Just to show me why I am like I am, a dream landed upon my sleeping form last night and I made a decision:
Don’t, don’t, don’t pop around to Tracy Island for a knees-up tonight!
It is now apparent to me that the Thunderbirds don’t drink.
They don’t do pints in the pub or parties. The Thunderbirds are always awaiting another call, always on duty, always, bloody always stone-cold sober. Not even an aperitif (they are plastic, they don’t need teeth).
So the rebel rousers that we are have decide instead to attend a musical evening with an array of musical youth playing anything from pianos to … pianos.
Proud parents and grandparents will be seated in a church hired for the occasion and will wait with anticipation for the arrival of their offspring – on the stool of life. There to play or not to play. Sometimes mistakes creep in, giving rival adults a secret chance to scoff at others. It’s a cruel sport, but not as cruel as the Colosseum.
Parents are encouraged to bake their own goods and to bring them in for the feeding of the five-thousand during the interval. We are praying, apt in church (indeed apse would have been apt), that our middle daughter gets on in the first half. That will save the savouring of the buns and tarts. It will also mean that I can escape the polite conversations.
I feel sorry for the kids as nerves can destroy their newly-found confidence on the keys.
But I feel sorry for me.
Perhaps Tracy Island would have been a decent night out after all…