noticing what appeared to be a massive pink bow on the back of his dress. “Is he wearing girl’s shoes too?” I quizzed.

“He is a bridesmaid.” Mum casually reminded me.

A few weeks later, having completely put the whole thing out of my mind, I could hear Mum and Natasha enthusing over something as I sauntered into the sitting room. “…with some tulip shorts.” my sister said.

“What are tulip shorts?” I asked. Natasha leaned over and showed me her phone. I gulped.

“Cute aren’t they?” she said, adding that she’s not sure about the shirt and tie… but the shorts she really likes.

“You want me to wear those?!”

“Well not these specifically…. but that style.” Natasha replied.

I imagined wearing the bulbous monstrosities. “People will think I’m wearing a nappy!”

“No they won’t… they’ll think, ooh he’s wearing tulip shorts, isn’t he fashionable!”

“Why can’t I wear normal shorts?”

“Because it’s not a normal day.” my sister replied. Mum reminded me of what she’d told me the other day. “What did you tell him?” Natasha asked.

“To think himself lucky that you’re not asking him to be a bridesmaid.” Mum informed her.

“Well it had crossed my mind.” my sister told me. “…and if you were a couple of years younger I might have had you as the flower boy.”

“More than a couple!” I stated, adding that the only flower girls I’ve seen have been no more than five or six years old.

“Yes but it’s different for flower boys… they can be eight or nine… ten tops.” my sister claimed, adding that I’ll be twelve by the time she gets married and way too old to be a flower boy, which is why I’m being a page instead. “..unless you’d rather be a bridesmaid?” my sister mused. “Lottie could be the page girl… she’s about your size.”

“Noo!” I moaned. My sister grinned and said she was only teasing me. “But if you really don’t want to be the pageboy… I could ask Lottie.” she suggested. “A page-girl would be quite novel.”

“No it’s OK… I’ll do it.” I replied. Natasha grinned and told me that I’ll look so cute in tulip shorts. “I don’t want to look cute.” I pleaded.

“You’ll look smart too.” my sister insisted. “…with a little jacket and a bow tie and shiny patent leather shoes.”

“And girlie knee socks, too.” I glumly thought.

The wedding is still months away and to be honest, I seldom thought about it until someone else mentioned it… which, more often than not was my mother and sister discussing the arrangements. One afternoon I came home from school and at first glance, I presumed Mum and Natasha were playing a game of drafts… but they were deciding where everyone would be sitting during the reception and moving mock-tables around a plan of the dining hall. I found it bizarre because the wedding is still months away and does it really matter where everyone sits? Apparently it does. “Where am I sitting?” I asked.

“With Uncle Carl, Auntie Heather, James, Thomas and Lottie.” Mum replied.

“Oh… why aren’t I sitting with you?” I asked.

“Because I’ll be on the head table with Natasha and Jess and her parents.” Mum told me. “You’ll be OK with them won’t you?”

“Yes, I guess.” I mused. Cousins James and Thomas are aged eleven and thirteen and sister Lottie is nine years old. In recent months she’s had a massive growth spurt and is marginally taller than me now. I know I’m not tall but I don’t think I’m particularly short, but both James and Thomas are taller then I am and have started teasing me because I’m shorter than a ten year old girl. I wouldn’t mind but James is almost a year younger than me. I like them but being brothers, they gang up on me a bit, which I guess is why I tend to gravitate towards cousin Lottie when we visit. She’s only nine but she’s really smart and a tom-boy to boot. We used to climb trees together and she’s a real monkey… but her mum went bananas when she realised how high we dared to climb. The next time we visited, Lottie was wearing a big frilly dress to stop her from climbing the trees with me.

“Aren’t you interested?” my sister asked, dragging me out of my memories. She swiped her phone and turned its screen toward me. I gulped. “Not the shirt,” she told me. “But those shorts.”

“They’re horrible!” I gulped. “And that’s not a shirt, it’s a blouse!”

“Boys shirts have ruffles and bows too you know,” Natasha stated. But not like that! I thought. “Anyway, I don’t like that shirt… it’s too,” she said. “But I love the shorts.” she gushed. “Don’t you?”

“No.” I gulped. “Sorry,” I said as she frowned. “Good news about the shirt though!” I jovially added.

She swiped her phone and turned it to me again. “I really like this one too,” she told me as I gazed at the screen.

“That’s for a girl!” I exclaimed. Natasha claimed it wasn’t. “Look at the sleeves!” I proclaimed. Natasha proved it was a boy’s outfit by swiping back the top of the page and showing me the breadcrumbs: Shop > Wedding > Bridal Party > Pageboy. “But girls can be pageboys too… that’s definitely a girl’s outfit.”

“But they have a girl’s version in the bridesmaid’s section… the top has a proper bow instead of a tie, and the shorts are a skirt, with a really frilly petticoat.” my sister informed me as she swiped back to the sailor suit. “Jess prefers the other one,” she said.

“I think I agree.” I gulped. “But not with that shirt!” I added.

“Oh no… I’ll find a much nicer one than that.”

“And much plainer… too… please?” I requested, hoping, as I recalled the monstrously flouncy blouse. “In fact!” I exclaimed, recalling the first pair of tulip shorts my sister had shown me. “…the first pair you showed me looked better than either of those.” my sister swiped her screen this way and that and showed me the image. “The shirt’s too plain though… it has to be a little bit blousy,” she told me.

“So long as it doesn’t have a massive bow like that other one,” I said, glancing ominously at her phone. Those grey tulip shorts are horrible… but worryingly preferable in comparison to those black shorts with brass buttons and a stupidly high waist, and that loathsome nautical outfit. “This is for a girl too!” I noticed. “Look, the mannequin’s got boobs.”

“It’s probably on a girl mannequin because they didn’t have a spare boy mannequin.” my sister told me. “It’s at least unisex and look… it’s in the pageboy section.” she showed me. At the time I thought she was browsing through a retail website. I only got a glance at the now-familiar logo and the board titled Pageboy and the top few tiles. It meant little to me, but in retrospect and knowing what PinBoard is, she was browsing a self-made page full of ideas on how to dress me…. and what I did see in that brief glimpse did look a little too blousy.

A week or two later. Mum said I needed to be measured for my suit and followed a very detailed checklist; collar, shoulders, chest, waist, hips, thighs, inside leg to the knee, then ankle, shoulder to the elbow, elbow to wrist… then the circumferences around my upper arm, above the elbow, below the elbow and wrists. I figured we were finished but Mum still hand to measure the length of my back from nape to waist, and the height of my ‘rise’ from the perineum to waist, plus the length of my neck. “Why do you need the length of my neck?” I quizzed.

“Because in the Victorian and Edwardian eras, shirts had high, stiff collars,” Mum replied. “If it’s too high it will wrinkle,” she added. Having filled in the form, Mum asked me if I was certain about the plain tulip shorts. “Not the ones with the pockets, and not the nautical ones with white trim?” she clarified. I nodded. “Good,” she said, adding some additional info to the form. “Now would you be a trooper and dash this round to the wedding dress shop?” she asked as she picked and sealed an envelope. “It’ll only take you five minutes on your bike.”

“I don’t want to be seen going into a dress shop, Mum!” I moaned. Mum rolled her eyes, told me to make sure that no one’s watching, then quickly pop in… and offered me a pound for my troubles. “OK.”

I cautiously approached the shop, making sure no one I knew was around and trying to appear as if I wasn’t approaching it. Once more glance and I quickly leaned my bike outside and darted in. “Erm… Mum told me to give this to er… Hattie.” I said, pulling the folded envelope from my pocket. The woman asked what it was. “Measurements,” I replied. She asked who my mother was. I replied. She asked if it was for a wedding outfit. “Yes,” I replied. She asked my name. I told her.

“So these are your measurements?” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Well if you’d told me that to begin with we wouldn’t have needed twenty questions.” she retorted. “Don’t worry I’m only teasing you.” she smiled. “Boys always look so nervous when they come in here and quickly engaging them helps break the ice.” she said. “I’m Hattie.” she informed me. “And you must be the pageboy.”

“Yeah.” I mournfully sighed.

“Oh don’t sound so glum about it,” Hattie said. “Most boys who come through my door are being fitted for a bridesmaid’s dress.” she smiled.

“I guess I’m one of the lucky ones,” I murmured.

“I suppose you are,” she replied. I loitered nervously for an uncomfortable moment, hesitantly glancing at all the rails, packed with floaty feminine frocks. “If there’s nothing else… you’d best run along young man,” she told me, adding that she’d see me again when it’s ready for a fitting. I gulped and turned on my heel, glancing at the mannequins in the window display and thinking how awful it would be if I was going to be a bridesmaid instead.

Weeks passed and the prospect of being a pageboy mostly slipped from my thoughts. Christmas came and went. We welcomed the new year with frosty cheer and put the bleak mid-winter behind us, anticipating the onset of spring as the evenings began drawing out. I was nervous as I returned to the wedding dress shop, this time with my mother and sister. They were all smiles and chatty. I felt like a nervous wreck and for good reason.

A few weeks ago I caught a glimpse of a PinBoard gallery on Natasha’s iPad headed ‘pageboy’. The shorts looked as offensive as ever and the sailor suit I’d declined now looks more appealing than the rest. All the shirts are definitely blouses because they’re mostly modeled on women… in fact, all the tulip shorts are modeled on women too… I think. It’s hard to tell on all but one. I only got a minute before the screen powered down… but since seeing that, I’ve been more worried about my outfit than ever.

