Sorry

It is time I faced up to the truth. Last night the offspring sat on the edge of her bed running through the set she and the rest of the school 'choir' will be inflicting on unsuspecting shoppers in a own near us this morning.

She can't sing. She cannot carry a tune. When it comes to carols to gladden the heart of the archest of arch traditionalists the words are familiar, the tune (such as it is) could be absolutely anything and probably over the course of a rendition is pretty much everything.

Sorry sweet heart. You had to inherit something from me. You can't do maths. You are disorganised and dishevelled. But you've inherited my voice.