The other day I heard that old tune, How Much Is That Doggie in the Window, and suddenly I was transported back to a much thinner version of myself, clutching a mouth organ as if it were life support.

My school had organised a visit to an old folks home. In those days we did not call it a senior living community. It was simply a place where grandfathers and grandmothers had been parked gently by life and occasionally by relatives. My headmaster, a man who believed in throwing shy boys into deep water to see if they could swim, decided I should perform.

Now I was the sort of shy guy who could hide behind a lamppost. But he had discovered that I could play the harmonica. And once a headmaster discovers a talent, he uses it like a school assembly microphone.

There I was, standing before a row of elderly residents whose expressions ranged from mild curiosity to peaceful napping. I began to play. The first few notes trembled like they were considering early retirement. But then something magical happened. A white haired gentleman in the front row began tapping his foot. A lady in a floral dress started humming along. Someone even attempted a soft whistle that sounded like a pressure cooker winding down.

By the time I reached the final line about the doggie with the waggly tail, I was no longer a terrified schoolboy. I was a performer. Applause followed. Real applause. Not the polite clapping teachers give when you spell “cat” correctly.

That small performance did something extraordinary. It gave me confidence. The kind that does not come from motivational posters, but from doing something that scares you slightly and surviving.

Today when I visit homes and see children interacting with elders, organising games, speaking boldly into microphones that are taller than they are, I smile. The children may be reciting poems or singing songs from animated films instead of doggie tunes, but the result is the same. Confidence is quietly being stitched into their personalities.

We often underestimate what a tiny stage can do. It may be a classroom platform, a church hall, a society gathering, or an old folks home where the audience might doze mid performance. But those moments shape children.

Give them a chance to speak and you give them a voice. Give them a tune and you give them rhythm for life.

My world stage today might not have flashing lights. It is usually a blank page waiting patiently for ink. But every time I sit down to write, somewhere in the background a harmonica plays about a doggie in a window, and a shy boy stands a little straighter.

Sometimes all it takes is one small performance to open a very big window, with, or without a doggie in it…!

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