When I was a little girl I was a big fan of The Worst Witch books by Jill Murphy. Anyone else read those? They were about a young girl called Mildred Hubble, who went to a school for witches (which was totally a thing, even before Hogwarts) where she was, well, the worst. All of Mildred’s spells went wrong. She couldn’t fly her broomstick without falling off or crashing into something. Her bootlaces were always undone, and her hair was always messy. When the time came for the young witches to be given animal companions, all of the other witches got sleek black cats, while Mildred was left with a scruffy little tabby which couldn’t stay on her broom.
I totally identified with these books. My spells never really worked either, you see. And while I was good at my lessons, I was bad at EVERYTHING else. I was always wearing the wrong clothes, listening to the wrong music, saying the wrong thing. None of the other
witches girls in my class liked me, either. Mildred and I would have been BFFs, for sure.
None of this has anything to do with my costume for Saturday night’s party, though. I wasn’t The Worst Witch as a tribute to Mildred Hubble: I was just the worst witch in that I bought a hat, slapped on some eye makeup, and called it a “costume”. Happy Half-Assed Halloween, everyone!
In preparation for my transformation into a witch, I went to the supermarket last weekend to buy a broomstick. And, you know, at this time of year, the supermarkets ALWAYS have lots of witch-related fancy-dress stuff, so I thought there was no chance of me not being able to find one. Of course, I was wrong: not a broom was to be found, so instead I bought this crappy black rose:
It really has nothing to do with anything: it just looked a bit creepy. I already had the wand, though. Doesn’t everyone have a wand tucked away for these occasions?
Even witches like to pose. Shut up, they totally do.
I’m, like, SOSCARY, no?
What do you mean, “no”? Here’s what happened to the last person who crossed me:Terry’s slack-jawed yokel of last week met with an unfortunate accident. That’s the last time he’ll try to stop ME buying shoes.
It’s OK, though, he still loves me:
I’ll get you, my pretties.