There is nothin' like a dame...

There's been a bit of a hiatus of late as things have been incredibly hectic and my energy levels have been somewhat sapped. But now that things have eased off a little I have returned to inflict my latest witterings upon you.

So, where shall we start dear reader? Perhaps chronological wittering may be best or I'll become befuddled. Correction. More befuddled than normal.



First, there's my recent attendance at a pantomime. There are various productions going on up and down the UK from around November to late January but we went to a local small town production. They all share key components - a baddie, a hero, a fair maiden, a man garishly dressed as a dame, some singing, some dancing and a happy ending. Ours was no exception.



The dame looked and sounded as if s/he had had a hard life in the Gorbals. S/he sang like a partially blocked drain. S/he was vulgar, loud and a bit ham. The kids adored him/her.



Little Dynamo was so captivated by the tale that he all but vaulted the first five rows to take on the giant and the pirate simultaneously and singlehandedly. One little boy in the front row however was so traumatised by the voice alone of the giant he pelted from his seat and spent most of the show on the lap of a mildly astonished teacher half way to the back the auditorium.



Speaking of trauma, let's move on to school Christmas concerts. I'm thinking here of the little clutch of children who valiantly scrape a violin, puff into a recorder or jingle a bell in the hope that something magically musical might result. Even proud parents must concede there's an element of trauma involved - for player, for audience or perhaps both.



Watching the show can be a delight but for those behind the scenes it can be fraught with potential hazards. This year alone we had an Angel Gabriel, whiter than his holy robe, close to fainting under the lights. We had three Wise Men who piled their hefty gifts on a baby juggling Mary whilst Joseph sat waving to his family from under his tea towel. We had a couple of girls on the front row competing for the I Can Shout 'Away In Manger' To My Mum Loudest award. I could go on.



Nevertheless, it all came together in a charmingly imperfect way which may eventually appear on one of those funny video clip shows. There may even be an unflattering but fleeting shot of me scuttling across the screen like a half shut knife to fetch standby Gabriel #1.

If you have HD and wide screen, be warned. It won't be pretty.
At least we didn't have projectile vomiting this year.