Government Evacuation Scheme: Bath

It is 6:00am. The alarm has gone off to warn us we need to evacuate the house. Husband has to catch a plane, Daughter has to catch a bus and Small Boy is a genuine evacuee for the day. He is going on a school trip as part of his WW2 project and has to dress as a 1940s evacuee, complete with label around his neck, cap on his head, and Just-William-style shorts and wrinkled socks on his legs. I am the only one not being evacuated, as I have to stay in the war zone with the dog. I feel a bit queasy as I attach the brown paper label to Small Boy's collar.
"You're not going to cry, are you?" he asks, disgustedly. "I'll be back by tea time."
I can't help it. He looks an even smaller boy in this get-up. It's the knitted tank top that does it. How can mothers have waved their tiny children off in this manner, I think. I have to hide my face in a tea towel until I have gained control of my emotions.
*
I always groan when school gives us the task of dressing the kids up in ludicrous outfits. "As if I haven't got anything better to do!" I grumble. To which my family's answer is, "Well, you haven't."
This time it was quite fun, though. I used the school trip as an excuse to drag my kids off to my favourite market town which is famed for its vintage shops and cafes.
"Urgh! We are NOT going shopping!" Small Boy protested. "It's halfterm!"
Small Boy views going into any town to go shopping as being on a par with having his toenails ripped out. In fact, he would rather have his toenails ripped out, as the pain would be over more quickly.
"Yes, we are going shopping," I told him firmly. "We are going to look for a woollen top for you to wear on your Evacuee Trip."
And we found one. It turned out to cost me rather a lot more than I was thinking of spending, but then I told myself I could possibly wear it at some time in the future.
"It's far too big for him," Daughter said. She eyed me with suspicion. "You're not planning to wear it yourself at some time in the future, are you?" she asked.
"Of course not!" I lied, laughing nervously. "Cafe, anyone?"
*
So, here we are at 6:15am on Friday morning, putting together the final touches of Small Boy's costume and packed lunch, which, I note with relief, does not have to have a 1940s theme. I am not sure that the remains of the Trick or Treat stash which I am throwing into a lunchbox, together with a tuna roll, a Braeburn apple and an Innocent smoothie, would have been easily available with rationing coupons.
"Seeing as we're up so early," says Small Boy cunningly, "and Sister has gone and Dad has gone and it's just you and me," he adds, widening his eyes to their most puppyish size, "can I have a Full English?"
I look at my little son with his brown label around his neck and feel the tears welling up again.
"Of course," I say softly, before remembering that I have no sausages, no bacon . . . no nothing really, except a couple of eggs. I rummage in the freezer and manage to produce a bagel.
"How about fried egg and bagels?" I suggest cheerily.
Small Boy seems to think this will do. The day's experience is looking less and less authentic already, I think as I rustle up his very un-Full, un-English breakfast and watch him play on my iPhone.
Five minutes later he has demolished the breakfast and is running around the table in circles. I am still barely awake, and so I send him upstairs to brush his teeth and get ready to go.
I am just getting myself together when Small Boy remerges with his clothes askew. I inspect him and howl in horror.
"What have you done!?" I shriek, grabbing him by the collar.
The carefully faked evacuee label that I spent ages making last night is streaked with water marks and toothpaste.
"I didn't mean it!" mumbles Small Boy, looking up at me mournfully from under the peak of his very fetching outsized tweed cap.
We have to leave in two minutes. I grab a brown envelope, scribble on it in felt tip and mutter furiously, then cover the whole thing in plastic laminate to prevent disintegration after further spillages. It is hardly comparable to Kate Reddy faking mince pies in the early hours of the morning after getting off a long-haul flight, but I am feeling aggrieved nonetheless.
"They didn't have laminate in Second World War times!" wails Small Boy.
"They didn't have Haribo Tangfastics and Maltesers either - and nor will you if you don't shut up and get a move on," I snarl.
Suddenly the idea of being left to brave the Blitz with only the dog for company seems rather a good way of spending a Friday. I could sit under the kitchen table and watch Miranda on my laptop while eating the remains of the Tangfastics.
"Now come on, grab your gas mask," I tell him. "Or we'll miss Chris Evans and the Candyman."
If we'd have had them during the Second World War, the Germans wouldn't have even wanted to invade, I think grimly, slamming the door behind us.