(The above image, incidentally, is a confessional booth such as is beloved of Catholics.)

So last night last night, aaaahhhh. (As Mum would say.) (In real life, not as her character.)

We started back. Admittedly, Mum down. I was secretly pleased about this in advance. O wonderful is the chance to get to strut about and pretend to be her, I thought to myself. Fondly imagining that my other actors, the family remainder, would barely remember their lines and sit heads buried in books for most of the rehearsal, thus not entirely showing up my entirely un-Glaswegian accent.

Wrong wrong wrong.

They plunged themselves into it like adorable little firecrackers, boldly venturing into the new space like 3 day old kittens determined to explore. Their lines were most or less perfect. Their accents were (more or less) spot on. They were brilliant and beautiful (biased? me?).

I was a lumbering parody of a person veering between my nice middle class English accent and a sort of rough around the edges approximation of something sort of less enunciated. With a few violent gestures for emphasis thrown in for good measure.

My 'performance' was accompanied by the sort of awful silence that accompanies something so embarrassing that no-one can speak about it. They were luckily all too polite to pass any comment. But we limped to a gesticulating close at the tenth hour of the evening, were pottering about and washing the cups and Dad ventured a:

"well, your Glaswegian accent....."

Silence.

Unfortunately, Cath's off next week.