Who’s the Daddy? column

Stone Roses.
Stone Roses.

I’ve seen The Stone Roses and The Strypes up so close you could smell ’em, but the buzz we got from watching daughter #2’s Christmas dance show last weekend topped the lot.

The best way to describe the months of hard work that go into organising and rehearsing for shows like this is the serene progress of a swan gliding across a lake, while its feet go like the clappers underwater where nobody can see.

It was three hours long but it felt like it was over in less than five minutes. It was that good.

In the days leading up to the three performances (one on Saturday, two on Sunday) we organised daughter #2’s wardrobe of costumes, bagged it all up and dropped off and picked up from last-minute rehearsals.

And on Saturday night, it was showtime.

Of course I’m biased, but it was amazing to see how much daughter #2’s dancing has improved in the space of a year.

She was relaxed and looked like she enjoyed it, although afterwards she said her constant smile was pretend (course it was, have you ever tried smiling for three hours?).

Me and the boss were told in no uncertain terms before the show that we were not to sit on the front row, gawping like morons, because that would put off our dancing daughter.

It must be down to the twice-weekly lessons and natural talent because it can’t be in the genes.

I dance like a disabled giraffe while the boss moves like a primary school teacher on a staff night out (shuffling and pointing,

do I need to draw you a picture?).

But the highlight of the performance for us was right at the end when daughter #2 arrived on stage waving two weights on 4ft lengths of string around her head in the same way that Bruce Lee does in his films just before he batters an elite squad of ninjas.

To be honest, my heart was in my mouth at that point.

It was as much martial arts as it was dancing.

Anyway, after the show she said her suggestion to improve the performance by setting the weights at the end of the string on fire was turned down.

Can’t imagine why.