 

I also learned that the style of shorts I’m having made is also known as pumpkin shorts, bloomer shorts, bulb shorts, and bubble shorts, and having googled most of those… I’m starting to think that I might have been better off wearing a bridesmaid’s dress! I didn’t really believe that, it’s just that I knew my outfit was going to be horrible before I’d even seen it… and I wasn’t disappointed.

I’d never known such a deep sense of disappointment was possible before the outfit was revealed to me. The bubble shorts hang from a pair of braces. As the name suggests, they’re short and bulbous but my attention is drawn by the blouse… wispy and white with ruffles and frills and a floppy satin bow tied at its lace-trimmed collar. The fabric looks thin but I didn’t realize how thin until I noticed that I could clearly see the clothes-hanger through it. That explains why Mum insisted I wore a vest today.

Hattie, the seamstress, removes the garment from its hanger and reveals that the shorts are more of a contraption than an item of clothing. At the back of their high waist is some corset lacing to ensure a perfect fit. The waist fastening isn’t in the middle like normal, they’re on each side, and on the inside of the shorts are some suspender-style straps connecting the waistband to the leg cuffs to give the shorts their bubbled appearance. Hattie explains to my mother and sister that the straps can be adjusted to make the legs a little shorter or longer. “Just make sure they’re both the same length otherwise he’ll look a bit silly.”

“I think I’ll look more than a bit silly in those!” I moaned.

“They’ll look a lot nicer when they’re on,” Mum told me.

I didn’t have to wait long to find out. Hattie took me into her dressing room where I stripped down to my vest and underpants. The shirt, which is definitely a blouse has its fastening down the back, so I stand gracelessly whilst Hattie buttons me in. The shorts have an awkward way of fastening too, with a trio of brass buttons on either side where the pockets should be. “It’s easier if you put the braces on first,” Hattie advised as I struggled to hold them up and fasten the buttons. Once done, she drew the waist in snugly with the lacing on the back, faffed with my blouse, and presented me to my mother and sister. “Oh, you look wonderful!” Mum exclaimed. “Like something out of a fairytale.” Natasha gushed.

“Or a pantomime.” I dryly added. “I can’t believe you’re making me wear this.” I moaned.

“Would you rather be a bridesmaid instead?” my mother smugly asked.

“No,” I replied. Hattie said she’d had a few boys in recently being fitted for bridesmaid’s dresses and said it was lovely that times were changing the way they are. “I’m glad I’m not a bridesmaid,” I muttered as Hattie faffed with my braces and took more measurements.

“Well stop moaning then.” my sister told me. I nervously looked down at myself; my legs looked like two thin twigs sticking out of the bulbous shorts.

My mother and sister began directing me to walk around and turn around and then sit down. “Nicely… keep your knees together… that’s better,” Mum said before asking me to stand again.

My sister noted that they’d gotten squished after sitting and said I’d have to make sure I pull them out to maintain their ‘nice’ bulb shape. I huffed and puffed as I faffed with the shorts and Hattie said she’d have a think about how she could rectify that.

I only wore the horrendous outfit for about fifteen minutes and getting back into my own, normal clothes came as such a relief. On the way home, they kept telling me how nice my outfit looked and how well made it was and the little details such as the corset lacing on the back really set them off. “My legs looked ridiculous,” I grumbled.

“They’ll look OK with a bit of fake tan or something,” Mum told me. “…and I’ll get you some cream to put on them.”

“Why?”

“To get rid of those fuzzy hairs.”

“My legs aren’t hairy,” I claimed.

“They are a little bit,” Mum said. “Anyway the wedding’s still weeks away… you don’t need to worry just yet.”

“That’s easy for you to say… you don’t have to wear it.” I moaned.

“Oh stop worrying.” my sister said. “Everyone’s going to be dressed up; the brides, the bridesmaids, the maid of honor, the ushers, the ring bearer, and the flower girl… you won’t be the only one wearing something fancy and you won’t be the center of attention.”

I suppose she’s right. I’m just one part of a large bridal party and most people will be looking at the two brides since they’re the people getting married… and when it comes to the inevitable wedding photos… I’ll just have to try to hide behind the bridesmaids.

The prospect of wearing my page-boy outfit in public weighed heavy on my mind. However after seeing some pictures depicting everyday life in Elizabethan times, I noticed that the men’s bulbous breeches were very similar to my bubble shorts. With that in mind, I managed to convince myself that my page-boy outfit was just an Elizabethan costume… and considering their fancy shirts and those ridiculous ruffs… my blouse could have been a whole lot worse.

What was I thinking?! When we returned to the wedding dress shop a couple of weeks later for my final fitting, I was reminded just how bad my so-called ‘shirt’ really is. The sheer fabric is far more see through than I recalled, and I hadn’t noticed the tiny white polka dots covering the back and sleeves. The front is as ghastly as I remember, with ruffled lace, broderie anglaise, faux buttons, a flappy round collar trimmed with more lace and big floppy bow around the neck. It’s just a costume, I convinced myself as I was buttoned into the blouse for a second time.

The ghastly bubble shorts hang waiting, but they’re not quite the same as I remember them. “Where’s the braces gone?” I asked. Hattie told me they’d been taken off because my shirt would look nicer without them. With or without braces, my shirt’s going to look like a blouse, I thought. I glanced around Hattie’s dressing room which doubles as her cutting room, and sewing room, and store room. Several dressmaker’s dummies wear partially made garments. Pure white petticoats and pinafores hang where countless bolts of shelved fabric create a resplendent backdrop. My thoughts return to those ghastly bubble shorts as the final few buttons are fasted. “There you are.” Hattie said, patting my shoulders.

“Thanks.” I meekly reply, reaching for the hanger on which my shorts hang. The sooner I try them on, the sooner I can take them off… I figured.

“Not just yet.” Hattie said. “I made you some petti-shorts.” she proudly stated.

I gulped so hard I almost swallowed my tongue. “I can’t wear those!” I gasped.

“Of course you can.” Hattie replied. She acknowledged that they were very girlie, but all those ruffles of frilly lace are necessary so my shorts will maintain their bubble shape. “…you wear them over your underpants…” she told me. “…and you’ll have your shorts on top.”

Pulling the petti-shorts on was easy if a little embarrassing. Putting my bubble shorts on over them was frustratingly fiddly, trying to get all the layers of frilly lace to lay properly inside the shorts. I fastened the awkward buttons and Hattie drew in the lacing on the back before faffing with my flouncy blouse. The reaction from my mother and sister was much the same as last time, only this time they comment on how the petti-shorts give my shorts the perfect shape after sitting and standing. “Those petti-shorts make all the difference.” my sister said. “You’re so clever Hattie.”

“It looks like I’m wearing a nappy.” I grumbled.

“Nobody’s going to think that.” my mother insisted. “Everybody knows what tulip shorts are.”

“They’re more pumpkin.” my sister commented.

“I thought they were bubble shorts.” I said as Hattie claimed they we’re bloomer shorts. “It still looks like I’m wearing a nappy.” I grumbled.

“No it doesn’t!” they claimed, before letting me finally get changed.

I whined about the outfit all the way home, claiming it to be ten times worse now I’ve got to wear those petti-shorts. “No one’s going to see them!” my sister retorted. “…and before you say it… no one’s going to think you’re wearing a nappy either!” she added, putting a stop to my next point of objection. I quietly grumbled to myself, recalling being buttoned into that delicate and seemingly weightless shirt. Everything about my outfit is worse than I ever imagined… and to think I thought the worst bit would be having to wear girl’s knee socks!

The weeks and days rolled by and all of a sudden the wedding was only seven days away. Mum had been delaying getting my hair cut for months and finally, she took me to for a haircut. “This isn’t the barbers!” I whined as we approached a hairdressers.

“A barber can’t do a proper pageboy cut.” Mum told me. “And it’s not just a ladies’ hairdresser, they do children too.” Mum added, drawing my attention to the sign above the window stating: Ladies and Children’s Hairdresser. I’ve been shown enough pictures to know what a pageboy haircut is and to be honest, it was the least of my worries. All the hairdresser did was tidy up my dishevelled mop and it looked OK until she took a hairdryer and brush to it and all of a sudden, my head looked like a mushroom! Mum certainly approved of the style, and said she couldn’t wait to see it finished, which puzzled me somewhat. A very long hour and a half later and my mid-brown hair is now blond. “You look like a proper pageboy now.” Mum told me. “I can’t wait to show your sister!”

“Well at least it’s the school holidays so no one has to see how stupid I look.” I grumbled, before seeking clarification that I will be allowed get it cut properly after the wedding.

“Of course.” Mum replied. “If that’s what you want.”

“Well I don’t want to look like Little Lord Fauntleroy when I go back to school.”

“Just remember that Little Lord Fauntleroy is exactly what your sister wants.”

“How could I forget?” I thought as Mum paid the bill. The stylist smiled at me and told me to make sure I brush my hair one-hundred times every night to make sure it stays nice. “A hundred times!” I gasped.

“At least.” she said.

“I’ll make sure he does.” my mother said.

