How had it come to this I wondered, squashed amongst an orgy of silks, satins, fishnets and stubble. Yes, the battle of the dames had begun and we were here to witness the real Oxford Playhouse pantomime dame Doris Doughnut and the wannabe dame, our group features editor Jeremy Smith.

And I was their totty sandwich, the spam in their bun, the meat paste in their roll, the kebab in their pitta.

Not that that was the problem. I was actually hugely enjoying myself as we talked false eyelashes, stocking tops and where to buy extra large shoes (from America by the way, for those with size 13 feet).

But there were two things which irritated me profusely. The first was the amount of time they took getting ready. Yes, us ladies need longer than our male counterparts and there’s so much to be done. But having left it really late before sauntering down to be made up and frocked, Jeremy, who loves dressing up on the best of days, had seriously underestimated the time involved.

It’s not a fancy dress party, you know. There’s more required here than slipping on a Fred Flintstone costume, blacking your moustache up a bit, adding some comedy eyebrows and sauntering out the door in five minutes with a plastic club in your hand. This is an art we’re talking about here, and not something to be taken lightly.

So while their make up was applied professionally, which took a while (have you seen Jeremy? He needed a lot of work), the frock also needed to be fitted, shoes chosen, legs shaved, accessories added, tights matched, hair dried and styled, all of which was performed in the theatre while I sat at my table in our chosen location, alone and waiting. It was like being stood up, twice over.

But realising that, instead of being blown out, they had just seriously underestimated the work involved, I bided my time.

To add insult to injury, when they did finally arrive in a flurry of excitement, the tourists in Gloucester Green staring open-mouthed at the grotesque pageant unfolding in front of them, they looked great. Coiffed to within an inch of his life, Leon has his own dame wardrobe at home and is a professional panto star.

Jeremy, on the other hand, needs a few more dame lessons and should have listened in class when they were teaching us that a bonnet and blue eyeshadow cannot hide half a century of debauched living. This was proved while ordering drinks at the bar, when an interested punter wandered over and started chatting up Dame Doris Doughnut – for real, much to her alarm.

So just to clarify that for you, I’d been there for an hour, alone, dressed up to the eyeballs, tapping my fingers impatiently while I waited, and two men dressed as women walk in and get chatted up immediately. There is no justice.

  • Read Katherine’s full interview with Dame Donut in The Guide later this month