Columnist | Steve Canavan on the strange mix of pride and dread at seeing the school nativity

Last year we had to sit through the nativity. Sorry, let me rephrase that – we were delighted to see our daughter Mary perform in the nativity, in which she played the part of – and call me picky but this is definite typecasting – Mary.

Apart from her hat falling off four times and her singing being so piercing and out of tune that when I returned to my car later all the windows had broken, she was pretty good.

I remember thinking afterward, ‘that was lovely, but thank goodness it’s only once a year’ – a sentiment surely shared by all the teachers.

But unfortunately time has flown and last night it was time for another Christmas show.

I went to the evening performance – such is its popularity there is a matinee, mainly attended by grandparents and those really keen mums who choose to see their children in action twice (Mrs Canavan being one of them).

‘Could you come to the afternoon show with me?’ she asked. 'I’m coming to the evening one, aren’t I?' I replied.

‘Yes, but you could come in the afternoon as well,’ she said, apparently serious. 'Are you insane?' I responded. 'That’d be like being handcuffed, tied to a chair and have rotten vegetables pelted at my face for 40 minutes, and then volunteering to do it again.'

Mrs Canavan seemed annoyed at this and stomped off chunnering about my commitment to the children, which I found ironic given she’d spent the previous evening on her seventh Christmas night out with about five more to come over the space of the next week.

'How can you have so many Christmas do’s?' I asked. 'I mean, you’re not even particularly good company.'

I didn’t mean it as an insult, I was just stating a fact, but she got very upset and I’ve been sleeping on the settee since.

Anyway, back to the play. It started at 6pm. At 5.05 Mrs Canavan asked if I was ready to leave.

'The school is 10 minutes away – are you mad?' I answered.

‘Listen,’ she said, slightly threateningly, ‘the evening show is busy and we need to get a seat near the front so Mary can see us.’

'Are you seriously suggesting we arrive for a primary school play 45 minutes before it starts?' I responded. 'I wouldn’t arrive 45 minutes early for a hit West End show, never mind this.’

I then continued the urgent work I was in the midst of, clambering into the recycling bin and jumping up and down on the overflowing mass of cardboard, mainly consisting of the 7,000 or so Amazon parcels which have arrived over the past week containing a bewildering array of cheap plastic children’s toys.

At half five, and after much nagging, I agreed to depart. We arrived at 20 to six – with me complaining it was way too early and we’d be tutted at by the staff – and walked in to find virtually every seat taken.

Mrs Canavan gave me a look of pure hatred, made a strange gurgling noise that I’ve not heard her emit since she accidentally caught her finger in the trouser press during our stay at a Shepton Mallet Travelodge in early 2014.

‘Look at Laura and Tim,’ she hissed. ‘They’re right at the front. I knew this would happen. I despise you.’

Then, in a way only women can do, she noticed the headteacher and went from being on the verge of demanding a divorce to world’s most charming person. ‘Why hello Mrs Adlington,’ she said smiling widely, ‘this is my husband Steve.’

Mrs Adlington tried to make small-talk but it was difficult because she was gripping a small fair-haired boy who had a thick clump of snot dripping so far out of his right nostril that it extended over his bottom lip and was in danger of dripping onto the floor like some disgusting snot waterfall.

‘Must dash,’ Mrs Adlington said, smiling tensely, ‘I need to get a tissue for Nigel’.

Nigel, at that point, clearly got fed-up of waiting for he raised his left arm to his nose and wiped it vigorously on the sleeve of the pristine white sheep costume he was wearing.

Mrs Adlington gasped and dragged Nigel off with slightly more force than before, to, I presume, fetch a damp cloth and try to remove the huge bogey stain ahead of the performance.

We made our way to the only available remaining seats, on the back row, behind a man who I think was a professional basketball player because he was at least 6’5 tall and had the broadest shoulders I’ve ever seen.

I spent the entire show studying a huge and oddly-shaped mole on the back of his neck (if you looked at it from a certain angle it resembled Elton John circa the Rocket Man years).

The show lasted 40 minutes and Mary was on stage for about two of them, wandering round in a robe and displaying the acting skills of a wardrobe.

Still, it was a good watch and one can’t help but have their heart slightly melted by the sight of their own child on stage.

As long as, that is, it only happens once a year.