When I first sang in front of my partner ducks dove for cover.

Up until I met my partner I had been convinced I could sing rather well. I had taken part in many high school productions and had been part of a church gospel choir that toured extensively and even made a record (yes, it was the days of vinyl).

My children had always let me join in with their bath time sing-songs, and rousing renditions of "Row, row, row your boat" had always been seemingly well received at parent and toddler mornings.

But then, one fateful evening, as I was cooking a rather complicated meal in a bid to impress my dinner guest, I launched enthusiastically into a rendition of "YMCA" only to have my prospective new boyfriend throw his hands to his ears in horror and scream, "Leave the cat alone. What did it ever do to you?

I was mortified.

Several decades of self-belief that I was a supremely tuneful vocalist were smashed to smithereens and my darling kids nodded their agreement and inadequately suppressed long-time-coming giggles at the thought that someone had finally told me I had the voice of a strangled moggy.

Still, the revelation did not harm our burgeoning relationship and the kids sighed a collective breath of relief at not having to keep up the pretence anymore. And me, well, I continue to sing, only now I make sure all the doors and windows are locked and there are no vulnerable small animals nearby.

Image © maessive vis Flickr, under Creative Commons licence