My daughter grabs the microphone. It sparkles intensely. It’s one of those karaoke mics studded with LED lights that masks its harshness with sheer volume. It’s the kind of thing gifted to children – once – and then hidden by most parents forever after. My sister, Dearbhaile, is not most parents, so it has remained in arm’s reach throughout our trip to West Sussex. We’re visiting her and another sister, Mairead, both of whom live with their families in Worthing. We, our partners and our combined six kids are relaxing after a barbecue when my little chanteuse grips the microphone and shows no intention of letting go.
Emboldened by her audience, she remembers her world-class rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and prods me in the stomach to get her started. She doesn’t perform this song solo, you understand, it is always a call-and-response duet between the two of us, in which I sing Twinkle Twinkle and she continues, couplet by couplet, til song’s end. Her ability to screech the last phrase of each verse to any song does not quite reach the level of musicality, but it would make her an excellent member of the Beastie Boys.
