Fun frolics and super troupers
COULD that really be Björn? Dear Lord, was that Benny? Goodness gracious, was that gyrating dervish Sandi Toksvig?
There I was, clapping and toe-tapping alongside hordes of dining revellers in a typical Skopelos taverna, lapping up the spanakopita and knocking back a cocktail, while a tale of thwarted love unfurled around us to the accompanying throb of Abba’s finest tunes.
There was no need to schlep to Greece. I was neatly tucked into a former disused nightclub at London’s O2, after a bougainvillea-filled multimillion pound makeover, participating in the immersive experience known as Mamma Mia! The Party.
The “cheapest” ticket is £115. Can an evening of feasting, frolicking and Abba-inspired festivities be worth the money?
If you are mad about Mamma Mia! or insane about all things Abba-tastic, I’d start saving.
JULIA Donaldson, the author of children’s book The Gruffalo – she’s sold 13 million copies worldwide – is a devastatingly perceptive woman. She’s keen to prompt parents to pick up books and be seen by their impressionable offspring to be reading them. We’ve heard from teachers that kindergarten children can be observed making swiping gestures over storybooks, looking frustrated and bewildered when nothing happens.
Donaldson entreats parents to read actual books, adding: “I do get so depressed when I get on the train and see everyone scrolling.”
She’s right, of course. Peering at a Kindle doesn’t have anything like the same literary effect. It’s Donaldson’s next sentence, though, that pierces my very soul. “It’s important because you take your cues so much from parents, even when you think you’re rebelling against them.”
Ouch! We spend our teens detesting our parents, determined not to emulate a single wretched element of their misjudged lives. We vow never to make their rotten mistakes. We won’t toil as they have toiled. We flatly refuse to dress as they dressed or love as pedestrianly as we imagine they loved. We will leap nimbly over their pitfalls.We will be more enlightened, further evolved, better read, taller, slimmer and greatly esteemed by all who enter our orbit.
YET, Donaldson predicts our destiny. We mirror our mums and dads, however desperately we rail against them. We take on the mantle of their best and worst characteristics.
We abhorred our inebriated dad’s drunken ravings, yet we drown our sorrows in a slew of G&Ts. We loathed being yelled at for our misdeeds, yet hurl expletives at our miscreant children, unable to turn down the volume on our fury. We dreaded our feckless parents’ insolvency, yet squander our hard-earned pennies with profligate abandon. Our father’s extra-marital dalliances broke our hearts, yet some of us scamper about hoping to keep our bed-hopping below the radar.
Our parents’ conduct is our inevitable legacy, though we do our utmost to escape it.
Donaldson’s warning should stop us in our tracks. Our children witness our hopeless phone addictions and the peremptory manner with which we address our own parents. If we want to raise model citizens, we’d better nip our own failings in the bud.