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much – surely that was what the boys would be for? She’d probably be singing the top or middle parts. But I made her do a bit of extra work on it anyway, despite Laurie’s very sensible advice that she’d be better off concentrating on the parts she knew well. On the up side, she took to belting out ’The Lonely Goatherd’ like she was born to yodel. Unfortunately, so did I, and I wasn’t. Worse than that, the song wormed itself into my brain. I spent the best part of a year humming it to myself, and occasionally bursting into off-key song, sometimes in deeply inappropriate situations.
    We were due at the Really Useful Group’s head office in Covent Garden at 3.30 p.m. on Tuesday, 30 May, half-term, so no need to ask Mrs Kendall for time off. As usual we arrived ludicrously early. As usual, Dora was hungry and demanded food, so first of all, we popped round the corner to a café, where I bought her an apple and a bottle of water, promising something unhealthy after the audition. As we were now slightly less ludicrously early, we wandered back to Really Useful’s HQ. A few kids and parents were leaving. ‘How did it go?’ I asked one father. He shrugged, smiling, and told me that this time they weren’t letting the children know immediately whether they would be recalled. Round the side of the building, a mother was critiquing her son’s rendition of the top part of ‘The Sound of Music’. I thought it sounded better than Dora’s rendition of the bottom part. But then he was much older.
    I pressed the buzzer, and the door released. To our left was a curved dark wood reception desk, behind which sat a smiley young woman. Rather unnecessarily, given that I was attached to a small, grinning girl, I explained what we were there for. She directed us into the boardroom, which, with its thick carpet, comfy sofas, huge oval dining table and big plasma telly, looked like it wanted to be a lounge when it grew up. There was a grand piano (covered) in the corner and a sideboard with half-empty bottles of water, cartons of orange juice, jugs of tea and coffee and nothing clean left to pour them into. And lots and lots and lots of people. One family of older girls and boys were huddled in a corner practising perfect three-part-harmony singing. Others were bunched together trying to peek through the closed white Venetian blinds into what was obviously the audition room. Groups of children were chatting excitedly amongst them selves. As new people arrived, there were the occasional shrieks of recognition, followed by excited hugs, as children met up with old friends. The adults also seemed to know each other. I didn’t recognise anyone. It crossed my mind that this was what our wedding might feel like.
    Dora tugged at my sleeve. ‘I need the toilet,’ she whispered. So did I. But we found a woman with a clipboard first, so Dora could be ticked off the list and stickered. She was wearing tracksuit pants and bunchies again, as these had done the trick last time, and I was very proud that her hairdo was marginally more even. Although I hadn’t exactly achieved the Roman road of all partings, I’d managed to get one or two sections of it quite straight.
    There was a short queue for the loo, followed by a long wait for the audition. We’d managed to grab one of the chairs around the big table. Dora sat on my lap and I read to her, whilst trying to listen to the singing that wafted out of the audition room whenever the chatter in the waiting area died down slightly.
    Eventually her name was called, and after a few minutes of trying to concentrate on reading a novel, and smiling friendlily at some other parents, I joined the huddle at the Venetian blind. It was almost closed, but if you squinted at the right angle, you could just catch the odd slice of feet, ankles and table legs. If you focused hard, it was possible to hear muffled instructions being issued, although impossible to work out what was being said. These would be