I gulped and glanced at my reflection in the car window, before climbing inside. “You could have told me I was getting it dyed blond.” I grumbled. Mum claimed that I knew, or at least should have known. On reflection, however, every picture I’d been shown of a boy sporting a pageboy style had blond hair… so maybe I should have guessed. When we got home, my sister was in two minds about my haircut. Mum said it was a perfect pageboy cut, pulling up a picture on her phone. My sister found another image of the type of pageboy haircut she preferred and I found myself looking at both…

…the style I have is the longer one on the right. The style my sister prefers is the shorter one on the left. Mum proclaims the short one to be a bowl cut rather than a pageboy but my sister disagrees and for once, my opinion was sought. Not wanting to return to the hairdresser, I said I preferred it longer and my sister conceded. Then Mum conceded and said that it’s Natasha’s wedding, and if she wants me to have a shorter hairstyle, then I should. My sister mulled over the photos indecisively and I was left not knowing if I’d be returning to the hairdresser or not.

Mum did make me brush my hair one hundred times before bed, which gave me much cause for complaint. It seemed to take ages and my arm began to ache after a couple of minutes. I falsely claimed I’d done it but Mum told me I’d only done forty. Who knew she’d be counting?

The next morning Mum made a big fuss over brushing my hair, despite the fact I’d already done it myself. Mum said she enjoyed brushing my hair and begged me to indulge her, before asking if I was going to meet my friends today. “No!” I retorted. “I don’t want anyone to see me until I get my hair cut properly.” I grumbled. “I look like a girl.” I sulked.

“You look nothing like a girl.” my mother insisted. “They way you’ve been going on and on and on this last few months, anyone would think you’d been asked to be a bridesmaid instead of a pageboy.” she said.

“My outfit’s so girlie I may as well be a bridesmaid.” I mumbled.

“Well if Lottie’s dress fits you and your outfit fits her, I’m sure you could swap places… if that’s what you want?” Mum asked.

“Nooo.” I whimpered.

“Are you sure?” Mum asked. “It’s not that unusual for a boy to be a bridesmaid these days.” she reminded me.

“I don’t want to be a bridesmaid!” I insisted.

“Well stop complaining about being a pageboy.” Mum retorted. “It’s just one day and you’re going to be on your best behaviour… I don’t want any sulking or moaning… do you understand?”

“Yesss.” I moaned. I knew there and then that it was an empty promise. Months ago the prospect of being a pageboy seemed perfectly normal… it was only when people suggested that I was a bit too old to be a pageboy that I began having second thoughts… and only when the Fauntleroy inspired outfit was revealed to me did I realise just what I was letting myself in for.

It felt like the worst day of my life from the moment I woke up on the morning of my sister’s wedding. Mum or Natasha must have crept into my room as I slept because the first thing I saw after peeling my eyes open was my outfit hanging from various hangers on my wardrobe door handles. I gulped at it but figured that after today, I won’t have to think about it ever again. I sat up and swung my legs out of bed, yawned and stretched and rubbed my head, then emitted a combined groan and growl at the prospect of wearing those horrendous petti-shorts. With so many ruffles and lacy frills, there’s no denying what they really are and even if I am wearing underpants beneath them and shorts on top, I’ll still feel like I’m wearing a big pair of frilly knickers, I mournfully mused as I got myself out of bed. “What the…?!” I gasped as I noticed an ominous item on my desk. “I’m not wearing those!” I grimaced as I opened my bedroom door and took myself to the bathroom.

When I exited the bathroom, Mum was lurking on the landing. “Why are there some girls tights on my desk?!” I protested.

“To wear with your outfit.” my mother innocently replied. “You were quite adamant that you didn’t want to wear knee socks.” she added.

“But that doesn’t mean that I want to wear tights!” I retorted. Mum explained my Fauntleroy inspired outfit and claimed the in the period I’m dressing for, boys wore tights “…but they called them ‘hose’ in those days.” she told me.

“But they’re not for boys Mum!” I moaned, pointing to the photograph and the ‘for girls’ statement on the packaging. “…and they’ve got hearts on!” I noticed.

“They haven’t quite started making tights for boys yet… so you’ll have to make do with girl’s ones.” my mother replied, adding that they bought a few pairs to chose from and Natasha liked these the best, purely because of their love heart pattern. “They’re perfect for the occasion.” Mum said.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if they were just plain.” I sulked.

“What did you say about moaning on Natasha’s big day?” Mum asked, rhetorically, of course.

“I know but you keep springing things on me… first it was shorts and a shirt and knee socks. Then it was bubble shorts and a frilly blouse… then those petti-shorts… and now you’re telling me that I’ve got to wear tights!” I grulped (that’s a combination of a grumble and a gulp).

“I’m sure tights were mentioned when you said you didn’t want to wear knee socks.” Mum replied. “It all seems so long ago now.” she added. I couldn’t remember one way or the other, but I was inclined to believe that had tights been mentioned, I would have remembered and would have probably settled for knee socks after all. “Well either way…” Mum retorted. “…you’re wearing tights and that’s that. It might be sunny but it’s early April. You’ll be covered in goose pimples otherwise.”

I admitted defeat with a sigh and a frown. Mum smiled. “Have you seen your shoes?” she asked. They’d been placed on the carpet beneath my outfit and no, I hadn’t seen them.

“They’re definitely girls!” I exclaimed.

“They are… but boys wore slippers like this in the olden days so they’re perfectly in keeping with your outfit.”

I gulped and recalled seeing some pictures of historical boy’s clothing and some of them did wear dainty little slippers with their elegant outfits. “…but those tights aren’t!” I sighed. “Their tights weren’t anything like those!” I stated, snarling at my pack of tights.

“I know.” Mum agreed. “But they didn’t have the technology to make patterned tights back then.” my mother smugly claimed, adding that they bought a few pairs and Natasha likes these the best.

“What are the others like?” I glumly asked. Mum fetched them from her room and placed two more pairs of patterned tights on my desk.

“I’d rather wear those Monaco ones than tights with hearts on.” I mournfully stated.

“The spotty ones?” Mum asked. I nodded. “Are you sure?” she quizzed. “They are called ‘princess ballerina’.” she patronisingly informed me.

“At least they haven’t got hearts or flowers on.” I muttered.

“But your sister likes the heart ones best.” Mum reiterated, reminding me that it’s her special day, then suggesting I go downstairs and ask my sister. “But if she says no… I don’t want you moaning.” Mum added.

“What’s up?” My sister asked as I mournfully sauntered in to the lounge, where she sat in her bathrobe, sipping a coffee.

“You didn’t tell me I’d have to wear tights.” I mumbled. Natasha gave me the same spiel as Mum had about me not wanting to wear knee socks. “Can I wear the spotty ones instead?” I humbly asked. “Those ones with the hearts on are far too girly.”

“They’re all girly.” she gleefully retorted. “Have you seen your shoes yet?”

“Yeah.” I mournfully answered, gulping. “I’m gonna look like a girl either way but…”

“You’ll look like a pageboy.” my sister insisted. “No one’s going to mistake you for a girl if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m worried about looking stupid.” I sulked.

“You’ll look lovely.” she told me.

“Too lovely.” I muttered. Natasha smiled and told me that there’s no such thing. “So… can I wear the spotty tights instead?” I asked after what felt like a long moment of silence. “Please?” I added.

My sister sighed and said “I suppose so… but if they get laddered you’ll have to wear the heart tights.” she told me.

“OK.” I gulped.

I returned to my room and told Mum that could wear the spotty tights instead. “Do you want a shower or breakfast first?” she asked.

Mum made scrambled eggs with toast and bacon and for a few moments I wasn’t worried about looking ridiculous. Mum and Natasha discussed the order of the day; the bridesmaids are due around 9.30am, the hairstylist and make-up artist are coming at 10.00am and the wedding car is due at noon. “…we’ll save your make-up ’til last so you’ve less chance to ruin it before the ceremony.” Mum said. I presumed she was talking to Natasha, until my sister said “I’m sure he won’t.”

“I’m not wearing make-up am I?” I gasped.

“Just a little bit… you’ll hardly notice it.” my sister told me.

“But… I’m supposed to be a boy.” I gulped.

“I’m sure I told you months ago.” Mum replied. “Everyone in the bridal party wears make-up.”

“I didn’t think that would include me though.” I replied. “I’m not a bridesmaid.”

“No, you’re the pageboy.”

“I’m starting to wish I was a bridesmaid now.” I muttered.

After breakfast I took my miserable self up to the bathroom where I showered and brushed my teeth. Mum was waiting in my bedroom and handed me a pair of underpants. She had a vest ready and waiting. “Arms up.” she smiled.

“I’m not a kid Mum.” I mumbled as I slipped out of my bathrobe. “I can dress myself.” I moaned as I put my arms through the vest and Mum pulled it over my body. “This is a girl’s vest!” I protested.

“It is… if they made nice vests for boys I’d have got you one.” Mum told me as she untwisted its broad lace shoulder straps. The stretchy figure hugging fabric has a discreet floral pattern in the knit and is hemmed with an inch of stretchy lace. “Why can’t I wear a normal vest?” I huffed.

“Because a normal vest wouldn’t look as nice under your blouse.” Mum replied. “Now what did I tell you about sulking and moaning today?” she asked, before telling me that today is not all about me. “It’s your big sister’s wedding day. She’s put an awful lot of time, effort and money into making sure that everything is perfect and that last thing she wants is for you to ruin it.”

“I’m not going to ruin it.” I replied. “I just wish I’d been told at the beginning that I’d be dressed as a girl.”

