It's fair to say that Olivia has inherited genes that put her at the heart of a theatrical dynasty that could make Bland the equal of Redgrave or somesuch. Mum is of course a Drama Teacher and Dad has also flirted with thespianism - who can forget Crompton House's seminal production of 'Our Day Out' in which he brought a haunting gravitas to the role of the Coach Driver? (To this day many who were present still tremble when boarding coaches).

So expectations were high as we made our way to Westhoughton Pentecostal Church for the annual Nursery Nativity yesterday morning. Olivia may only have been serving in the chorus but we made sure that in the weeks leading up to showtime she didn't stint on the practice. (A strict regime of breathing exercises and strictly no Tikabilla unless you're breathing through your diaphragm.)

Alas, as the curtain went up, Olivia had already fled the backstage area to seek the sanctuary of Mummy's arms, and her participation was to be non-existent. From the audience she alternated between whoops of joy, questioning the onstage professionalism of her colleagues ('Florrie's waving!') and demanding to be taken home. Clearly the instinct to be a critic far outweighs the instinct to perform. Daddy, for one, couldn't be more pleased.