IT'S part of a dad's job to keep his wife happy. Sometimes that means doing things you don't want to do.

For example, I really, really didn't want to go to Billingham Forum Theatre to see Singalonga Sound of Music.

In case you haven't heard, the Julie Andrews' classic has become a modern-day cult. Believe it or not, people go along dressed as nuns, Nazi officers, Maria, the Von Trappe family, and even brown paper parcels tied up with string.

The song lyrics are printed at the bottom of a giant screen as the film is shown and the audience is encouraged to sing along. There are props such as a sprig of edelweiss to wave at appropriate moments and you have to perform actions during the doh-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-doh song.

For example, for 'doh' you wiggle two fingers on top of your head like a deer. And for 'so' you pretend to have a needle pulling thread.

I confess to trying everything to get out of going. While my wife was out shopping on Saturday morning, I went through the telephone book, calling all her friends to see if they wanted my ticket. I considered having a bout of gastro-enteritis but I'd have had to make a suspiciously miraculous recovery to play golf on Sunday morning.

In the end, there was no escape. I went straight for a pre-show drink in the theatre bar and within seconds was approached by a nun.

The nun slapped me hard on the back and greeted me with a big smile: "Now then mate, how the bloody hell are ya?"

I stared into the nun's eyes and whispered something like "Bless my soul" as I realised it was a dad-of-two called Steve who used to play centre-half in our football team.

I was still in a state of shock as the show began but it was nothing compared to the jolt I got during the interval. There I was in the gent's toilet when another nun came in, hitched up his habit, and started using the next urinal. Men using adjacent urinals do one of two things: they either stare straight at a fixed point on the wall and say nothing, or they make small-talk. I've always been in the latter category.

"OK for petrol?" I found myself asking. I know it might seem a strange question but I'd never shared a toilet with a nun, not to mention a nun with stubble, and I suppose I panicked.

"About half a tank - how about you?" he replied.

"Getting a bit low," I confided.

"Always wondered what men's toilets looked like," he added, before launching into a chorus of "Climb every mountain" and leaving without washing his hands - a nun with dirty habits.

Back in the bar, I bumped straight into Sister Steve who introduced me to his brother-in-law who turned out to be the toilet nun. "Who are you dressed as?" asked Steve. "Just me," I replied.

It was at that moment that another nun walked past, wearing stockings, suspenders, and high heels. Clearly, he wasn't there to keep his wife happy - just himself.

My wife thoroughly enjoyed herself so I suppose it was all worthwhile.

As for me - a name I call myself - I regained my grip on sanity by playing golf on a beautiful, autumnal Sunday morning blessed with more than just a drop of golden sun.

I couldn't stop humming tunes from the night before. The greens, the bunkers and the fairways were alive with the sound of music.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

Charlie, aged ten, was discussing the Olympics with his mum.

"I hope Redgrave and Pinsent win," she said.

"Are they in the cockless fours? asked Charlie