If a random child singing a solo in a random concert that we attended on a whim to make the numbers up can reduce me to tears, then comprised of good ol' fashioned solid igneous material I am definitely not.
Seriously. I sat down expecting to endure slightly off-key caterwauling for the best part of two hours for the modest reward of a happy mother (who is terribly fond of children) and a small bowl of - in season - strawberries; but thirty seconds into a rendition (indeed slightly off-key) of Walking In The Air from The Snowman and I found myself blubbing uncontrollably and filled with the kind of sentimentality that I had assumed reserved for proud parents. Thankfully everybody else (most of them, of course, proud parents) was blubbing too, so nobody minded.
I think, however, that it is now a certainty that my hard earned reputation as a cold feeling bitch where sproglets are concerned is shattered.
I blame Squidgum.
I never had this problem before she came along.
She has ruined me.
Alice x
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