Róisín Ingle on . . . a surprise in the dressing up box

It’s a dreary morning and I’ve been summoned to the playroom for a dressing down beside the dressing up box. The box is actually a huge wicker hamper my sister gave me a few years ago. I stand here remembering that I don’t even want a playroom anymore. I want a den, I’ve decided. An American-style den with a big squashy sofa and whatever else you have in a den.

The life and soul has gone out of the house since the telly went up to the attic. These days we all huddle around the cracked screen of the laptop in the kitchen to watch things on YouTube and the RTÉ player. Meanwhile, our sitting room is being used the way most people use garages. There are piles of books, bags of clothes for the charity shop, two bikes and – I think – several hula hoops and scooters in there.

I want my sitting room back. I’m definitely getting us a big, gigantic super-intelligent telly for Christmas. Smart won’t cut it, I’m thinking, I want a telly that could get into Mensa. Then I follow his annoyed eyes down to the contents of the wicker hamper.

It used to be my sister’s children’s dressing up box, but they got too old for dressing up. Apparently that happens. And then they go in their own version of fancy dress to Electric Picnic and you spend the weekend scrutinising their Instagram and Twitter feeds for any signs of deviance, excess or, worse, native American headdresses.

“Open it,” he says. I open it. It’s weeks away, but Halloween is the one “holiday” – if you can bear calling it that because I can’t – we are prepared for at every time of the year.

You could be literally anything you wanted to be with this gear. A pirate. A ladybird. A monkey. Elsa. (I’d choose Elsa.)

“There,” he says.

“Where?” I say.

“That purple thing,” he says pointing at a costume that looks like it would be too big for the children but might work around the time of their debs.

“Ah,” I say. “My old wedding dress. It’s maroon, not purple, by the way. Actually you might get some people arguing for burgundy.”

“I don’t care if it’s Joseph’s multi-coloured dream coat, do you think your old wedding dress should be in the dressing up box?”

I had to think about this. I mean, it's a fair question. As far as I recall, it was in the dressing up box when my sister gave the basket to me. I loaned my wedding dress to her years ago for some evening do. It's early 1990s Laura Ashley. You can pick them up for a song on eBay now, but it cost me 90 of Queen Elizabeth's pounds at the time. It has a sort of sweetheart neck, puffy sleeves, nice button detail down the back. It ended up in my sister's family's dressing up box and now it's in ours.

“Are you going to wear it again?” he asks, quite seriously. One of the things I love about him is that he can actually hold that dress up in the cold light of a September morning, look at it, look at me and think that I might actually be able to wear it again.

“I don’t think so,” I say fingering the label, my mind cast back to that London day, 20 years ago this November, (not that I’m counting) when all sorts of forever promises were made that couldn’t be kept.

We keep talking about us getting married lately. For the children. For legal reasons. But then we add up the cost of even a tiny family wedding and think of everything else more important that we could spend the money on.

“Do you know what we need in here?” he says, breaking the silence. “A really massive TV.” We may not be married, but we share the exact same values and that’s important. Plus he still thinks I could get into that dress.

*** Downstairs Dublin The Irish Times Culture Night event takes place this Friday in basement venues around Merrion Square from 5pm-10pm. Journalists including Patrick Freyne, Frank McDonald and Eileen Battersby will be taking part in a line up that includes art, music, talks, cinema and more My own offering is an event called Tea & Sympathy in the Irish Architectural Archive, 45 Merrion Square at 6.30pm. Simply write down your most embarrassing stories (no names, no pack drill), pop them in our Basket Of Embarrassment and let's all bask in the glow of our hot mortified cheeks together. I'll get the ball rolling with that time I was "invited" to a wedding.

For more see culturenight.ie, follow IrishTimesCulture on twitter or follow #downstairsdublin. roisin@irishtimes.com

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