“For the umpteenth time… you’re not dressed as a girl.” Mum retorted. “I’m beginning to wish you were a bridesmaid too… I’m sure you wouldn’t be putting up this much fuss if you were.”

“At least I’d have known what I was letting myself in for.” I grumbled as Mum began pulling a comb through my damp hair. She spent ages blow drying my hair into a perfect pageboy style and as she did so, Mum told me that if I was a bridesmaid, I’d have had my hair curled, my ears pierced and would have spent the last week or two getting used to walking in high heeled shoes and asked if I’d prefer that. “Not really.” I mournfully replied.

“I thought not.” Mum replied. “You’d have also been wearing knickers and a bra instead of a vest and underpants.” she added. I gulped. I suppose a girls vest is better than a bra… marginally.

Just when I figured there were no more surprises, Mum helped my into my tights and I quickly realised that they weren’t just spotty. “I glad you chose these ones.” Mum smiled.

“I didn’t know they had a different pattern on the feet.” I grimaced.

“They’re going to look lovely with your little shoes on.” Mum said, before asking if they felt nice.

“They feel weird.”

“I suppose they will at first.” Mum replied. “Now they’re very delicate so you mustn’t pinch or grab at them or they’ll snag and ladder.” she told me. “Then you’ll have to wear the love hearts.”

“OK.” I gulped.

“Petti-shorts next.” she said, picking them up.

“Surely she could have made those out of foam or something.” I frowned.

“You’d get all hot and sweaty if they were foam.” Mum smiled, holding the super-frilly shorts open for me to step into. She pulled them all the way up and stepped back to admire me. I gulped, hung my head and looked down at myself. My legs look long, pale and thinner than usual with the bulbous frilly petti-shorts. Thankfully they’re only underwear so no one’s going to see them. Mum holds the blouse open for me and reluctantly I push my hands through the sleeves and turn around so she can button me in. With so many fancy details on the front of my thin gauzy blouse, the lace trimmed vest I wore beneath it wasn’t so noticeable. But I knew it was a different story from behind.

“How’s he getting on?” Natasha asked, sneaking a peek.

“He’s fine.” Mum replied in a chirpy tone.

Under normal circumstances I’ have blurted ‘get out’ without hesitation, but under these circumstances, I silently turned my eyes toward my sister and grimaced. I daren’t even glance down at my clothing as Natasha ran her eyes up and down me. “You were right about those tights… they are nicer.” she complimented. I winced at the suggestion that I’d chosen my tights, but that’s precisely what I did. I gulped and glanced down… frills, bows, frills, ruffles, lace, frills and a few more frills… all the way down to the very tops of my legs, where the wispy white nylon tights are decorated with sparse white spots down to my ankles.

“I wish this blouse had a zip instead of buttons.” Mum commented, complaining that they’re too fiddly. “Worth it when they’re done though.” she enthused, running her fingers down the numerous closely-set pearl buttons that run up the back of my blouse.

“Definitely.” my sister added. “His vest looks nice too.”

“It does.” Mum replied. “He put up a little fuss.” she added.

“Understandable.” my sister said. “It’s almost a pity those petti-shorts are going to be covered.” she added. Personally… and I never thought I’d say this, not even to myself… but I can’t wait to get my bubble shorts on! My mother and sister continued to chatter about me, or more, chat about my outfit as Mum fastened my buttons. I felt like the dressmaker’s dummy; a mere object onto which things are hung. Mum told me to put my head up straight as she fastened the final few buttons. “Has he got a clean robe to wear?” Natasha asked.

“He’s got a robe but whether it’s clean or not…” Mum replied. My sister said she find me one.

“Why do I need a robe?” I asked in a whiny piny voice

“Because you’ll probably feel a bit more comfortable in a robe when everyone arrives.” Mum replied. “Unless you’d rather they see you as you are.” she added as my sister returned with one of her own bath robes. “There you are.” Mum said having finally fastened all of the buttons on the back of my blouse.

Mum turned me to face her. I could feel myself blushing as Natasha cast her eyes over me. A beaming smile swept her face. She told me that I was going to look absolutely perfect as she handed me her robe. Thankfully it was a plain white one, with a cotton waffle weave rather than something overtly girlie. “Don’t I need my shorts on?” My sister checked the time and said there’s still three hours yet, so I’ll put my shorts on later, after I’ve had my hair and make-up done. Eager to conceal my petti-shorts, I casually suggested we put my bubble shorts on now, but my sister said I’d just be sitting around and she doesn’t want them to go all flat on the back. “So… if I’m not wearing them ’til later… I won’t need these on.” I replied. “They’ll go flat too if I’m just sitting around.”

“True.” Natasha replied. Removing my petti-shorts felt like a small victory. I pulled on the robe and fastened it as my mother and sister admired the incredibly frilly ‘shorts’ before hanging them from a door knob

“It’s a pity they’ll only be worn once.” Mum said.

My sister agreed, adding that it’s same for bridesmaid’s dresses and bridal gowns. “He could wear them as pyjama shorts, maybe.” she mused.

“Yes… with a nice little night-shirt.” Mum replied.

“I’m not going sleep in them!” I gasped. “They’re practically a pair of knickers!”

“Bloomers.” Natasha stated. “No one would know.” she added, winking at me.

I knew she was teasing me but that didn’t stop me from assertively stating “I’m not sleeping in them.”

“I’m only teasing you.” my sister grinned. “But I do want you to know that you’re the best little brother anyone could hope to have… you’re going to look just like I’d imagined and I can’t thank you enough.” she said, clutching my fingers and peering lovingly into my eyes.

“That’s OK.” I timidly replied.

“And I know you’d have rather been a bridesmaid…”

“I never said that!” I stated. My sister claimed I had, on the day I’d been to the hairdressers. I recalled something said but could quite remember what. “…I didn’t say I’d rather be a bridesmaid.” I claimed. “I said I may as well be one… or something.” I tentatively replied.

“Same thing really.” my sister replied. “Anyway… what I was going to say was that I’d much rather have you as a pageboy than a bridesmaid.” she told me.

Dryly, I replied “Me too.” Thankfully both my mother and sister picked up on my sarcasm.

“The fact that you hate it so much makes it all the more special.” Natasha said.

“How?” I bluntly responded. Had they deliberately found me the worst outfit I could imagine?

“Because you’re doing so something selfless, just for me. It’s pure altruism.” she smiled.

I could sense what she was saying but… “I don’t know what either of those words mean.”

“It means you’re doing something nice for someone with want for nothing in return.” Mum replied.

“Oh.” I meekly replied.

“And you didn’t once make me compromise.” my sister said.

“Well… I did say I wouldn’t wear knee socks.” I timidly reminded her.

“I know but I wanted you in tights anyway.. so I guess we both got what we wanted.” she informed me. “Do they feel nice?” she asked, adding “I love wearing tights.”

“I don’t know.” I replied. “I can hardly feel them.”

“That’s what’s so nice about them.” she said, smiling at my feet. “Has he tried his shoes on yet?”

“Not yet.” Mum replied.

“If they don’t fit can I wear my trainers?” I asked, jovially yet hopefully.

“They’ll fit.” Natasha confidently stated.

I knew they would and once they were on, I felt all the more girlie. Mum and Natasha gushed over how cute they looked and once again my sister complimented ‘my’ choice of tights. Anyone would think I went to the shop and bought them myself. “Now be careful you don’t ladder them.” she warned. “They’re very delicate.”

They certainly felt delicate. I could barely detect the minuscule amount of pressure they placed on my legs, but it was there. As I descended the stairs I could feel them stretch and ever so slightly slip around my hips and knees. I couldn’t help but glance in the hallway mirror. I could barely see the tiny white spots on my tights, but the ballet slipper lacing around the feet and ankles appeared as plain as day. They keep saying it’s an old fashioned boy’s outfit, inspired by Little Lord Fauntleroy… but I can’t help but wonder if they’re deliberately dressing me as girlie as possible without actually putting me in a dress.

I watched TV whilst my mother and sister flustered around. The phone seemed to be ringing every five minutes and as 9.30 approached, Natasha anticipated the arrival of her bridesmaids. So did I and it’s going to be horrendous… look at his hair, look at his tights, look at his shoes, ooh just look at that blouse, and those shorts! The doorbell didn’t ring until 9.45 and my sister sounded disgruntled that it wasn’t one of the bridesmaids. “I’m sure they’ll be here soon.” she said. “I told them half-past nine.” she added as she led two women into the lounge, pointing out the large adjoining dining room where they can set-up. One of the women smiles at me and supposes I’m the little sister. “No this is my brother, the pageboy.” Natasha told them, adding that I’m not fully dressed yet. “He’s not used to wearing make-up so I think we should leave him ’til last so he doesn’t ruin it.” she said. “But if the others don’t turn up soon…” she added.

“His make-up will only take a tick.” the make-up artist replied.

“And he’ll just need a blow-dry.” the hairdresser presumed.

My sister explained her reservations about my haircut and that she’d imagined a much shorter pageboy and asked if curling the ends right under would do the trick and before the hairdresser could answer, Natasha supposed that pinning it up at the back would work, then suggested curls!

I almost swallowed my tongue I gulped so hard when the hairdresser replied, “Curls would be nice. But do you want curls?” she asked me.

“Erm…” I gulped. I wanted to say no but I didn’t want to actually say it and disappoint my sister. “…will they brush out?”

“They’ll wash out.” the hairdresser replied.

