Last Sunday’s a bit like the curate’s egg (those of you familiar with Punch magazine circa 1910 will know what I am talking about…

Last week’s jam session was a decidedly curious affair, with the now expected high standard of music, but a little thin on the ground. I always rather like these sessions, as it presages an upsurge in new talent coming along – highlights (for me, anyway) included an increasingly confident Tina on piano – if I can just con her into coming every week, she is going to real good, Fiona singing for the first time, and later Grace’s Mum, who had only popped in fore a drink being cajoled into giving it a go, and doing really well.

Grace (aged 6) was asked “Would you like to hear your Mum sing?” and, sensibly, answered “No” Despite this, a fine performance ensued, and another dream (“I’ve always wanted to sing in front of a band, but never had the nerve…) was fulfilled. I really love these moments, and I didn’t even have to trot out my-last-line-of-defence-killer-line (“Grace, if your Mum doesn’t sing, it is because she doesn’t really love you . . .”)

Well, she did sing, and we loved it…
TW