It is the first day of the new school year. The alarm goes off at the unearthly hour of 7 a.m. I have not seen 7 a.m. for almost two months. I have not missed it.
The children have been up since 6 a.m. Small Boy has already fed the dog and cats, rearranged his Museum (a collection of Unspeakable Things) and been out to check on his chickens. When I go in to grunt at him he is stressing about whether to shut them in or not, "Coz you are not exactly going to look after them today, are you?" Daughter has been on Facebook since 6 a.m. engaged in a frantic conversation about whether to wear tights or socks, who is Hot and who is Not and which teacher is the most toxic. When I go in to grunt at her I am greeted with a highpitched stream of hysterical dramatics: "Lottie says socks and Littie says tights, Lattie says whatever and Hazza says WT* are you lot on about. He is soooo annoying . . ." All Daughter's female friends have names that end in "ie" even if their names are not supposed to end in "ie". The boys' names are mangled beyond recognition and are certainly not allowed to end in "ie" or even "y", hence "Harry" becomes "Hazza".
I grunt and go to the bathroom to begin battling with contact lenses that are as unimpressed as I am by the 7 a.m. start and are resolutely refusing to cooperate.
By 7.45 a.m. we have had the lowdown on all the possible permutations of Daughter's classroom and locker arrangements this year and Husband is looking very dazed. Daughter leaves to brush her teeth with a last dramatic monologue on the unfairness of having teachers who are gross, unfair, boring and weird. With a roll of her eyes and a flick of her hair, she is gone. Husband shakes his head wearily, picks up his mobile phone and keys and leaves us to it.
Small Boy is still wittering about the chickens: "I mean, even with Grandpa's electric fence, the fox could still jump over the top and everything. And what about the rain? Their feathers will get bedraggled and mucky if they get caught in the rain."
I grunt and start lining up enough bags to contain the entire British army's equipment for a six-month stint in Afghanistan and prepare to use my best sergeant major's voice to ensure we Beat The Traffic.
Half an hour later it is clear that we have not met my objective of Beating The Traffic. We are stuck in a long queue of people all going to the same place and all listening to Chris Evans.
"Monnn-day, Tuuues-day, Wednnnes-day, ThursdayFriday . . ." Small Boy sings along lustily to the jingle while I begin to plan my first day of freedom.
We pull up outside school - or rather, half a mile away from school, as all the places have been taken. The Working Mummies are talking into their phones while heaping bags on to their off-springs' backs; the Sporting Mummies are jumping lightly out of their 4x4s, clad from head to toe in Lycra; the Arty-Farty Mummies are wafting gently out of their beaten-up Vauxhall Corsas and blowing air kisses to everyone in their path and the Skinny Mini Blondie Boobie Mummies are yet to be seen. Possibly because their hair has yet to be blow-dryed to perfection, their nail polish has yet to dry and their matching outfit has yet to be chosen.
I wonder aloud to which category of mum I belong.
"Weird Mummy," Daughter snorts, before shouting, "Hey Millie-Molly-Mandy!", flicking her hair, rolling her eyes and running off.
I arrive home to find Psycho Cat has eaten the fairy cakes Daughter baked for her friend's birthday and the dog is eating a decapitated mouse. I decide not to check on the chickens just yet.
I am not sure I can face it.
The children have been up since 6 a.m. Small Boy has already fed the dog and cats, rearranged his Museum (a collection of Unspeakable Things) and been out to check on his chickens. When I go in to grunt at him he is stressing about whether to shut them in or not, "Coz you are not exactly going to look after them today, are you?" Daughter has been on Facebook since 6 a.m. engaged in a frantic conversation about whether to wear tights or socks, who is Hot and who is Not and which teacher is the most toxic. When I go in to grunt at her I am greeted with a highpitched stream of hysterical dramatics: "Lottie says socks and Littie says tights, Lattie says whatever and Hazza says WT* are you lot on about. He is soooo annoying . . ." All Daughter's female friends have names that end in "ie" even if their names are not supposed to end in "ie". The boys' names are mangled beyond recognition and are certainly not allowed to end in "ie" or even "y", hence "Harry" becomes "Hazza".
I grunt and go to the bathroom to begin battling with contact lenses that are as unimpressed as I am by the 7 a.m. start and are resolutely refusing to cooperate.
By 7.45 a.m. we have had the lowdown on all the possible permutations of Daughter's classroom and locker arrangements this year and Husband is looking very dazed. Daughter leaves to brush her teeth with a last dramatic monologue on the unfairness of having teachers who are gross, unfair, boring and weird. With a roll of her eyes and a flick of her hair, she is gone. Husband shakes his head wearily, picks up his mobile phone and keys and leaves us to it.
Small Boy is still wittering about the chickens: "I mean, even with Grandpa's electric fence, the fox could still jump over the top and everything. And what about the rain? Their feathers will get bedraggled and mucky if they get caught in the rain."
I grunt and start lining up enough bags to contain the entire British army's equipment for a six-month stint in Afghanistan and prepare to use my best sergeant major's voice to ensure we Beat The Traffic.
Half an hour later it is clear that we have not met my objective of Beating The Traffic. We are stuck in a long queue of people all going to the same place and all listening to Chris Evans.
"Monnn-day, Tuuues-day, Wednnnes-day, ThursdayFriday . . ." Small Boy sings along lustily to the jingle while I begin to plan my first day of freedom.
We pull up outside school - or rather, half a mile away from school, as all the places have been taken. The Working Mummies are talking into their phones while heaping bags on to their off-springs' backs; the Sporting Mummies are jumping lightly out of their 4x4s, clad from head to toe in Lycra; the Arty-Farty Mummies are wafting gently out of their beaten-up Vauxhall Corsas and blowing air kisses to everyone in their path and the Skinny Mini Blondie Boobie Mummies are yet to be seen. Possibly because their hair has yet to be blow-dryed to perfection, their nail polish has yet to dry and their matching outfit has yet to be chosen.
I wonder aloud to which category of mum I belong.
"Weird Mummy," Daughter snorts, before shouting, "Hey Millie-Molly-Mandy!", flicking her hair, rolling her eyes and running off.
I arrive home to find Psycho Cat has eaten the fairy cakes Daughter baked for her friend's birthday and the dog is eating a decapitated mouse. I decide not to check on the chickens just yet.
I am not sure I can face it.
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