This week I attended my very last primary school Christmas concert. (Until I have that accidental late baby that my sister insists is going to happen just before I’m forty.)

My youngest is now ten, so gone are the days of the tear-jerker nativity, complete with shepherds stumbling over their costumes and a Mary who sucks her thumb throughout and carries baby Jesus around by his feet. Instead we had a carol concert, with minimal fluffed lines, and only one boy who kept dancing in the opposite direction.

My best bit though was the final ten minutes, where the mums and dads were allowed to join in with a rousing rendition of Hark the Herald Angels and Jingle Bell Rock.

I do like an excuse for a dance.

I ignored the faces Belle was pulling at me from the stage and the sniggering from her friends, and instead threw myself into the Jingle Bell Rock routine. Legs kicking, jazz hands on full power, I was the very picture of Christmassyness.

“Well done!” said the headteacher to me afterwards. “You’re the first parent who has joined in!”

I could tell she was impressed. Belle less so though.

“Mummy!” she hissed at me afterwards, “you were so embarrassing!”

“I know,” I said, “it was great wasn’t it?”

Happy Christmas!