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I wonder if you need to have a secret yearning to be in drag, to be an amateur dramatics person. There’s just nothing like flouncing around in a long gown, whether it be Cinderella’s finale scene’s bridal version or a nun’s habit – it must be the only time, certainly, you could ever get a man into a frock and make him comfortable in it. I find it a fascinating process to watch the Ugly Sisters get fitted for their frilly bras and fantastic knickers, and seeing the priest getting in and out of his cassock wasn’t boring, either (because invariably the costume bears little resemblance to the shape of the actor required to wear it). In real life they all look like normal blokes, too.

It is my dream just once to play an historical personage, because the – probably hired – costume needed for such a serious role would make such an impressive change from musty curtain material and tired wardrobe pieces donned by at least half a dozen previous characters, all as widely different from each other as Bashful is from Hamlet. And while usually my criteria for choosing any kind of outfit consist of such questions as “Does the colour do anything for me?” and “Does this make me look fat?”, during costume fittings the burning questions are more likely to run along the lines of “Will I trip over this hem and have I got enough safety pins to make it possible for me to cross the stage without dragging half the scenery with me?” and “Will this do up round the back, or do I have to make sure I face the front at all times?”

But it can’t be denied that wearing a costume, no matter how wrinkly, dusty and ill-fitting it is before the pre-dress-rehearsal overhaul, definitely makes a huge difference to how you move, say your lines, and – in short – act. Especially long things. Even when you’re wearing jeans and sneakers underneath. Somehow your normal casual jaunt takes on a much more dignified air, and you find yourself if not strutting, then definitely parading. And once your threads have been aired, taken in and let out, ironed and donned, you’re a different person. Those lines you just recited before, even if you weren’t holding the book, suddenly gain meaning and come to life. You feel less like a spare part on the stage, and the moves become more natural – as if you meant to walk over there, confront this person or follow that one. One lesson I’ve learnt in our most recent production was that it pays to have a stopwatch handy when needing the more intricate costume.

Believe me, I now fully know the meaning of that phrase ‘once you’re in, you’re in’ I’ve never so far needed to don armour, but there’s no doubt that the nuns of half a century ago must have experienced much the same. Except of course with armour you don’t need to have niggling worries like “Is my wimple creeping out of the neck of my habit?” or “Is my veil pinned on straight, and will it flop forward if I turn my head?” – although I was strangely surprised to find that the more tightly the wimple was pinned, the more comfortable it was (next time I truss a chicken, it’ll fit the roasting tin more snugly than ever before!). And it’s amazing how adept you get at putting on the various layers that comprise a nun’s tropical outfit, when it’s so important to make sure everything sits and hangs exactly where and how it should be (believe me, more complicated than it sounds!), especially when the auditorium is filling up nicely, your seven-year-old is tugging your habit sleeve to ask whether you want to hear her latest silly-animal-joke, the Stage Manager has just come in to tell you “Two minutes, folks!” and you’re painfully aware that you’re meant to be on stage (the far end, of course) by the time the lights go up. But oh, the satisfaction when you look at the photo or video footage afterwards, and you have to look twice to spot yourself because you looked so ‘real’!

Of course it always helps if you’re completely kitted out by the time dress rehearsal comes around. The one instance that sticks in my mind of this lesson painfully learnt was when I saw a young girl performing a beautifully choreographed modern dance on a raised stage. Not until she threw a shapely leg up in a manner I could only admire and envy at my time of life, did it become cringingly obvious that she should have had the costume at least a day earlier – when it would have been possible for her to check on the availability of black knickers.

Funny that, the first thing I always check for suitability on stage is underwear.