I wish I could say that I've always loved Matilda, but it was really only this year that I fell for Roald Dahl's child prodigy. I wish I could say that I loved her because of her intelligence, her brilliance as a role model for little girls who want to be clever, for children who are different, and I do love her for those things. A bit. But what I really, really love her for is making it OK for my children to share my love of a good musical.

There, I said it. The small girl who stands up for books over looks as well as herself is a feminist heroine, but what I really love is that she breaks off to sing When I Grow Up when she's cross with the evil Miss Trunchbull. Matilda doesn't even get the best tunes, but no matter, she is surrounded by them in a show called "the best British musical since Billy Elliot".

It's also the best musical for children who don't yet realise how marvellous they are. As is often the case in parenting, it all seemed so much easier for my mother. Memories have grown hazy now but I sat happily through every musical they cared to show on our limited number of TV channels every Christmas. By the time I went to secondary school not only did I love Rodgers and Hammerstein, I could debate the merits of the 1936 versus 1951 versions of Showboat and explain why black and white was best.

Not that I did, obviously, outside the confines of my own home. It's a wonder to me that it took a stage version of a book played miles from home to convince my own children of the wonders of a good musical. And I do see the irony that, while the awful Mr Wormwood warns children against books and sings All I Know I Learnt From Telly, what Matilda has given me this year (fingers crossed) is the ability to watch a small selection of my favourite DVDs together with, and without heckling from, my children.

And if it does, I might even play Mario and Sonic at the Olympics with them afterwards. That's the true spirit of Christmas.