IT was like a mirage. An invitation to a party that wasn't addressed to the children.

It couldn't be true - what a start to the New Year. For a moment, I was elated - then my world fell apart. At the bottom of the page were two little words: 'fancy dress.'

Together, they meant the difference between accepting and ringing up with an excuse.

For me, fancy dress has long been a phobia. I accept that for children it can be fun - with little girls and boys running around dressed as Harry Potter or Cinderella - but even then it's a pain putting together outfits.

For adults, it's another matter. The thought of standing around with a glass of wine, trying to make conversation with a mobile phone ringtone enthusiast disguised as Darth Vader, or a monosyllabic maths teacher dressed as Shrek, is unendurable.

I'm probably wrong, but I'm inclined towards the extremely bigoted view that fancy dress parties are thrown by people who are essentially dull and find conversation in a 'normal' situation difficult. By taking on the persona of Bart Simpson or Emily Howard from Little Britain, they can raise a laugh without having to say a word - except of course, for the associated catchphrases: "Eat my shorts" or "I'm a Laydee".

I'd find it less toe-curling to spend an evening watching early episodes of Crossroads.

There is also the question of which outfit to find. I wore my school uniform more as a student than I ever did at school, trekking to fancy dress parties imaginatively dressed in sixth form St Trinian's style - short skirt, stockings and suspenders, tie and tennis racquet in hand.

But back then I was all of size eight. Now, with several extra stone to support, I'd have trouble getting my old school skirt over one leg. Any hopes of looking even marginally attractive or remotely sexy would be dashed by the sparse range of outfits available to me.

It would be a toss up between La La from the Teletubbies or the Vicar of Dibley, both of which would be a delight to wear for several hours merrymaking.

Comfort goes out of the window with fancy dress. Gripped by enthusiasm as they get ready, people don King Kong outfits or Ninja turtle suits without the slightest thought as to how sweaty they will become or how long it will take them to go to the toilet. Queues outside the loo at fancy dress dos are always at least half a mile long.

People who throw fancy dress parties do so without even the remotest consideration for others. They don't register the trauma involved in finding something to wear, or the cost of having to hire a costume if, like me, you are as competent with a needle as a donkey is with a blow torch.

Then there is the awkwardness of the party itself - chatting to people hidden behind masks, under floppy ears and beneath flowing robes. You judge a book by its cover, but how can you when it is hidden under seven layers of yeti hair?

My nana had the right idea. "I'll go as an old person," she announced while pleading to come with us teenagers to the New Year's Eve party at our local pub.

That's what I'll do. If we go - which is highly unlikely - I'll go as myself. I'll just have to hope that no one mistakes me for Bubbles de Vere.

Updated: 10:24 Tuesday, January 03, 2006