“He’s getting it cut anyway… he only grew it for his sister’s wedding.” Mum said, adding that I’m not a natural blonde either, pushing up my fringe to reveal my naturally brown eyebrows. “Which you might want to do something with.” my mother said to the make-up lady.

Natasha glanced at her watch then sighed toward the door. “Where are they?!” she gulped, before looking at me. “Are you OK with curls?”

“I guess.” I gulped. I wasn’t… but I felt as if I was being swept along and felt inclined to just say yes to everything despite my gut feeling screaming noooo.

“Right well lets get started.” the hairdresser said. She sat me down at the table and put what I thought was a vanity case in front of me, and plugged it in to the nearest socket. I could feel my spine tingling and she and my sister talked curls; tight ones, loose ones, big ones, little ones and most worryingly, angel curls.

“Not for a boy.” my sister said. “He’s wearing a blouse with a beautiful lace collar…” she explained, loosening my robe and dropping it off my shoulders. “…and I’d like it hang short enough so it doesn’t touch his collar.” she said, lifting the back on my hair.

The stylist made a few suggestions as she played with my hair and I felt inclined to say something, if only to remind then that there’s a person attached to the hair they’re discussing. “Did Little Lord Fauntleroy have curly hair?”

“Not that I’m aware of… but there’s hundreds of photographs online of boys in the Victorian era with their hair in ringlets.” the hairdresser replied. “It is a Victorian theme?” she quizzed.

“Kind of… Victorian, Regency, Steampunk, Fantasy.” Natasha said, describing the bridesmaid’s dresses as regency style with little puffed sleeves. She described her corseted tailored wedding dress and the hairdresser presumed it was either white or ivory. Natasha revealed that Jess, her wife-to-be is wearing white today, adding that she’ll be wearing grey twill that matches my little puffed shorts. I gulped, trying not to imagine just what I’ll look like when all this is over, but doing just that. The hairdresser began sectioning off my hair and I stopped worrying about what my outfit will look like and began worrying what my hair will look like.

The vanity case turned out be a set of heated rollers, which the hairdresser swiftly rolled one by one into my hair. I found myself focusing more on biting my lip than what was happening to me… then some of the bridesmaids arrived and everything got really noisy. Two by two all six of them arrived and I began to wonder if they’d ever notice me. I could see them out of the corner of my eye as god knows how many rollers were put in my hair. The other lady; the make-up artist began unpacking all her stuff on the other end of the dining table. I watched, presumably with an expression of fear on my face because she looked up and told me not to look so worried. “…you only need a little bit, and it does wash off.” I tried my best to convey my sense of fear and dread with a gulp and a smile.

“Are you the make-up lady?” I heard an all too familiar voice ask. Here we go, I thought as Lottie, my confident ten year old cousin entered my field of vision. Lottie turns to me and says “Hi.” but she doesn’t appear at all bemused by my predicament. I replied with a barely audible ‘Hi’ but Lottie was more interested in the make-up lady’s huge vanity case. “I wish I had so much make-up.” my cousin said, before asking who’s make-up the lady would be doing first.

“This handsome young man over here.” the lady replied, “When he’s got his rollers in.” she added.

“Won’t be long.” the hairdresser replied, “Just a few more to go then he’s all yours.” Mum sauntered in and asked how I was getting on. “Almost done.” the hairdresser told her as she put the final roller in. “Just needs some setting solution.” she added, before shaking an aerosol and asking me to shield my eyes.

“Ooh that smells nice.” Mum said as my head was doused in whatever the setting lotion contained. “Is it lavender?” she asked.

“Lavender and honeysuckle.” the hairdresser replied. “These solutions have come a long way… not so long ago they smelled of nothing but the chemicals they’re made of.” she said, spraying a few extra little bursts here and there.

“Has he been been any trouble?” Mum asked.

“None at all.” the hairdresser said.

“Why don’t you go back in the lounge with the other ladies Lottie.” Mum said to my cousin.

“I like watching.” Lottie replied.

“I know, but he’s shy enough without you watching him have his hair and make-up done.” Mum told her, ushering her back to the lounge.

“Right young man… I’ll see you in an hour or so.” the hairdresser told me as she removed the towel from my shoulders. “Don’t touch them or you’ll get the setting solution on your fingers.” she told me, peeling off a pair of protective gloves.

“OK.” I said. “Thank you.” I meekly peeped as I stood.

“You’re welcome.” the hairdresser smiled, glancing down at my feet. I couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking. Maybe in her line of work, she’s styled the hair of plenty of boys who were going to be a bridesmaid so doing my hair is nothing out of the ordinary for her… maybe.

I headed around the dining table to the make-up lady. “Thanks.” I timidly gulped as she pulled a chair out for me. I sat and saw my reflection, all but my fringe was held in numerous white rollers, set closely and neatly in horizontal rows. “I look like a barrister.” I said. The make-up lady chuckled and said I do a bit, before asking me to look up at her so she could see what I’d need. “I’m not going to wear loads am I?” I bashfully asked.

“I suppose if you’re used to wearing no make-up then even a little bit will feel like a lot.” she replied, gently pushing my fringe off my forehead. “Have you worn make-up before?” she asked. I shook my head. “Not even for a school play?” she quizzed.

“No.” I replied.

“Well believe it or not… make-up isn’t just for girls.” she told me. “Every boy you see in a magazine, and every man you’ve seen on TV and all the famous actors all wear make-up.” she said. “You won’t need any eye shadow or blusher. We’re not trying to make you look like a girl.” she claimed, adding “…just a little eye-liner to enhance the shape of your eyes, and some mascara to make your lashes look nice and long.”

“OK.” I shyly said.

“…and some foundation and a little bit of lipstick.” she added, causing me to gulp.

She grinned and told me that boys always look scared when she mentions lipstick. “Have you done this to lots of boys?” I asked.

“A few.” the make-up lady told me as she carefully tucked some sheets of kitchen roll into my collar. “I’m just going to clip your fringe up so I can see your eyebrows.” she said. “There that’s better.” she smiled. “Now this won’t hurt but it’s not exactly comfortable either.” she told me as she pinched a small pair of tweezers together. “You’ve just got a trust me.” she added, informing me that it’ll take a good few minutes.

“OK.” I meekly said, letting her position my head before leaning in with the tweezers. It wasn’t as bad as ripping off a sticking plaster, but it did hurt a little bit as she quickly plucked my eyebrows. She worked in several bursts, plucking for five or ten seconds, then leaning back to look before resuming the discomforting plucking. Her calming voice assured me that she’s only taking a little bit off, despite it feeling like quite a lot. Apparently there’s around three-hundred hairs in each eyebrow and she’s taking no more than about fifty of them. “One at a time?” I asked.

“Sometimes I’m lucky and get two or three at once.” she humoured.

“Will they grow back?”

“Unfortunately.” she replied. “But I wouldn’t make much money if they didn’t.” she smiled. After five minutes or so, she asked me to have a look. I gulped and faced the mirror and to be honest, they didn’t look much different. Just a little bit tidier I guess, thinner and more defined. The make-up lady suggested taking just a little more off. “Erm… OK.” I said. She proceeded to spend another four orfive minutes plucking my eyebrows and when I looked at my reflection a second time, I really could see the difference! The make-up lady asked if they were OK. “Err… yeah.” I told her.

The make-up lady revealed a tube of Bonjella and said, “You’re probably more used to putting this on mouth ulcers, but it’s ideal for plucked eyebrows too.” she told me, before smearing some over each eyebrow. “Shall we paint your nails whilst that’s settling in?” she asked. I gulped and nodded. The make-up lady complimented my fingernails and told me that it’s rare to see a boy my age who doesn’t bite his fingernails. I told her that my sister gave me a manicure earlier in the week, and gave me strict instructions not to chew them. “When I was a girl, my Mum made my brothers wear nail varnish to stop them from biting their nails.” she told me.

“Did it work?”

“Of course.” she grinned as she selected a tiny bottle of varnish from a large collection. “Now I’m going to put some pink on because your fingernails are naturally pink, and when that’s dried, I’ll put a tiny crescent of white on the tips so they’ll look perfectly natural.” she explained.

“OK.” I timidly replied. I didn’t know I’d be wearing nail varnish too and I really didn’t want to… but considering everything else, pale pink fingernails aren’t going to make any difference.

One of the bridesmaids entered and sat in the hairstylist’s chair. She smiled at me. “You must be Tasha’s little brother?” she asked.

“Erm… yes.” I bashfully replied.

She introduced herself as one of Jess’s close friends. “The pageboy.” she stated. “You must be very excited.”

“I’m a bit nervous.” I said.

“You’ll be fine. All you have to do is lead the bridesmaids down the aisle.” she said.

“I know.” I said. “I just hope I don’t trip up or…”

“Fart.” she grinned.

