At a recent dance performance I failed to recognise my own daughter when we poked our heads backstage to wish her luck.
I only knew it was she since I got a dismissive finger wave from a mascara-clad, crimped, sequinned, gum-chewing pre-teen that I assumed must be her - as we backed hurriedly out of the room.
On stage, I recognised her from her dance steps rather than her face.
And whilst I was proud of her younger brother dancing with all the big kids, it was pointed out to me that he more resembles a table football peg than a boy:
Currently reading: Bookworm by Lucy Mangan
