Tonight's rehearsal happened simultaneous to auditions for our autumn show, Richard III. Which made for an exhilarating soundtrack of sometime shouting from the room next door and a constant babbling humming hubbub from the hallway.

It also meant that our rehearsal warm-up and then a portion of the rehearsal itsveryself was enlivened by the addition of two adorably elfin boys, last seen howling (one of them only) as Caliban ransacked their father's shopping bag for cocaine on the Mary of Guise barge.

Inspired by the incomers and an exceedingly pretty auditionee who clearly didn't realise that my 'open' invitation to join our warm up was directed at the 7 and the 9 year old in the room rather than the collective ensemble, I suggested Gary took the warm up as he does a much better job of these things than I.

He rose finely to the occasion, concocting a handful of child-friendly activities that youngest to oldest warm-up-ees embraced. I was not so lucky with my stalwart zoom screech as the oldest present struggled and strove to comprehend the rules with variable success. But the boys appeared to have fun.

And then they settled down into MY armchair (fools!) to watch the rehearsal. Adorably quiet. Watching attentively. Scarcely flinching at the vile language. (Though I did wonder whether I should call a halt to things just before they got to the - in fact, I'm not even going to write it for fear of attracting the wrong sort of attention. But Helen, if they start quoting all sorts of filth to you around the dinner table, you can blame Paul Higgins.) And it was all going swimmingly.

'Til suddenly, a tiny hand was thrust into my face with a tiny bloody scrap nestling within it.

"My tooth's come out!"

I stared back at the boy mutely, ill-equipped for such stuff of real life in amidst the middle-classery.

"Does it hurt?" I offered uselessly.

"No?" he replied tremulously.

"Well then!" I exclaimed, heartily, "you'll be fine."

A true Florence Nightingale.