Outside the Phoenix Theatre, the Youngest of the Darling Daughters tells me we need to take a "selfie." Where is grand-daughter Hazel Bagel, with her selfie stick, when you need her?
Mind you, when we all gathered for our Family Beach Day back in August and Hazel undertook to record the Happy Scene, two of the (Not So Little) Welsh Boys unaccountably failed to register in the photo. They were there (oh, yes, they were!) but somehow
they hadn't heard the vital instruction that they needed to be able to see the camera if they were to be included in the eventual Family Photo. As it turned out, Young Sam - carrying the Duracell Bunny on his back - was hidden from view. Ah, well, next time
we are all together we Must Do Better.
It's an easier job, with just the two of us required to record our theatre trip. The Youngest of the Darling Daughters keeps moving into a better position, while I struggle
to keep up, finding myself in the wrong place most of the time. Eventually the photo is taken. We are Snapped For Eternity. Or for how ever long it takes a photo posted on Facebook to be replaced by something more interesting. Like Tala, the Older of The Twinkles,
with her hair in bunches, for example.
The Youngest of the Darling Daughters thinks she looks pale and washed out in the photo and describes it as a "sad selfie." I think I look somewhat manic but, as everyone
who knows me knows, I am not vain. I used to be, when I was about twelve. I remember catching myself appraising my own reflection in a shop window and being so appalled at my vanity that I immediately visited the hairdresser to have my locks chopped off. It
was a classic example of cutting off one's nose to spite one's face. For nose, read hair. I was, indeed, a bit of a prig.
My Darling Daughter and I are at the Phoenix Theatre to watch "Bend it Like Beckham".
You might think from the title, that it's all about football - but despite a cameo performance by a floppy-haired Beckham (sort of) lookalike, this is much more a story about Mothers and Daughters. How very appropriate.
Jess's mother wanted to teach her daughter to make traditional Punjabi dishes like Dahl (in a pressure cooker) as a precursor to finding a suitable husband. Jules's mother wanted her daughter to join her in clothes shopping and nights out dancing. Both
girls just wanted to follow their dream to play top class women's football.
For the Youngest of the Darling Daughters, who can foresee on the not-too-distant horizon the day when her own Darling Daughter leaves
home to follow her dreams, the poignancy of the show-stopper "There She Goes" was enough to induce misty eyes. Under the influence of the Usher Gene, I was teary too, but then I know What Happens Next in real life.
The two girls get to realise their ambitions. Jules's mother comes good, turning up to cheer her daughter on in the vital football match. It becomes clear that Jess's mother only wanted to save her daughter from being hurt as her father had been, when
his sporting ambitions were scorned in a less enlightened England than today.
We had a wonderful time, the Youngest of the Darling Daughters and I - but afterwards things started to go awry when I couldn't
get back because of train disruption while knowing that Mr B was in trouble at home. My three Darling Daughters, each in her own special way, were there for me. That's what happens, you see, if you are lucky like me. They head off. They come back.
The Youngest of the Darling Daughters drove me home. After depositing me safely and checking that both Mr B and I were okay, she headed off on a long, late, lonely drive home trying to keep her tired eyes open.
"There she goes," I thought. Gratefully.