It’s 11pm and I’ve spent the past five hours scanning Google images for inspiration, cutting up old curtains and duvet covers, glueing material to pieces of cardboard, my fingers and the dining table and I still look more like someone wearing an old net curtain than Cleopatra.
Jack, on the other hand, has taken half an hour to pull some bits together and paint his face and he looks more like William Wallace than Mel Gibson did. What’s more, he’s got a nice warm cloak to wear and I’ve got bare arms. I don’t suppose the Ancient Egyptians had cardies did they?
The forty minute walk from our house to Plaza Charco is a lonely affair when you’re Braveheart and Cleopatra. Passing through the La Paz district we draw sidelong glances from the elderly visitors which are not dissimilar to the sort of looks on the faces of people in my dreams when, for some perfectly good reason, I’m the only one who’s naked.
It’s not until we reach Calle Quintana that the mantle of paranoia is lifted and suddenly, it’s the ones not in fancy dress that look out of place.
As we enter Plaza Charco it’s evident that the costumes are of a very high standard this year. The furry animal jumpsuits and gangster outfits are very few and far between, instead, everyone seems to have doubled their efforts and outfits are bolder, more professional, more varied and every bit as politically incorrect as we’ve come to expect.
The benches around the fountain act as base camp for various groups who fuel up on rum or whiskey and coke before heading off into the melee, returning at intervals to replenish glasses. One bench is occupied by a dozen or so men dressed in Victorian baby costumes, another has witches and warlocks draped across it. There’s a bench of Charleston dancers and one of zombie nurses.
We spot several Batmen, an Incredible Hulk and three Spider Men but only one ‘Joker’ and clearly outnumbered, he didn’t try anything.
As usual, the Trannies are show-stoppers. Standing well over six foot in their high heels with their dazzling frocks and theatrical make-up, it’s difficult to take your eyes off them but the draft from their false eyelashes is making me shiver so we move on.
At the newly created disco zone Jack decides to take my photo as I’m dancing like an Egyptian to Orishas. It seems to me the camera is a little off centre as he takes shot after shot and further investigation uncovers several frames of the Go-Go dancer and just one of me… dark and practically out of range.
I feel decidedly dull by comparison to everyone else and by the time we get home it’s 5 in the morning and I’ve got arms the temperature of a corpse.
I’ve got just a few days to come up with another outfit, one that’s warm, comfy and sexy…God, the stress of living in the Real Tenerife.