Over the years, as our kids were growing up, it was the site of our annual trip to see The Nutcracker.  From the time they could sit still up until the time they could go by themselves, we’d book tickets plus dinner, get all dressed up and go — it was part of our Christmas ritual.  But last night, for me, was something special.  It was the Royal Opera’s production of Puccini’s “La Fanciulla del West” (aka “The Girl from the Golden West”).  Jose Cura and Eva-Maria Westbroek were the stars, and they were amazing.  The set design was inspired; the orchestra perfect.  But so what.  I couldn’t care less for any of it because my own Number One Son was on stage, too.  Okay, he wasn’t there to sing (although he does have a beautiful voice, if I do say so myself). He didn’t open his mouth once.  But he was hired to be there as an actor (notice the word ‘hired’ — yes, he got paid equity wages!), dressing up the stage, filling out the scene, defining space left and right, looking appropriately sad and appropriately happy, even being the last man on stage-left to doff his hat and wave as the lights went down to thunderous applause.  Okay.  Go ahead and laugh.  But even though I have seen him on stage many times since he began his professional life as an actor a few years ago, this, for me, was something special.  And as we had a drink together afterwards, he admitted that for him it was something very, very special, too (despite the silly wig).  

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And while I’m boasting, tonight I have the great pleasure of attending the launch of Carolyn Smailes’ new novel, Black Boxes.  I’ll be at Borders on Oxford Street, London, urging her on, applauding wildly and admiring her shoes.  I’ll pass on all of your best wishes, too.