I laughed, briefly. The main source of my nerves is the prospect of everyone sniggering and laughing at me when I lead the bridesmaids down the aisle… but I also hope I don’t fart. My nails soon dried and I was told not to chew them. “I won’t.” I said

“I know you won’t… it worked for my brothers.” the make-up lady said as I looked at them; glossy pale pink with shiny white tips and not at all natural looking. She began rummaging in her huge vanity case. She removed several flat round tins and a bag full of small triangular sponges. “This is called foundation. It hides any blemishes on the skin and will give you nice even tone.” she explained as she began removing the lids. “All I need is one that matches your natural tone, and you’ll hardly see it.” she told me. She began applying it around my eyes and eyelids, then my nose and cheeks, forehead, chin and neck. She selected some mascara and told me not to worry if I flinch. I flinched. Several times in fact but the make-up lady didn’t mind. I wasn’t quite so jumpy as she applied the mascara to my other eye. She let me see my reflection and I couldn’t help but flutter my lashes. They looked a little bit longer and bit more distinct, but I expected something more drastic. She explained how she’d apply my eye-liner and advised me not to look at the pencil, otherwise I’ll flinch, which I did, but she didn’t mind. I apologised. “Oh don’t worry… it’s a lot easier putting make-up on you than it is a fidgety five year old.” the make-up lady said. She turned me toward to mirror again and the eye-liner made a big difference. It only covered the outer half of my lower lids but it made my eyes look huge, like an animé or manga character. Next she used a pencil and a tiny comb on my eyebrows that made them look even more defined and feminine… but then she unclipped my fringe and arranged it over my forehead and my new girlie eyebrows.

Finally, she revealed the lipstick I’d be wearing. “It matches your fingernails.” she smiled, before asking me to say ‘oh’. I’ve been put in a pair of tights, buttoned into a girl’s blouse, had my hair put in rollers, my eyebrows plucked, eye-liner and mascara applied… but for some reason, the lipstick petrified me more than anything. I froze as she applied it and gulped before rolling my lips together as instructed. “I think that’s you done.” the make-up lady told me. “Now I can’t stress enough how important it is that you don’t rub your eyes or wipe your mouth… otherwise you’ll ruin it.” she said. “And try not to lick or chew your lips… in fact, just try not to touch your face at all.”

“OK.” I meekly replied. She told me to run along and put the lipstick in my hand, suggesting I keep it in my pocket. “Erm… I don’t think I’ve got any pockets.”

“Well give it to your mother then… it’ll need topping up every hour or so.”

“Oooh! You look nice!” my mum said when I sheepishly wondered into the lounge. The other women all agreed. One drew attention to my rollers and make-up, another to my shoes and the other to my tights. I gave Mum the lipstick and asked where Natasha was. “Getting dressed.” Mum replied.

“When are you getting dressed?” one of the bridesmaids asked.

“Not for a while yet.” Mum replied. “The bridesmaids need to get ready first and we don’t want his bubble shorts to loose their shape.”

“Ooh…” the bridesmaid frowned. “I can’t wait to see you wearing your suit.” she said. It’s hardly a suit, I thought. “Tasha’s been showing us the photographs.” she told me. “Very steampunk!” she added.

Steampunk? I thought. I know what steampunk is and I wouldn’t use it to describe my outfit… but I wasn’t going to argue. “Can I go to my room?” I asked.

“No love.” Mum replied. “The bridesmaids are using your room as a dressing room.”

“But… what’s wrong with your room?”

“Natasha’s using my room.” Mum told me.

“What’s wrong with her room?”

“It’s too small. It’s only a box room.” Mum said.

“But…” I gulped. My bubble shorts and my super-frilly petti-shorts are hung from my wardrobe door which means all the bridesmaids will see them. Mum asked if I needed anything from my room. “No.” I glumly replied, realising that there’s also two packs of girls tights on my desk. I’m never going to live this down.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs grabbed my attention and seconds later, my cousin Lottie and one of the other bridesmaids entered the lounge wearing their identical dresses. Pastel blue satin with little puffed sleeves and a plain scooped neckline. The hem hung just below the knee and neither wore tights. A pair of pale blue heeled shoes hung from Lottie’s fingers whilst the other bridesmaid wore her shoes. I must admit I was a little bit envious because unlike my outfit, their regency style dresses aren’t at all fussy. I’m going to stand out even more than I imagined.

“You look nice with make-up on.” Lottie told me.

“Thanks.” I bashfully replied.

“I can’t wait to see what your hair’s going to look like.” she said.

“I think she speaks for all of us there.” Mum said, before directing the other two bridesmaids up to my room. The hairdresser popped her head in and said she was ready for another one. “Do you want to go next Lottie?” Mum asked. My cousin was a lot more eager to sit in the hairdresser’s chair than I was, but she’s a girl and girls are supposed to like this stuff. “Would anyone like another tea or coffee?” Mum offered, before asking me if wanted something to drink.

“Am I allowed?”

“Of course you are.” she replied. “Are you worried about ruining your lipstick?”

“No but… won’t it come off?”

Mum smiled. “Not all of it.” she said, removing my lipstick from her pocket. “I’ll top you up when need be.” she told me, before asking if I wanted a hot drink, some juice or some fizzy pop. Mum told me to make sure my robe was completely covering my blouse before giving me a glass of juice, and advised me to sip rather than gulp. “In fact, you’d best use a straw.” she suggested.

“That’s what us girls do.” one of the bridesmaids said. “It saves a lot of reapplying.” she smiled, looking me up and down. “Did you shave your legs as well or are you just wearing tights?” she asked.

“Erm… just tights.” I shyly replied. “My legs aren’t very hairy.”

“Lucky you.” one of the others said. “I suppose being so fair helps.”

“Oh he’s not a natural blonde.” Mum said. “He was a brunette until last weekend.” she added, parting my fringe to reveal my brown eyebrows. I expected them to comment on how thin they were, but no one did… but I guess they hadn’t seen my eyebrows before the make-up lady plucked half of them off.

The first of the bridesmaids returned having had her hair and make-up done. She looks ever so glamorous, and her hair is tied up with flowers and sparkles and…. I hope I’m not going to have flowers in my hair. Then the bridesmaids who’d been getting changed in my bedroom returned wearing their enviably simple knee length dresses. “We were just admiring your bloomers.” one of them said.

I could feel myself blushing and I didn’t know how to respond. “They’re just for under my shorts.” I meekly informed them.

“To give them their bubble shape.” Mum added. “They’re gorgeous aren’t they.”

“Delightful.” the others agreed. The attention soon shifts away from me as Lottie returned with her hair and make-up done. Being a girl, she’s naturally pretty but even I can’t deny that she looks lovely with her hair tied up with flowers and sparkly jewels. “We’re wearing the same lipstick.” she proudly tells me.

“Yes.” I bashfully reply, observing the differences between her make-up and mine. Her eye-liner goes all the way around her eyes and she’s also wearing lots of eye-shadow and blusher too. She asks if I like her make-up and choosing my words carefully, I reply “It looks nice on you.”

Over the course of the hour, the conveyor of bridesmaids entering and exiting the dining room ended and everyone had their hair and make-up done. Which is when my sister came down wearing her wedding dress and everyone cooed and gasped. Being a gay marriage, my sister is playing the groom and wears a tailored grey twill dress with corset lacing, a flouncy white blouse and little fitted waistcoat. On her feet is a pair of block heeled Chelsea boots and brown fishnet tights stretched around her exposed calves. It’s her turn in the hairdressers chair and I begin to feel increasingly nervous because I know that I’ll be next. Lottie was really sweet with me. Not once did she tease me or say it was weird that I was wearing make-up and had a head full of rollers. Nor did she snigger at my tights and girlie shoes… but there’s time yet because she’s not seen my full outfit… well. Not on me anyway.

“How are we doing for time?” the hairdresser asked, popping into the lounge.

“Not bad.” Mum replied, adding that we’ve got an hour before the cars are due.

“Shall we get the pageboy dressed before I finish his hair or…?” the hairdresser asked. “It should only take ten or fifteen minutes.” she added.

“Well in that case.” Mum replied, and I soon found myself sat in the hairdressers chair once more, having my rollers removed one by one. With a mirror in front of me I had no choice but to watch as my hair was carefully teased into a mass of tight spiralling curls. My sister sat with the make-up lady having her face painted. Occasionally our eyes would meet and she’d cast me a beaming smile, to which I’d nervously smile back and gulp. Mum entered and gasped. “Oh my that looks beautiful!” she exclaimed as she swept in and glared at me.

“Why have you brought those?” I asked as she put my balloon shorts on the back of one chair and my petti-shorts on the back of another.

“Well you may as well get ready in here.” Mum replied.

“I’d rather get ready in my bedroom.”

“Well there’s no need now I’ve brought these down.”

The hairdresser adjusted my robe so it was snug around my neck and asked me to hold it closed at the collar. “I just need to trim your fringe a little and we don’t want any cuttings on your blouse.” she told me as she straightened it with a comb, told me to shut my eyes before snipping away at my fringe. I opened my eyes to see my shapely brown eyebrows on display beneath a high straight fringe and lots of blonde ringlets. “All you need is a ribbon to hold it up at the back and you’re done.” she said, placing a long length of half inch satin ribbon at the base of my skull and tying it around my head, in a neat little bow right on top, then snipping the tails with her scissors. “I’ll just pop some bobby-pins in to hold your ribbon in place.” the hairdresser told me, before placing them covertly behind my ears, two on each side.

“Oh that’s wonderful!” my sister exclaimed. “That ribbon holds his hair above his collar perfectly.”

“You don’t mind wearing a ribbon do you?” my mother asked me.

“Erm… I guess not.” I gulped.

“Shall we get your shorts on?”

