YOU can tell it is nearing the end of the school year. The homework has slowed to a trickle. The teachers all seem to be getting more excited as the sparkle returns to their eyes. And I am being slowly driven insane.

Not that you would know it. Especially when part of the problem is that my eldest daughter has an exceptionally beautiful voice. One that makes strangers turn and smile. One that makes angels draw near. And one that makes me wonder exactly how long it would take me to pull my sock off and shove it in her mouth if she sings another verse from Oliver - this year's end of school production.

Now it's not that I don't like this musical, because I do, or at least I used to. I even have very fond memories of it because I played the role of Oliver when I was 12.

It's just that I'm about to turn into Oliver 'Twisted' because Tara has been singing 'All I want is a room somewhere' - drafted in from My Fair Lady for this production - over and over again, until I've finally reached the point that all I want is a room somewhere.

I don't even care if it's 'far away from the cold night air,' as long as it is far away. Preferably somewhere quiet. Very, very quiet.

Unfortunately, it doesn't just end there, because this musical has caused her to subtly criticise my sense of dress. I guess she's still a little too young to realise that my favourite pair of trousers are really more like an old friend, instead of something that would make a great costume for the street urchin scene. The one where the actors are all dressed in rags.

Then there's the fact that she's also beginning to make me feel a little bit paranoid. Especially when she starts to sing 'got to pick a pocket or two,' while staring directly at the only pocket she really wants to pick.

Of course, I wouldn't mind it if some of the lines from that play were recited on a regular basis in our household. 'Please sir, can I have some more?' would certainly be much better than her insipid threat: 'If you don't feed me right now, I'm going to phone Childline and report you.'

Fortunately, I've managed to convince her that the DSS doesn't stand for the Department of Social Services, but Daddy's Special Squadron. And if she phones Childline, well... then I'm just going to have to retaliate by phoning the DSS.

She also got very upset with me when she realised that I already knew the plot to Oliver.

"You mean you know what happens to Nancy?" she asked as her lips quivered with disappointment.

"Yes, but don't worry," I replied as I did my best to be as sensitive as possible. "I doubt anyone else will know. After all, there can't have been more than a few million others who have read the book, seen the musical, or watched the movie."

"But no one will want to come if they know what happens."

I didn't even bother telling her that if they were like me, they were secretly looking forward to seeing it. Even though they might have to suppress the temptation to sing along, now that they knew all of the words so well.

And when they finally do go, they'll probably also have a few tears in their eyes.

Not that I'd ever admit it. No sir.

That must have been some other bloke who was a little choked up because he was so proud of his daughter. It certainly wasn't me. Unless you're talking about that big piece of dirt that accidentally got stuck in my eye.

After all, I'm a man.

And we only cry when something truly catastrophic happens, such as England losing.