At the age of 10, after a string of parts in church Nativity plays and school musicals, my daughter decided to sign up for proper drama classes, once a week, with a professional outfit here in Amsterdam.
Now, a year later, her eight-year-old brother is going for it as well. I cheer them both on, and can’t wait to see how their interaction develops as they become loud, posturing foils for one another over the dinner table. For me this will be a poignant double mystery. I can write and direct, but I can’t act – indeed, I couldn’t act wet in the bath – and I am also an only child. They will be skipping, hand in hand, ever deeper into territory where I can’t follow.
