Took my granddaughter to the multiplex. Against all prudence I let her choose the film. She asked to see some movie whose whimsical title implied magical dancing children. I hate musicals, I tell her. Saying nothing she looked up at me and her face was pale and austere in the uplight and her eyes lost in their darkly shadowed hollows save only for the glint of them and I could see her throat move in the light and saw in her face and in her comportment something I’d not seen before and the name of that thing was sorrow. Fine, I say. We will see your magical mike movie. Two hours later I stagger out blinking in confusion. I had been deceived.