Christabelle Grant Author

On my very first week of Primary School, we had “Book Week” where students were encouraged to dress as their favourite book character, and parade around the school, waving madly as if our lives depended on it.

Now I went to school not when I was five, yet at the seasoned age of six, bowl cut at the ready, chubby cheeks bursting at the seams.

Let’s keep in mind the year was 1995 and the obvious choice for a little girl at that time was to be a little princess with a tiara wobbling dubiously on the top of one’s head.

I on the other hand, had a mind of my own (clearly) and so instead I decided with triumph that I would go as The Little Red Hen.

Now the Little Red Hen, was quite that- a Hen and I was in fact, not a hen (just yet).

The night before the Big Event, my Dad- a maths teacher by trade- sat on a wooden chair by the fire place, and painstakingly made a yellow beak out of cardboard, and threaded elastic in between holes on either side, tied together in small knots.

Come morning, with my beak firmly attached to my face, and Mum’s apron tucked in around my middle, I tottled off to school, and waved like mad in that parade.

Now, something I forgot to mention is that on this winter’s day, I had a particularly runny nose, which over time, despite my constant snivelling caused the bottom part of the yellow beak to become soggy, ensuring that the beak slid further and further off my nose, to the point where half of my costume was predominantly snot- and not the discrete kind either.

So whilst a Princess may have been the obvious choice for others, The Little Red Hen was the only choice for me- and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The (Big) Little Red Hen.