The costume is a too-tight purple satin vest top she’s had since uni – she almost spills out of it these days – and two pairs of black tights stuffed with the rest of her hosiery drawer. Her hair is silver with cheap spray from the party shop, blue eyeshadow smeared from lids to eyebrows.
‘Isn’t the theme -?’
‘Disney princesses? Yes.’
‘And you are?’
‘Ursula, obviously.’
‘But she’s a …’
‘… sea witch.’
‘Not a princess?’
‘No. *Much* cooler.’
‘Doesn’t she have eight legs?’
‘Nope, six. Easier to animate. I checked Wikipedia.’
She had her first baby a year ago, and she’s not quite lost the weight. She can’t bear to try to pull off the princess look alongside a load of skinny minnies who’ll do it so much better. She’s always been strangely drawn to Ursula, recognising her anger, her jealousy, her venom in herself, and wanting, perversely…
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