Ruth Walker: I’ve been invited to a galaxy far, far away (Edinburgh's Old Town, to be exact)

I'VE been invited to a party. The mere fact deserves a mention not because parties are a particularly rare occurrence in my increasingly hermetic life (though that does happen to be the case – it takes a brave suitor to prise me away from my fleecy jim-jams and fur-covered hot water bottle these days), but because January's social life is notoriously rubbish.

This is due to a combination of too little money, too much lethargy and some ridiculous concept of healthy living that usually falls by the wayside mid-month, when you realise merlot is one of the few things that make life worth living.

So hurrah for January birthdays. Hurrah, in particular, for milestone birthdays. And hurrah for the brave birthday boy who not only throws a January party, but also insists on making it fancy dress. Yes, people, I've been invited to go where no woman has gone before. To a galaxy far, far away (well, to Edinburgh's Old Town, to be exact), where I'll be able to “refresh my tired and terrible non-Euclidean pseudopod with fermented vegetable drinks and maybe even groove gently. Or frug." I have no idea what any of this means, except that it's a sci-fi theme.

I love a fancy dress party. I once won a cardboard Oscar for my portrayal of Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction (though the wig was particularly scratchy and unpleasant). My most recent adventure as the Queen of Hearts at a royal-themed bash wasn't entirely successful, but that's mainly because the drag queens and Freddie Mercury rather stole the show (not to mention my colleague's eerily convincing turn as Princess Anne). And the birthday girl's Princess Margaret, complete with bandaged feet, was inspired.

I have a friend who has a spectacular Wonder Woman outfit, cobbled together from some vintage red patent platform boots, denim hotpants and some strategically placed gold stars, while her husband's Ali G (yellow boiler suit, plastic medallion, swimming goggles) is just spooky.

But sci-fi is new territory for me. I don't watch Doctor Who, have only a smattering of Star Trek knowledge and vaguely remember Blake's 7 (though I do recall attempting to construct one of the crew’s bracelet communicators, courtesy of Blue Peter, involving the bottom of a Fairy Liquid bottle, some silver foil and a random assortment of buttons).

But Star Wars. That was what you might call character-forming. I had the serious hots for Mark Hamill, aka Luke Skywalker, being perhaps too young and inexperienced to appreciate the raw sexuality of Han Solo. And so, choosing the wrong man has been a pattern I've gone on to repeat throughout adulthood. Damn you, George Lucas.

Anyway, a potential costume: would it be a bit of a cop-out to go as Agent Scully? I already have the red hair. Or the cheerleader from Heroes? I'm sure I could rustle up a couple of pom-poms? Then again, what girl didn't covet Princess Leia's Cumberland sausage up-do? A trip to the butcher, white sheet (no, I will not be doing the gold bikini) and I'll be sorted. Now I just have to work out how to create my own hologram. n