dispatches from the school run

October 30

Teech has asked for parent volunteers to help supervise the class during school mass tomorrow.
Okay, I don't have to go along, but if I don't, God may well be looking down on me - in more than one sense.
Even if I don't believe in him/her, he/she might still be looking down on me.
You just can't tell - that's the thing about God.
He/she is either there or he/she isn't.
And if it turns out that he/she is there, anyone who was been laughing the 'God' concept off as poppycock all these years is going to have to do a lot of embarrassing repenting at the Pearly Gates in order to sidle past the holy bouncers.
One potential problem I can envisage if I offer my services as a church aide is that I could start giggling uncontrollably during the service.
This would be downright rude and a very poor example to set but I'm afraid church has that affect on me.
It makes me nervous.
Right from the day I was heartlessly herded off to attend a convent school from the age of two weeks, I have struggled to embrace the concept of organised religion.
My anguish was not eased a few years later when one particular parish priest started taking the liberty of inviting himself round to our house every Thursday evening to see how we were all 'getting along'.
We were all 'getting along' just fine until he barged in right at the start of Scooby Doo and proceeded to fire off a volley of unwanted questions regarding our schooling and general aspirations.
Inevitably, the television had to be switched off as we were required to give Father O'Mc'O'Flaherty our full and undivided attention.
This was unfair and usually meant that we missed Marine Boy and The Hair Bear Bunch completely.
And it wasn't only the children who treated these pious visitations with a lack of due reverence.
Recently my own father has revealed that, on spotting the priest's scarlet Reliant Robin parked in our driveway when returning home from work, he would veer off down a snicket and throw in a couple of laps of the nearby golf course before surfacing just as Father O'Mc'O'Mc'O'Flaherty was finally departing the premises. If we were lucky we might still catch the end of Crystal Tips and Alistair, but the damage had been done.
With this tawdry history of papal misdemeanour sullying my family ledger, perhaps it is best if I, too, stay away tomorrow.

October 24

I have attended a meeting to discuss Superkid's SATs.
At first I assumed SATs referred to some form of concentration deficiency syndrome, but it turned out I hadn't been listening.
At the end of the session, when Teech asked if anyone had a question, I was tempted to put my hand up and ask what the initials stood for.
In forty minutes of discussion and explanation, nobody had told me - or if they had, I'd missed it while gazing out of the window in an abstract fashion.
I decided it would be too embarrassing to reveal my ignorance in front of the assembled parentage and may even induce an outbreak of tutting, nudging and general regret over my presence.
So I kept quiet.
As a result I am still in the dark and therefore do not feel well placed to lecture Superkid in a responsible and stern-faced manner about the importance of SATs to his viablity as an adult.
So I am now going to google 'SATs' and see what comes up. I'll be back in a minute.
I'm back.
There were 686,000 references to SATs on Google. Several of these warned me not to refer to them as 'SATs' but rather as 'sats', advising that SATs are an outdated format of testing whereas sats are bang up to date and therefore bang on the money.
As far as I can work out, sats stands for 'standard assessment tasks' and the government is in charge of them.
The government will use the results of these tasks to determine who is sharp and who is dull. At the age of seven.
In France and Scandanavia, Superkid would not even be starting school until next year. Mind you, there are obvious flaws in their systems, too.
For a start, the school run would be time consuming and grossly energy inefficient for us.
And Superkid would probably be consigned to the low ability group for language comprehension - at least for the first couple of weeks.
So we will just have to buckle down and make the most of the system we find ourselves in.

October 19

Happy holiday.
We will head to North Yorkshire for the week. The beaches will be empty, you can run for an hour without seeing anyone.
We will go to our favourite beach with Grandpa, make a fire and cook sausages.
You can watch the seals bobbing, just off the edge of the wave-cut platform. The sun is low in the sky at this time of the year. Sunsets are stunning.
My son gets some space, a feeling of the outdoors, freedom. We stay out too long and nearly get caught by a fast-rising tide. We have to scramble across the rocks to make it back before the wooden steps up the cliff are cut off.
It’s dark by the time we get back to the car. The lights from the farmhouse dotted along the coast shine out. In the distance the castle is silhouetted.
Collecting wood, starting the fire, a saucepan full of beans and sausages with red sauce in a bun. That’s the menu. Set in stone. We do it every time we go up there.
It’s much more fun in the autumn than in the height of summer. Nobody else around, you have to wrap up warm. Gloves and a hat. It feels more like an adventure. The sea can be choppy, stormy. The puffins have gone but you still get gannets, guillemots and the cormorants sitting stately on the rocks beyond the breaking waves.
I love to find my son some space.
He’s only six, he doesn’t need to be hemmed in all the time. It’s not healthy.
Nowadays you couldn’t risk letting him go out all day to play in the woods with his friends. Something might happen to them. He is restricted and you feel restricted yourself, as a parent.
You always have to be there, watching. Dropping off and picking up. Can’t risk anything.
You can store one million of your very favourite tunes on an Ipod and receive 1,000 different channels from 100 different countries on your television.
You can watch 24-hour news on your mobile phone while downloading clips of the football match you missed on your wifi laptop.
But you can’t leave your kid to play by himself at the park.

