In a bid to squeeze in some warm Waltons-family type of weekend activity, I booked tickets for us all to see Snow White (the panto) at the local theatre. Pantomimes have never been my viewing of choice. Even when within the target age group, the garish getups and cross dressing characters made me cringe rather than laugh. German mum of one thought that a pantomime was a silent theatre show (a ‘mime’) – if only. The idea of the quintessentially English panto is so diametrically opposed to the restrained, stiff upper lip English reserve that it’s almost like the Mr Hyde alter ego.
Actually, despite the very amateurish performance and the man a few seats along from us with VERY dubious personal hygiene issues, oh, and the fact there was no chocolate icecream available in the interval, it was, dare I admit it, most enjoyable.
Tinkerbell is now an aspiring dancer (preferably more Black Swan standard). Mr A is now experienced in dealing with the wrath of fellow audience members seated in the row in front when Golden Boy gleefully grabs handfuls of their hair (useful for our impending holiday flight). And I (just about) managed to explain (a) why it’s okay to be a dwarf and (b) why the Queen (Snow White’s mummy) wanted to kill her daughter without engendering any paranoia in my own two year old.
Two and a half hours later, Golden Boy was officially getting restless and Mr A was late for a conference call (yes, on Sunday evening – boo hiss – sorry!) so our Waltons–esque family outing was officially over.
Today, after I confiscated her new 10 colours-in-one Hello Kitty pen as punishment for defacing my favourite White Company duvet cover, Tinkerbell now believes I am the ‘mean Queen’ personified.