Here We Go Again

Some twenty years after it first hit the stage, I finally went to see Mamma Mia, the Musical, on Thursday. One of the many advantages about being retired, is that you can actually go to the theatre for matinee performances. That may not be so attractive in the summer, but believe me it's a perfect way to spend a chilly January afternoon. Of course, your fellow audience does tend to be grey of hair and a little frail but it's the show you have come to see, not the occupants of the stalls and grand circle.

To be honest, squeezed between two Super Troupers, my mother and an elderly gent with the tremors, I was actually surprised to find that I was one of the younger audience members. I'd been expecting more like myself; representatives of the generation that actually wore hideously high platform shoes (a saviour back in the seventies for one of such short stature) and hot pants, rather than their parents who at the time had looked on disapprovingly.

In fact, I was even more astonished that my elders didn't get up and leave when, at the commencement of the performance, the audience was asked not only to switch off their mobile phones but also to be aware that, if of a nervous disposition, the performance included scenes involving white lycra.

Unfortunately for me, entry to the auditorium was marred by instructions to the effect that even if I could sing before I could talk and wanted to thank them for the music, I had to tone it down a bit and be quiet. Moreover, whilst it was recognised that I may be a Dancing Queen (Zumba once a week must have led to my coronation), I needed to stay still and resist the urge to move during the show.

Of course, I needn't have worried. The music was so loud that both my neighbours removed their hearing aids, allowing me to sing to my heart's content, and, of course, by the end everyone was swaying in their seats regardless.