October 18

I have received a tip off that my undercover car park contact may be a double agent.
That's right, he may be working for the Cappuccino Clan.
Chilling isn't it?
If true, he is trying to get into bed with me while sharing his secrets with those who find my approach to life shabby, untrustworthy and juvenile.
I will have to play it carefully from now on.
The last thing I should do is broadcast the fact that I may be on to his shifty tricks.
By writing about my concerns on the electronic worldwide intraweb, for example.
That would be a reckless oversight akin to leaving out the phrase 'we think you're fantastic, Steve' on any correspondence sent to the Steve Wright in the Afternoon radio show.
Your dedication simply isn't going to get read out.
Anyway, I am moving to 'code red' emergency footing until the end of half term and I don't care how long that is.
Okay, just tomorrow left.
The point is, I will be deploying wing mirror observational tactics while parked up waiting for the end of school in order to ascertain who is passing information on to who and why. And when. And what. Oh, you get the idea.
I will be looking in my rearview at all times and recording suspicious movements in a coded log book which I found in the bargain bin at Woolworth's. Yes, it really is that serious.
If it transpires that the only movements attracting suspicion are my own, so be it.
I will then have to report myself back to base and face the consequences of giving evidence against myself in a formal hearing.
Oh for a simple life on the outside.

October 17

The playground is abuzz with outraged talk of hazardous drinking levels, unfit mothers and alcohol related social erosion.
A government report has branded middle England awash with wine-guzzling parents who are putting away anything up to a bottle a night in a bid to escape the mind-numbing torpor of their child-rearing duties.
Never mind the belligerent gangs of teenage chavs patrolling our streets fuelled up on super strength lager and weed, it's Priscilla and Quentin in the tastefully renovated Edwardian town house we should be concerning ourselves with.
Apparently, outwardly respectable couples the length and breadth of the home counties are heading for the sanctuary of the fridge the instant little Bruschetta's head has hit the pillow and slugging their pinot grigio straight from the bottle while crouched below window level on the newly-laid 'Tuscan blush' tiling.
It is the headline 'hazardous' figure which seems to be causing all the controversy.
And I must say, for once I am in alignment with the converstaions which raged all around me, although obviously did not involve me, at picking up time yesterday.
Frankly, the 'one bottle a night per couple' accusation is a downright insult.
Yes, I may be veering towards middle age (I may be past my middle age for all I know) but I can certainly still handle more than half-a-bottle a night when I get into full race stride, thanks very much.
And the idea of sharing a bottle a night with Superkid's mother is also naive in the extreme.
I try to make sure I pour far more into my own glass than Superkid's mother's every time I'm entrusted with refilling duties.
And I have a suspicion she may be up to the same trick when it's her go. This has led to some embarrassing scenes as we wrestle for control of the sauvignon blanc at dinner parties but so far no blood shed.
I think we should all be pushing to at least double consumption levels within the next five years and if Cuddles Cameron has any sense, he will make that a central tenet of his election manifesto at the first opportunity.

October 12

Undercoverdad is constantly seeking new arenas in which to embrace the role of social bunion.
This morning, having delivered Superkid for his alloted day's worth of knowledge assimilation and pretending to be Flash from The Incredibles during dinner break, I fearlessly entered a coffee shop/organic cafe around the corner from school.
I planned to relax in cashmere at a window seat while thoughtfully leafing through the review section of a learned newspaper.
I wasn't actually wearing cashmere but, hey, I'm a newcomer to this stuff. You gotta give me some time.
And even without autumn's must-have chunky fawn roll-neck, I would be visible to all and sundry as a modern man making admirable use of his leisure time (we'll ignore the fact that I was supposed to be at home clearing out the garage).
Anyway, the point is this - at least I was prepared to try something new. My down-time environment of choice would be a quaint 16th century inn boasting an astonishing array of real ales and quality nut snacking options.
So I was clearly well outside my comfort zone.
How was I to know I had blundered head first into yet another male-free environment?
As I took my place in the queue to peruse the drinks board, it became clear that everyone else was staring at me.
At first I thought the Cappuccino Clan had switched venues but, no, these were alien faces.
Maybe they were appalled that I had ventured out during daylight hours unaccompanied. Isn't any worthwhile man in his forties supposed to be earning money at this sort of time?
Yes, they nodded, that would explain why he isn't wearing autumn's must-have chunky fawn roll-neck. He's out of work and can't afford it.
All too soon it was my turn to announce my beverage selection.
I had already decided to ignore the baffling selection of coffee-based drinks. We didn't want this already delicate situation developing into a particularly fraught episode of Frasier.
'I'll have an orange and mango smoothie please,' I intoned at the juice bar.
'One Stressbuster,' bellowed the callow youth in the check pinafore manning this subsidiary vending area.
My roomful of silent observers immediately began nodding and nudging each other while absent-mindedly stirring their double decaff half-latte frappuccinos - 'goat's milk frothing' optional.
'Stressbuster, you see. Yes, he is unemployed,' was the communal message.
'I'm not stressed, I just like the sound of orange and mango as a combination,' I announced to no-one in particular.
'That's £3.85,' declared the drink vending executive while studying his finger nails and playing with his hair.
'You are joking,' I said. '£3.85 for a tumbler of orange juice. Do I get to keep the glass?'
There was much shoulder pushing and motioning of heads among our spellbound audience.
'Oh look, he can't pay for it. Definitely unemployed,' was the general assumption.
'I'll have it as a carry-out,' I said, handing over the money.
'That's ten pence more,' said my torturer, unabashed.
'Well in that case, here's ten more pence,' I said.
He exchanged drink for money and I departed with my pipette-sized refreshment container, fighting off the urge to turn at the door and take a lavish bow.
Standing alone and unloved in the corner of the playground waiting to collect Superkid has its attractions.

