Felled by the feel good factor

By the time I reel into Deborah's nativity play, I'm not in good shape.

I've been knocked for six by Noel, dazed by Divinity, felled by the feel good factor. And as for the seasonal alliteration: my dear, it's definitely getting me down.

Forget the Ice Queen and the splinter of snow that pierced Kai's heart (Kai - half boy, half goldfish, presumably): mine's been immobilised by a small, wiry strand of tinsel.

My parental credentials have already been somewhat undermined by Deborah's nativity outfit being sent back home again, owing to lack of fitness for purpose.

"They asked for a white skirt, white shirt, white tights, and that's what I sent them," I say to Deborah, indignantly.

"But it's a ballet skirt, Mum. They said it looked too much like what the angels are wearing."

"So?"

"Mum, I'm Mary. Mary doesn't wear a ballet skirt."

"And just show me your theological proof for claiming that angels do," I say, then realise that I've had one too many sledgehammer v nut moments this year and that it's time to pull back.

Deborah ignores me. "They said not to worry, they'd sort out my costume themselves."

This, coming from a resource-impoverished state school, has to be one of the most degrading bits of feedback possible. To be honest, though, I'm so thrilled that I've been let off the hook that, as long as they don't invite me up on stage and make other parents throw copies of the National Curriculum at me as a punishment, I decide I can cope with the humilation.

It's clear that I've made another fundamental gaffe when I get to the performance, depositing Deborah round the back of the hall first. The other children are arriving in their costumes. Deborah has been asked to leave hers at school - the only one, as far as I can gather. Perhaps they're worried that, in a fit of pique, I'll infest it with allergy-triggering dustmites.

All the other parents are waving tickets. Tickets? "We had to apply for these weeks ago. Didn't you get a form?" says a smug-looking mother. Short of shouting, "I'm Jesus' granny, let me through," it's hard to know what to do, until a kindly looking teacher manages to find me standing space by pushing and shoving the crowds until a suitable sized gap briefly appears, and shoving me into it.

Deborah, diminutive and toothy, mumbles her lines to herself for several seconds before delivering them, like an old lady exploring the taste sensation of a custard cream, but delivers them, eventually, with apparent enjoyment. The real straw above the manger keeps falling down, the three kings arrive present-less and the pianist, I'm happy to note, loses her way in 'We wish you a Happy Christmas,' going on so long after everyone else has stopped that at this rate she'll be ushering us all into a Happy Easter and beyond.

I sit, feeling completely detached from it all, but applaud diligently. If I could just have a tinsel bypass, I might even feel quite proud.