By Deborah Rickard
“I told you, Mummy, I can’t do it. People will laugh!”
“No they won’t,” I say.
“The words will lump in my throat and won’t come out,” Joe stamps his small foot.
“It’s nothing to get emotional about. Pretend only Daddy and I are watching.”
Joe sulks; “All right. If you promise no-one will laugh.”
I’m in the fourth row back. The curtains draw open, and emotion lumps in my throat. I swallow hard and hold it in.
Joseph, red-chequered teacloth on his head, stands centre-stage, bravely pushing words from his mouth … and a finger up his nose.