Open Mic Night

A curious challenge and a rallying call to reluctant family...but would it be poetry in motion - or a night to forget?

-  ELIZABETH MCKAY

Mum, I've got something to tell you. But first you've got to promise you won't get mad." Words every parent dreads.

I knew something was up the minute Ella walked through the door and dumped her schoolbag on the bottom stair. Normally she heads straight to the fridge before clamping on her headphones and disappearing up to her bedroom to do her homework which, in teenage speak, translates into 'message her friends'.

Instead, she was perched on the edge of the sofa where I was indulging in my favourite cuppa of the day before going to start supper. She hadn't even bothered to take off her duffle coat. The coat she hates. The one she says makes her look like Paddington.

She looked as if she was set to make a run for it as soon as she'd relayed her words of doom.

She was joining a cult. No, it couldn't be that. She'd never survive without her hair-straighteners.

She'd got a C-minus in her maths test.

Another no. That was a common occurrence and one her dad and I had come to terms with. Bright as she was, Ella was no Sheldon Cooper. Books and literature were her thing.

Oh no! She'd got a tattoo. In spite of her father forbidding it on account of... well, being her father.

"So, do you promise, Mum?" She shook my arm, bringing me out of my reverie.

"Of course, darling," I said. "Although I've no idea what your dad will say."

"Great," said Ella, finally untoggling her coat. "You know Mr Drake, the English teacher?" I nodded. Was that it? Did she have a crush on her teacher? It wasn't unusual at her age. But Mr Drake? He wasn't much younger than me and only a few haircuts short of succumbing to a combover.

"He's organising a Poetry Open Mic Night in aid of a children's literacy charity and he's looking for..."

"Of course." Oh, the relief. "How many tickets do you want me to buy?