In The Night Garden Live

It's been a packed August Bank Holiday weekend. It's usually a busy time of year for us, but instead of spending it in the mud at Reading or Leeds, this time we've moved house. Of which more another day.

We still managed to take in a gig though. The In The Night Garden stage show is on at the Trafford Centre. Given that it's one of G's TV favourites, we'd actually got the tickets ages ago, and it turned out to be a particularly good excuse to escape all the unpacked boxes for an hour or two.

The format of the live show will be, how can I put it, familiar to experienced ITNG watchers. Unlike some children's shows, there aren't any little grown up references to keep the parents amused. But the repetition is one of the many things that toddlers seem to love about it.

The first sight of the colourful characters in life size caused huge excitement in the room, which only built further over the course of the hour. Frankly, I was surprised the later and much-anticipated arrival of Upsy Daisy didn't provoke a round of stage diving.

By this stage, G had shed any early inhibitions and had moved off my knee and into a space nearby, from where she danced along and waved to all the characters as they came and went. Despite the voice over by Shakesperean luvvy Derek Jacobi, the show itself is not exactly about to transfer to the National. But G hasn't stopped talking about it all afternoon. So if she develops a lifelong interest in the theatre, we'll know where it started.

At The Hairdresser

I took G along to a salon in Uppermill to get her hair cut today. Mrs J is determined that G should grow her hair out, so I was under strict instructions to ensure this was just a little tidy-up. Walking in I counted three hairdressers and three customers, all women, so with G there too I was outnumbered seven to one. Not quite the worst ratio I've ever experienced, but enough to take me out of my comfort zone. I haven't had my hair cut in a salon since I was about 12, so I really have no idea what to do in these places.

As the hairdresser got started, I noticed little bits of something in the top of G's hair. "Oh, that's probably left over from her breakfast," I said, truthfully. G's hair often gets in her way (she usually refuses hair clips point blank), so I think nothing of picking tiny bits of own-brand Shreddies out of it during the morning. But I can't imagine the women were particularly impressed that I'd led my daughter's hair get into such a state.

At least G was well-behaved throughout, helped by the In The Night Garden magazine I'd got for the occasion. And her hair's immaculate now too, at least until breakfast time tomorrow.

Sleepless In Stamford

We took G to Stamford in Lincolnshire for the weekend, to visit some friends. On Saturday afternoon we went along to Burghley House, where G enjoyed meeting a very sociable deer, as the picture shows.

Saturday night wasn't nearly as successful, as we suffered through G's worst night for sleeping since she was a little baby. After waking up after midnight and spotting us in the room with her, she didn't seem inclined to go back to sleep. This isn't unusual when we're away with G, and after a while we got her up and let her play with Mrs J's phone for a bit, in the hope she'd want to go back to sleep soon enough.

But she didn't. Attempts to put her back in her travel cot were met with whining, crying and, after an hour or two, wholesale screaming. At one stage I took G downstairs whereupon she howled for her mummy, huge fat tears plopping down her cheeks, and got herself so worked up she started struggling to breathe. I went on a mercy dash to the car to pick up an In The Night Garden DVD, and after a couple of soothing episodes she finally went down to sleep at about 6am.

This was bad enough, but Mrs J and her friends were due to run a 10k in Sherwood Forest later that morning. After three hours sleep Mrs J not only managed to get to the start, but completed the course in her best time ever, while I joined a tired but surprisingly not-too-grouchy G in cheering her on from the sidelines. I drove home afterwards though. G slept all the way.

In The Night Garden

We need to talk about television. When G was a bit younger I used to try to keep her away from the box in the corner of the room as much as possible. Partly this was because she didn't seem that interested in it, other than when she was a small baby and could be diverted by the flickering lights and sounds for a few minutes at a time. But it was mostly because I knew she'd end up watching plenty of telly when was older, so did my best to delay her interest in it for as long as I could.

A few months ago though, a bit of TV in the early evenings became necessary. I'm usually cooking tea between 6ish and 7ish, and G would habitually lean on the kitchen stairgate during this time, watching me potter around by the stove. After a few months of doing that every day, she started to get bored, and I found myself having to constantly bob in and out of the living room trying to find things to keep her occupied. By far the best way of doing this turned out to be, yes, the TV. Or to be precise, the CBeebies Bedtime Hour.

I'm now guaranteed an hour of quiet every evening while I get the food ready. The main reason is G's new found love of the programme which takes up half of the Bedtime Hour each evening, In The Night Garden. Made by the people who brought you Teletubbies (and the frankly frightening Rosie and Jim, spongey faces and all), it's a baffling array of colours and characters of varying sizes, accompanied by bits of music and the tones of Shakesperean favourite Derek Jacobi, slumming it a bit in his role as narrator.

It would take more than a simple blogpost to begin to explain all that goes on in an episode of In The Night Garden. Indeed, there have been entire PhDs awarded for much less. It may be utterly confusing to grown ups, but G loves it, and that's the important thing.

One of G's favourite characters is Upsy Daisy. Here she is demonstrating the dance that Upsy Daisy does in every episode.



I'm sure she'll go off it one day soon. But as long as it keeps her amused for the time being, I'm happy to let her keep watching. Two-year-olds can't all watch Question Time, you know.