Last night I took the youngest to a show called Till the Fat Lady Sings. As soon as she did sing, we knew it was all over. In the interval I suggested doing a runner. "If I put my foot down, we'll make the end of X Factor Extra," I said. In our household, this is an inducement on a par with the introduction of Christine Keeler to John Profumo. We drove home in a state of relieved hysteria. The show put every X Factor comment into context. The singer was a one-trick pony, like Ray. Even her Beatles numbers were sung as opera. She was ungainly and dead behind the eyes, like Dionne. She was dull, like the MacDonald Brothers. Who yet again defied all notions of fairness and decency to stay in the competition. How can we combat black-white racism when white-white racism is endemic on this island? We should boycott Scotland! Returning home we discovered the delightful Ashley was out. "I think," my youngest said, "That though he's the best singer, he isn't meeting his own potential. That's why he didn't get the votes." I've always told the kids that it's not their brilliance that will bring success, but the level of their ambition. Delighted with her presience, I gave her what was left of the Halloween sweeties;-)