Ah, In The Night Garden—a twilight realm of surreal whimsy, nodding flowers, and chugging Ninky Nonks. For toddlers, it’s a gentle voyage into dreamland. For parents? Well… sometimes it's a test of patience, especially when Upsy Daisy opens her mouth to sing.
Let’s not tiptoe around it: Upsy Daisy has a horrible singing voice. There, I said it.
Every time she belts out her infamous "Upsy Daisy loves you!" refrain, it's as though the fabric of the Night Garden is being politely torn in half. Her voice is high-pitched, off-key, and delivered with such vibrato-less intensity that even the birds seem to go quiet out of self-preservation. And the Pontipines? Those tiny, stoic residents of the red house—let’s just say we’ve seen them physically flee from her performances. Mr. Pontipine has even ducked behind the hedge with a hand to his head, as if suffering from sympathetic tinnitus.
Parents watching alongside their toddlers often exchange looks. You know the one: the grimace, the suppressed chuckle, the questioning glance that seems to say, "Are we just going to let this happen?" And somehow… we do.
And yet, the narrator—sweet, soothing Derek Jacobi—insists with unwavering certainty that Upsy Daisy’s singing is “lovely.” LOVELY. As if we’ve all been invited to a lullaby recital at the Royal Albert Hall and not some sonic attack involving a daisy-headed dolly screeching into the cosmos.
So why did Ragdoll Productions let this happen?
The answer lies in their creative intent. In The Night Garden was never meant to be polished or performative. It was created by the minds behind Teletubbies, and their philosophy always leaned toward the emotional and sensory experiences of very young children, not the aesthetic preferences of adults. For a toddler just beginning to understand emotion, voice, and sound, Upsy Daisy’s singing isn’t meant to impress—it's meant to express. Her wild pitch? That’s joy. Her unapologetic loudness? That’s confidence. The fact that nobody in the Night Garden (except the Pontipines, who do quietly panic) outright stops her? That’s acceptance.
In a way, Upsy Daisy’s awful singing is a lesson in self-love. She sings with all her heart, entirely unaware of how she sounds—and the Night Garden lets her. It tells children, “Your voice is yours, and it deserves to be heard.” Even if it makes the adults wince a little.
So next time she flings her arms wide and shouts her warbling war cry of love, maybe—just maybe—we can laugh, endure it together, and admit… there’s something kind of wonderful about that dreadful, dreadful voice.
Have you ever caught yourself humming Upsy Daisy’s “song” later in the day? Be honest.
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