“I suppose.” I mournfully replied. Thankfully my robe gave me plenty of privacy as I pulled on my petti-shorts and bubble shorts, but I had to remove it so Mum could make sure all the frills weren’t crumpled before the buttons were fastened. “It’s going to be a pain going to the loo with all these layers.” I said, realising that I’m wearing shorts, petti-shorts, tights, and underpants. And with that thought, I realised that my underpants are the only item of boys clothing I’m wearing. Mum tucked my blouse into my shorts for me, which frustrated me as I’m old enough to dress myself… then after stepping back to admire me, Mum knelt in front of me and began faffing with the legs of my shorts. “What are you doing?” I moaned.

“Just tending to the details.” she told me.

I looked down to see an inch of frilly lace emerging from the legs of my shorts. “Hattie didn’t do that the last time I wore them.” I stated.

“I’m sure she did.” Mum replied. “That’s why she made your bloomers a little bit longer than your shorts.”

I looked to my sister who confirmed this to be the case and gulped. “You look wonderful.” Natasha told me. “I can’t wait for Jess to see you. She’s going to be delighted.”

All the bridesmaids gushed and cooed over me when I was presented to them; my hair a mass of bouncy curls apart from my fringe which is short and straight. A small pale blue bow sits on the top of my head and the frills and pussy bow billows out of the front of my blouse. I’m asked to turn and they just love all the tiny pearl buttons running up the back of my blouse and the pretty vest I’m wearing beneath it. My sister draws their attention to the corset lacing detail on the back of my shorts which echoes the corset style of her supposedly ‘masculine’ wedding dress.

“I love his tights… the little bow detail on the backs of his ankles are so cute.” one of the bridesmaids said. My sister told them that I had a few pairs of tights to choose from and I chose those. “Yes we saw the other pairs in his room.” the bridesmaid said. “And I love how his knickers stick out of his shorts.”

“They’re not knickers.” I moaned.

“They’re called petti-shorts.” Mum stated. “Like a petticoat but shorts instead.”

“Too cute.” they gushed.

I knock at the door drew everyone’s attention. “Ooh that’ll be the florist!” my sister exclaimed.

Mum answered the door and a large tray of bridal bouquets were fetched in. My sister is given the biggest one and the bridesmaids are each given a small pink bouquet. “Which one’s the pageboy?” the florist knowingly asked, before handing me a small blue bouquet of flowers. I gulped then forced a smile and said thank you. “I love your nails.” she said. In all the excitement I’d forgotten about my nail varnish.

The maid of honour began handing out some small paper handbags; pale pink for the bridesmaids, white for Mum and a pale blue one for me. “What is it?” I asked.

“It’s your confetti.” she replied.

With a dainty little paper handbag in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other, my outfit was complete. Mum showed me how to carry the confetti bag in the crook of my elbow, and that I should hold my bouquet with both hands when I lead the procession. “Perfect.” she said. “Now that cars should be here shortly so let me top up your lipstick.” she added. Everyone seemed to fall silent as my mother lifted my chin and gently reapplied the pale pink lipstick, before carefully faffing with my blouse, hair and the ribbon tied in it. I could feel everyone watching me and I’ve never felt so humble. Being the only boy in the bridal party, and the only one who isn’t wearing a dress, I can’t help but wonder why my outfit is by far the girliest.

It wasn’t long before the wedding cars arrived and I prepared to take my first, nervous steps outside. Some of the neighbours come out of their houses to watch us get into the cars. I try not to look and just keep my eyes dead ahead. My hair feels light and bouncy in the gentle breeze, which feels cooler than expected on my nylon clad legs. I observe how the breeze gently wafts the bridesmaid’s simple calf length dresses and I can’t help but wish that I was one of them, instead of being the prissiest pageboy that anyone has ever seen.

The ceremony is in a swanky country hotel and the registrar quickly goes over the order of service with Mum and Natasha. Since my sister is playing the part of the groom, she’ll be waiting at the front with her maid of honour, and when Jess, the bride arrives, I’ll be leading the procession. “Oh what a beautiful pageboy.” the registrar exclaimed. “I’ve seen plenty of boys as bridesmaids but never a girl as a pageboy.” she smiled.

I was dumbstruck. My sister pointed out her error. “…this is my little brother.”

“Oh I am sorry.” the registrar smiled. “I think it was your bouquet and handbag that confused me.”

“I wanted to be the pageboy.” Lottie announced. I’d have rather been a bridesmaid, I thought for the umpteenth time.

My mother and sister had to go indoors and I had to wait outside with the bridesmaids for the bride, her parents, the ushers, the flower girl and the ring bearer to arrive. But first, Mum had to fuss with my shorts again, making sure that my lacy bloomers were sticking out of my shorts. “Now remember not to rush when you lead the procession.” she told me. “Slow steps so everyone can have a good look at you and bridesmaids.” she said.

“Oh Mum you did that before we left.” I moaned as she got my lipstick out of her handbag. Regardless, she put another coat of lipstick on me before she and my sister went indoors, leaving us to wait for the bride. When they did I was gutted because the ring bearer (one of Jess’s nephews) was just wearing a normal suit. Jess gushed over how lovely I looked and told me that Natasha had been keeping my outfit a big secret from her. “Me too.” I mournfully replied. “I thought it was just going to be a pair of smart shorts and a shirt.”

“That’s exactly what you are wearing my dear.” Jess smiled, adding “Love the hair by the way… you should keep it like that.”

Of course everyone was more interested in Jess’s dress than they were my pageboy outfit. She wears a traditional bridal gown in white, with satin and lace and big puffed sleeves. The flower girl wears something similar yet much much smaller since she only six years old and next to those, I suppose that my pageboy outfit is the third girliest outfit in the bridal party.

Within minutes we’re heading indoors and I have to stand at the entrance to the grand reception hall as the bridesmaids assemble themselves behind me, the ring bearer and flower girl behind them, and finally, the bride and her father. The moment the music starts, I begin to walk.. slowly of course, in time with Bach’s Air on a G String. All eyes are on me as I lead the way and I feel incredibly nervous. I can hear people cooing and murmuring; look at his hair, he’s wearing lipstick, doesn’t he look sweet, ohh how cute, aren’t the bridesmaid’s dresses lovely, here comes the bride, oh look at the flower girl, look he’s wearing tights… as I near the front I see my mother and sister waiting with the registrar. Mum gestures for me to smile and as nervous and self conscious as I am, I try my best.

“Well done love… you were perfect.” Mum said once we’d taken our seats. She faffed with my hair and its little bow, before straightening the ruffles on my blouse. The service began with the registrar welcoming everyone and introducing the bride and bride by name. The ceremony wasn’t too long, maybe fifteen minutes, but it was tiresome. After exchanging their vows, the brides kissed and everyone cheered. I breathed a sigh of relief that it was finally over, but then realised that this was only the beginning.

Everyone filtered outside and we all tossed our confetti as the newlyweds made their exit. People mingled and chatted, photographs were taken, both amateur and professional and I was constantly being called to stand here or there before having my hair and blouse faffed with, not to mention my mother making sure that the frilly legs of my bloomers were sticking out of the legs of my shorts. A family friend sauntered over and said how nice I looked, before stating that pageboy’s don’t normally carry a bouquet. “No but we thought it would be nice.” Mum replied, pointing out that my bouquet of flowers is blue whilst the bridesmaids’ are pink. Then she reapplied my lipstick in front of everyone, then sent me off to stand with the bridesmaids for yet another group photograph.

After an hour and god knows how many photographs, we returned indoors for the wedding banquet. I had to sit on the same table as Lottie, my cousins Thomas and James, and their parents; Uncle Carl and Auntie Heather. The boys couldn’t help but comment on just how girlie I looked and despite their parents frequently telling them not to tease me, they just couldn’t help themselves. “Take no notice of them.” my aunt said. “They’re only jealous.” she claimed. I didn’t believe her for a moment. Who’d be jealous of such a prissy outfit? Not Thomas or James, that’s for sure.

After the meal came the speeches which went on for ages. I got a special mention in Jess’s speech for being the best little brother-in-law in the world and everyone clapped. Once the speeches were over, Mum came to our table and asked if I’d behaved. “He’s been as good as gold.” Auntie Heather replied. “Unlike these two.” she added, scowling at her sons.

“You haven’t been teasing him have you?” my mother asked.

“No.” they lied in unison.

“I hope not.” Mum replied, before removing my lipstick from her handbag. Both Thomas and James began sniggering as my mother repainted my lips in front of them. Their mother berated them but not so much that she caused a scene. My mother took hold of my hand. “Come on.” she said, leading me away from the table.

“He’s going to have his nappy changed.” Thomas snorted. James giggled. As we walked I overheard Lottie telling them not to be so mean and that I’m not wearing a nappy, but a pair of very frilly bloomers.

“Take no notice of those boys.” Mum said. “They’ll get their comeuppance one day.”

“I told you people would think I’m wearing a nappy.” I grumbled.

“No one thinks you’re wearing a nappy.” Mum insisted. “They’re just teasing you. Ignore them.” she stated. That’s easy for her to say.

We approached another group of our extended family who said they hadn’t recognised me when I led the bridal procession. I was told that I really suited my blonde hair and curls, but I figured they were being tactful, in the same way one comments on a ghastly dress by describing it as really nice. Almost everyone we mingled with mentioned my lovely shoes, cute tights, little shorts and blonde curls, before dwelling on the details such as my glossy pink fingernails, the bow in my hair and the lace trimmed vest that’s clearly visible beneath my thin wispy blouse. The women and girls all cooed over my outfit whilst the boys and men just looked at me with bemused expressions.

