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voice. “He’s really irate.”
    Great. This is all I need. There’s nothing else for it. I’m going to have to do this tour myself and pray nobody I know ever finds out.
    Dawn’s right, my office is Baltic – so I don’t waste any time getting changed. In seconds my polo neck and black trousers are folded up on the chair and I’m wearing nothing but my underwear. What a day to have chosen to wear my big red and white polka-dot pants! That’s what happens when you share a flat with a girl who constantly breaks the washing machine – and until we get it fixed I’m down to the last few random odds and ends of underwear that I’d never normally dream of wearing. Today’s beauties were bought by a well-meaning ex who never did grasp the fact that I prefer white undies. Or quiet nights in to being deafened in crowded pubs. Or Radio Four over Radio One. Coloured pants aside, it’s easy to see why we didn’t go the distance.
    Anyway, I really hope the pants don’t show through the robes. Luckily Dawn’s quite a bit bigger than me, so the costume wraps around several times and covers everything. I can’t find the brooch she uses to fasten it and I haven’t got time to search either, so I improvise with some unravelled paperclips and tuck the surplus fabric under my bra strap. It’s not a great look but it’s just going to have to do.
    Right: make-up time. I don’t tend to wear a lot of make-up, so my attempt at Cleopatra eyes is more Alice Cooper than Elizabeth Taylor. Still, too late to worry now. I’ve just about got enough time to shove on my black wig and grab the golden staff before dashing downstairs. I glance in the mirror and a drag queen peers back. Not a good look. My only consolation is that nobody will recognise me like this.
    There’s no mistaking which group is waiting for me downstairs. Kids in school uniform are running around, scattering through the crowd like mercury beads. Others are sprawled on the floor, a few are having a scrap on the staircase, Jane from the Wellby Museum shop is evicting a couple more and the rest are waiting in a huddle, snapping gum and texting while their teachers look increasingly nervous. That sour-looking guy, scribbling notes and glowering, must be the journalist. He looks about as cheesed off as I feel, which is saying something.
    I’ll just think of the children and remember that nobody knows it’s me underneath the wig.
    “Hello, everyone!” I say brightly, “Welcome to the Wellby Museum. I hope you’re all ready to come back thousands of years in time with me?”
    “Is that why you took so long to get here?” asks the journalist. All the kids snigger and I feel myself turn red. Not a great start.
    I’ll stick to the script. Things can’t go too wrong if I do that.
    “My name’s Cleopatra,” I begin, “I’m the last of the pharaohs.”
    “And I’m Prince William,” sneers the journalist. “Call that a costume?”
    Sod this. I’m standing in the lobby of one of the nation’s most established museums wearing what is in essence a bed sheet, plus a comedy wig. My reputation as a serious academic is hanging in the balance and I’m freezing cold. I’m not in the mood for this smart Alec, even if I do want him to give us a fantastic write-up. Time to get into role...
    “Listen, peasant,” I hiss, pretending to prod him in the chest with my staff, “I’m Cleopatra the seventh, Thea Philopator and incarnation of Isis, and if I say my name is Cleopatra then you don’t argue with me. Any more disrespect and I’ll have you mummified alive! Or boiled in oil and fed to locusts! Maybe I’ll even bury you in the sand?”
    “Cool!” says one of the kids.
    “It’s like Horrible Histories !” gasps another.
    “Perhaps your eyeballs can be plucked out and fed to scarabs,” I improvise. “Or your brains hooked out through your nostrils. If, indeed, you have a brain?”
    The journalist steps backwards hastily. “Sounds painful! Sorry, Your