I have a notebook in my lap, torch in one hand and my pen in my teeth whenever I have to clap. I sit in a darkened high school auditorium, with husbandly twiddling his thumbs next to me. We sit in the mosh pit, though I doubt it ever gets used as such.
On stage, years three-four-five-six are performing in the annual school musical and small babies are crying throughout the audience. The lighting cues are being missed, and the kids are bravely carrying on, singing their hearts out and barely forgetting their lines. The microphones the leads are using are screeching occasionally and still an improvement on the matinee last week. Unfortunately the bitchy lead (who must be wearing the latest and greatest brands, and pity the poor fools who aren't - to wit, the leads) has no microphone, so we're all missing some dramatic tension on that one.
The younger grades were on at the beginning and will come on for the big finish ("Up In Lights", "Can't Stop the Music" and some tripe called "Pots and Pans"). At the moment they're in the balcony above us all and the volume from up there is getting louder at every cheer and clap. I'd like to think they're really enjoying the show but chances are it is the influx of sugar at intermission from the cupcake stall.
Small lad is cross with me because I wouldn't let him get a cupcake - the line was out the door - and then he was cross because he wanted to go home and I wouldn't let him do that either. I am a mean mother.
The mum-and-brood who were sitting next to us in the first half have run away. I hope it had nothing to do with the juvenile note passing going on between husbandly and myself. Or rather, from me to him. As he twiddled his thumbs. Seriously, he does that.
In front of us is a lovely little girl who might be three. I seem to have made a friend. So far she has told me her whole family's names and now we're on to the plot of the Lion King. Now she's showing me some very nifty dance moves.
The action of the play is winding up on stage. Dad of the bitchy lead (who I'm pretty sure played a similar role last year) has just come out on stage and read her the riot act, including the priceless gem of "My daughter, a snob" while he hangs his head. I can't help but think that he's come to his parenting late since he's mentioned several times before this as buying her anything she wants.
Oh, the small kids are being moved back onto the stage and my friend in front of me is showing me the splits, some nifty hand movements and just asked me to spot her while she climbs on the chair. Glad to, keed.
Small lad is on stage now and has his tense face on, oh dear. It turns out later that he is very tired, but right now I'm trying to will happy thoughts at him.
I have more, but in reality I type in the fluorescent lights of the lab and I have things to do: thrills (well, blood) galore and Monty Python playing in the background. He likes traffic lights.