Mum spotted a middle aged lady with a blue rinse and enthusiastically caught her attention. “You remember Aunt Audrey don’t you?” Mum said to me as we approached.

“Yes.” I replied, before saying hello to the lady. She’s my mother’s aunt which makes her my great aunt and we only really see her at events like this. Aunt Audrey is one of those stern yet affable people and predictably, she tells me how lovely I look. “Thank you.” I politely replied.

“Has he had a nice day?” she asked my mother.

“Well it’s been a bit daunting for him, having such an important role in the bridal procession, but I think he’s enjoyed himself, haven’t you?” my mother replied.

“Oh that’s good.” Aunt Audrey smiled before I had chance to reply. I wouldn’t have known what to say anyway, but I’d have hardly described my day as enjoyable. “Ooh and here comes Charlotte!”

I turn to see cousin Lottie approach. “Hello Auntie.” Lottie smiled. “You forgot this.” she said, handing me my bouquet.

“Haven’t you grown!” Aunt Audrey exclaimed. “She’s taller than you are.” she noted as Lottie stood beside me.

“I am wearing heels.” Lottie stated, flattening her skirt and peering down at a pair of heeled sandals, before turning to me and telling me that neither James or Thomas will dance with her and asked if I would.

“Erm… there’s no music on.” I informed her.

“I know but when there is, will you dance with me…. pleeaaassseee?” Lottie asked.

“I don’t really know how to dance.”

“I’m sure Charlotte can teach you a couple of simple steps.” Aunt Audrey suggested.

“Of course he’ll dance with you Lottie.” my mother told her. “Won’t you?” she told me.

“I suppose.” I mournfully replied as Lottie’s face lit up. Mum and her Aunt Audrey began twittering amongst themselves. I felt like a spare part. “Thanks for sticking up for me before… when your brothers were teasing me.” I said.

“That’s OK.” Lottie replied. “Boys can be so mean sometimes.” she said. “I think they’re jealous.”

“Who’d be jealous of this?” I replied, looking down at my horrific attire.

“I think it’s because of all the attention you’re getting.” Lottie said.

“It’s not me who’s getting the attention, it’s my outfit.” I replied. “All anyone says is how nice I look.” I frowned.

“That’s nothing to be glum about. Its nice wearing nice clothes. Don’t you feel special?” she asked.

“I suppose so.” I replied. “I just feel a bit silly too.” I said.

“Only because you’re not used to looking so nice.” Lottie replied, adding “It must be weird being a boy.”

“It is when you’re dressed like this.” I mournfully replied. Aunt Heather appeared along with James and Thomas and said they we’re going to take a walk around the grounds before the brides have their first dance. “Would you like to come?” she asked me. I envisaged the boys sneering and teasing me so I politely declined. They left and I loitered whilst Mum and her aunt chatted.

“…why wait six months when things are going so well?” Aunt Audrey enthused.

“It does make sense I suppose.” Mum replied, glancing at me. “Where did Lottie go?”

“For a walk with auntie Heather.” I replied.

“Didn’t you want to go?” she asked.

“James and Thomas were going too.” I glumly said.

“Oh well never mind.” Mum replied. “I wonder if Aunt Audrey will be able to tell you the names of all those flowers.”

“Let’s see.” Aunt Audrey said as I handed her my bouquet. “Hmm…” she mused, before pointing out and naming delphinium, cornflower, lavender and sweet peas.

“Thank you.” I politely said as she handed it back to me.

“What they need is some damp tissue and some tinfoil, otherwise they’ll begin to wilt.” Aunt Audrey said. “I bet if you go to the kitchens and ask nicely…”

The last thing I wanted to do was go to the kitchens and ask nicely for something to keep my bouquet alive, but that’s exactly what I did. I returned with the stalks wrapped in foil and damp tissue. “Good boy.” Aunt Audrey said. “They’ll last for days providing they’ve got something to drink.” she told me.

“Where’s Mum?” I asked. Aunt Audrey said she was mingling, before telling me that I do look nice with my hair in curls. “Thanks.” I timidly replied.

“Your mummy said you’d need some of this.” she said, revealing the all too familiar lipstick and removing the lid. “Chin up.” she chirped. I did nothing but gulp as Aunt Audrey lightly lifted my face and painted my lips in the soft pink shade. “Now roll your lips together.” she said. “Good boy. That looks lovely.” she smiled as she faffed with my lacy collar and pussy bow. “You must feel very privileged wearing such a fancy outfit. Expensive too.” she said to me.

“I guess.” I replied. Aunt Audrey asked me about school and my hobbies and whilst she was being nothing but nice to me, I couldn’t help but feel intimidated by her. She said I was looking a little tired, adding that I’ve had a long day and that an early night might be in order. “I’m OK.” I replied, although it did feel like a very long day was finally coming to an end. Some loud pops and crackles burst through the PA system which made everyone more alert. The bright white ceiling lights dimmed and the dance floor lit up in orange, red, pink, purple and blue. Everyone began to assemble and Mum rejoined Aunt Audrey and myself. She began faffing with my hair, arranging my curls and more annoyingly, fiddling with the ribbon tied in it. “Oh Mu-um.” I moaned.

“I’m just making sure you look nice.” she said. “Let me see your lips.”

“Aunt Audrey’s already done them.” I told her.

“Yes I can see.” Mum smiled. “Did he moan?” my mother asked her aunt.

“Of course he didn’t.” Aunt Audrey proudly replied. “You’re being a good boy today aren’t you?” she said to me. “You must be very proud.” she said to my mum.

With everybody assembled and waiting for my sister and her new wife to have their first dance, the DJ introduced the newlyweds and they took to the floor. It was very romantic watching Jess in her traditional white wedding dress and Natasha in her more masculine grey wedding dress dancing in each other’s arms to Robbie’s She’s The One. They looked into each others eyes and smiled, sang the occasional lyric to each other, whispered sweet nothings in one another’s ears and occasionally kissed. Everyone watched with smiles on their faces, swaying along to the music and as their first dance song came to an end, the brides beckoned everyone else onto the dance floor and all of a sudden, Lottie appeared by my side.

I really didn’t want to dance but what choice did I have? She pulled me into the lights and I told her that I didn’t know what to do. “Just do this.” she said, taking hold of both my hands as the opening notes of Here Comes The Sun rang through the speakers. Lottie looked down at her feet and stepped left with her left foot, then brought her right foot to join it. Then she stepped right with her right foot and brought her left foot to join that. “Come on… it’s easy.” she prompted with a smile, so I began doing the same simple side step she was doing, trying my best to keep in time. “You don’t have to keep looking at your feet.” Lottie said as the bright disco lights flashed red, green, blue and purple on my tights. I looked at her instead, then glanced to my mother and aunt Audrey who stood smiling and watching. It felt like the longest, most self-conscious three minutes of the day. Everyone I glanced at seemed to smile down on me, more than likely they were all thinking how cute the girlie pageboy looks, dancing with the youngest of the bridesmaids.

The next song began… Just a small town girl… living in a lonely wor-orld… take a midnight train going an-ny-where …and Lottie told me she liked this one and kept tight hold of my hands. I felt trapped on the dance floor. Stuck in the same simple sidestep, feeling like a complete dork. If only my friends could see me now, I thought as I realised what I must look like. The disco lights illuminated Lottie’s shimmering lipstick and I knew that my lips must look just as vibrant in the flickering resplendent glow. My blonde curly hair bouncing about my head, the beams of light shining through my wispy blouse. I gulped and looked down at myself. Those dainty shoes with their little bows which have been nothing but comfortable all day long, and the lacy legs of my petticoats peering out from the legs of my bubble shorts, casting little lacy shadows on my tights that flashed in time with the music. …don’t stop, believin’… the chorus sang as Lottie let go of one hand and cast me into a twirl under her arm. She span me around and we grinned as our eyes met. …he’s such a girl… But that wasn’t the song. I looked around and spotted James and Thomas in the shadows, pointing and laughing at me from the edge of the dance floor.

Not one single moment on that dance floor was even vaguely enjoyable, but seeing my cousins openly mocking me made my heart instantly sink. I pulled my hands from Lottie’s grasp and ran into the shadows. “Mum they were laughing at me!” I sulked, looking back toward Lottie who just carried on dancing on her own.

“Oh take no notice.” Mum told me. “Go back and dance with Lottie.”

“No… I don’t want to.” I grumbled.

“I think this ones getting tired.” Aunt Audrey said.

“I’m not tired.” I stated as I pulled out a chair and sat.

“Well you’re getting stroppy.”

I sat in a sulk for ten, maybe fifteen minutes whilst my mother and her aunt chatted and watched everyone else enjoying the party. Every now and then they’d both look toward me and say something, so much so I got the feeling they were talking about me specifically. My mood only lightened when Mum asked me if I’d like Aunt Audrey to take me home. I nodded. Aunt Audrey smiled and asked me when it was that I last stayed at her house. “We’re going to your house?” I excitedly exclaimed. She has a wonderful big old house. I remember playing the best game of hide and seek there once, and in the huge garden there’s trees to climb and bushes to play in and a croquet lawn.

“He hasn’t got an overnight bag.” Mum said. “But you’ll be OK won’t you?” she asked me. I nodded and after saying goodbye to various guests including my big sister and new sister-in-law, I was finally putting the worst day of my life behind me.