Janet Christie: Histrionics. What is it with girls?

It’s school fair day so Youngest Child is up at seven, ready for her Highland Dancing demonstration which flings off in only four and a half hours.

I shrink under the duvet at the approaching slap of ghillies on floorboards.

“Time to go,” she says.

“Five minutes.”

I try to doze, but the clatter of broadswords makes it impossible.

Finally it’s time to go but she’s now wearing a denim skirt and boots.

“Not going,” she says.

“Eh?”

“I hate people looking at me. I’ll be rubbish.”

“You’re fabulous. And it’s just for fun.”

She starts to cry. Oh God. Histrionics. What is it with girls?

“Ok,” I say. “Let’s not bother.”

“No! You’re making me go,” she says.

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are. And you’re angry.”

“I’m not. I don’t mind.”

“Ok! I’ll go if you make me! But I’m changing there. We’ll take it in a bag.”

“Whatever.”

We arrive at the school, late.

“Promise you won’t be more angry,” she says.

“I’m not angry.”

“That bag you’re carrying. It’s empty.”

I laugh. And she skips off to find her pals. Bemused I head for the plant stall where I meet a friend.

“Hiya!” she says. “Just seen Youngest. She says you’re absolutely furious.”