"Yes, he was once happy to flaunt himself on telly as a cross-dresser," the caregiver gleefully added.
"You enjoy cross-dressing?" shrieked my companion, attracting the attention of the other guests sitting around our table.
"He apparently pranced around in a mini skirt and white glossy boots," continued the caregiver, sticking the knife in up to the hilt.
"It was a pilot for a television comedy show," I replied nervously. "I'd written a script about a group of males called the Fleshettes, a parody about a rugby team who secretly liked to dress up as marching girls and go on parade.
"We were short of actors for the pilot, so I became a temporary Fleshette, forced to don the gear and assist in filming sequences.
"I recall the television wardrobe couldn't find a pair of white boots big enough, so I was mincing around Carlaw Park in footwear three sizes too small - very painful," I sheepishly explained.
"Tell us more about the get-up," asked everyone, now that I'd become the centre of attention at the table.
"We wore blue jackets with brass buttons and had black fur Busby hats," I answered.
"Don't forget to mention the colour of the knickers peeping from under the white mini skirts," said the caregiver waspishly.
"We wore blue silk knickers to match our jackets," I lamely admitted.
"I might see if I can find a copy of the film, sounds like a hoot," suggested another guest.
"Great idea!" smirked my companion. "We could put it on Facebook, let the whole world share the fun."
"We could entitle it Peter Bromhead - The Early Years."
Walking home later, I hissed at the caregiver, "thanks for dropping me into it tonight."
She dryly responded, "well, at least you know you've been famous in this life for something, even if you can't recall any previous existence."
