Intestine times

"Do you know what the word 'disembowel' means?" says the head, kicking off her pre-play motivational chat with the Year 2s.

"No? It means pulling all your insides out, bit by bit," she adds, demonstrating with a majestic hand over hand action that has the entire class goggling at her. "And, Bertie, if you sit with your legs akimbo so everyone can see up your king's gown again or fiddle with your crown during the performance today, I'll be strongly tempted to disembowel YOU."

Later on, as I triumphantly crash down my hands on the final chord, getting three out of four notes right - well above average - there's a collective sigh of relief from the teachers.

"The lovely thing," says the chair of the governors, after despatching a small child to present a seasonal basket of flowers to me and the deputy head, who wrote the thing,"is that the children were obviously enjoying every moment."

Little does he know that from my concealed position - right at the back of the hall, hidden by the children standing on rows of benches, I have long since mastered the art of hissing "SMILE! LOOK HAPPY! NO - HAPPIER!" out of the corner of my mouth while playing the introduction to 'Away in a manger.'

After the performance, we go round the school hall, collecting the parents' debris - used tissues, coffee and burger packaging. I'm half expecting to find a used condom in the back row.

"They might at least leave a tip," I say to the head. She sniffs. "A few inches of intestine stapled to the next letter home might help to reinforce the message that good manners maketh man."

Bertie, passing on his way back to the classroom, flinches and glances down at his robes, presumably praying that his mother had the good sense to make the bottom layer out of Kevlar.