Me on a mobility scooter, he dressed as Mr Twit. It was Roald Dahl Day today.
"God, I'm so embarrassed," he muttered as we were halfway home.
"Why? Is it the scooter?" I teased, knowing what was really up.
"Uh...no," he sighed, rolling his eyes.
"It's because I'm wearing purpley velvet girl's trousers," he hissed.
"Well, just walk close to the scooter then people will be far more interested in that than you," I advised, having had several long stares on the way to school, largely from people who sort of know me for staggering about the place and sinking at regular intervals into a heap on the nearest available bench.
By the time we'd nearly arrived home I remembered I had to nip to the supermarket for something.
"Come on then," I said.
"Uh, no way."
So I gave him the keys and he sprinted home, got changed into something more suitable and we sailed around Iceland and I didn't need my customary hour-long rest when we got in. Oh happy day, well until an intense discussion later on, but that's another story. And he did make a most excellent Mr Twit. We put food in his beard and everything. The purple trousers, incidentally, are true to Quentin Blake's illustrations, which have Mr Twit sporting a purple velvet suit. I'm sure Roald Dahl approved mightily, especially of the noodles and crumbs and bits and bobs in the beard. Grossing out the teachers would have been right up his street.