3 February 2008


Yesterday, Shirley and I drove down to Birmingham specially see our daughter Frances play her part in a university musical she has been rehearsing for intensively since before Christmas. It was called "Dancing With Death" - written by two male students who are aspiring scriptwriters. The singing and choreography were vibrant and well-rehearsed though the actual plot was hard to decipher in places. I guess if it was about anything it was about good and evil and how these opposite forces can pull us every which way - though the production itself was light, containing plenty of humour and musical gymnastics.

It was performed in The Guild of Students - a proud building which harks back to the nineteen twenties with lovely woodwork, large dimensions and a sweeping stone staircase. Frances was one of very few first year students involved. I felt so proud of her - as comfortable on the stage as she has been in her first months at "uni". Whereas some young people grumble and blame their own shortcomings on others, Frances has just got stuck in and made the most of the experience since day one. I would like to think that in this sense some of her parents' philosophy for living has rubbed off on her. And when she walked out on stage as "Tricia" I was struck by how attractive she looked - someone whose inner beauty has affected her outer presence. And I thought of my mother who died last September and remembered how before World War II she had also strutted the stage - in dance, ballet and song. There are just some old photographs to prove this. Maybe it's in the blood.

After the performance we sped back up the M42 and M1 to Sheffield - making home ten minutes before midnight. More proud of her than Hull City's victory over Plymouth. A different Saturday night...


  1. It sounds as if your daughter has settled in well to uni life. She sounds like a lovely, well-balanced person.

  2. I'd be proud as well YP.

  3. Another great post! I have given you an award. Please wear fancy dress when you collect it.


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