October 10

There appears to be considerably less bunching, jostling and bartering for Teech's attention this term.
As for the children's behaviour, who knows?
But the mothers look to have been brought into line somewhat.
This can only be a good thing.
As well as Teech's admirably firm hand in laying down the law each day, she is also making use of the lay-out and positioning of her classroom to help control the parental swarm.
For a start, the room has only one entrance and that itself is off a narrow corridor.
Last year, there were any number of ways into the learning area.
Resilient though he was, Teech would valiantly shake off one gaggle of interrogators and attention-seekers only to become submerged under another posse flying at him out of his blind spot.
They were leaping off the top of the craft cupboard, hiding under quilted throws in the quiet zone and scrabbling on all fours near the coat pegs pretending to search for missing gym shoes. Anything to delay their departure from the premises.
The champion collie from One Man and his Dog would have struggled to pen such stubborn livestock.
Sometimes it was all Teech could do to clear the backlog in time for lunch break.
Not this time.
A tight single door is the only way into the room, making it quite simple to restrict the flow of unwanted parents with the crafty positioning of a wastepaper bin.
The introduction of a rule handing kids the responsibility for shelving their various bags and lunch boxes also removes any need for parental loitering.
Clearly this has not stopped the more committed interlopers entirely, but ball park figures are very much down year on year, like for like and taking underlying trends into account.
Frustration has been creeping through the ranks as a result, but this will surely die down as time passes and mothers become used to the new regulations.
Regrettably but inevitably there have been casualties - just as there always will be at Canal Turn during the Grand National when fatigue starts to cloud judgement and performance.
One Particular Mother went over on her ankle yesterday during an athletic but failed attempt to vault the bin while simultaneously swinging through 90 degrees around the door joist and A Certain Mother was spotted administering a chinese burn to A Certain Other Mother who had clearly shouldered past her in the bottleneck.
A steward's enquiry found both guilty of attempting to unfairly influence the placings but the result stands -Teech is ahead of the pack.

October 8

I always feel it is safest to judge a book by its cover.
For example, a book entitled '101 ways to make chard work for you' is not going to detain me unduly.
Neither is the rarely recommended five edition collector's series 'Why not bevel with balsa wood?' (discontinued).
So when it came to book day at Superkid's school, I was quite prepared to stick to well established stereotypes.
The children were allowed to attend class dressed as their favourite character from their favourite book.
In fact, they were implored to do so.
The sterotyping started at home the evening before the big event when Superkid's mother spent several hours assembling a 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory' outfit which she would later claim had been thrown together in a couple of minutes.
Superkid and I also adhered to our prescribed roles. Like all good husbands, I was doing something vague, ill-defined and non-contributory which included keeping an eye on the one-day international cricket score via ceefax. For his part, Superkid was lounging in front of the television watching 'Star Wars - A New Hope'.
When Superkid's mother had finally completed her task and sought a reaction to the work from her spouse, I came up with the expected response:
'It looks great, who is he supposed to be again?'
This is listed in the 'Collins Concise Dictionary of Blunders' as 'officially the wrong thing to say'.
I cleverly followed it up with 'officially the wrong thing to say next'.
'Wouldn't it have looked better if you had glued it rather than sewn it up?' I blared cluelessly.
My blinkered effort elicited the stereotypical response from Superkid's exhausted mother. Her fingers red raw from needlework and general pulling together of a project, she simply announced: 'Next time you're doing it.'
Having stuck to our roles so faithfully in the domestic environment, we set off for school determind to continue the good work.
Everyone else had gone out of their way to boost the general effort by doing exactly what was expected of them.
Parents who simply didn't have enough time for this sort of thing had reprocessed fairy outfits from Christmas which had been reprocessed from Hallowe'en and which didn't really apply to either date but were useful for ballet class.
At the other end of the scale, One Particular Mother had produced a bespoke conceptual installation featuring cantilevered headwear that required bamboo stanchions and a gaggle of admiring hangers-on.
I harboured reservations as to whether her off-spring had ever actually studied The Mikado.
As I said, we were all sticking to stereotypes.

October 2

Secondary contact has been made.
Again, it is possibly safest if I simply outline the order of events this morning in the car park.
I arrived, with Superkid in the cargo hold, and parked up as usual.
My radio was blaring inoffensively as per my favoured modus operandum - you know the background, you know the motivation.
Anyway, as I switched the engine off, my suspected colleague - who we shall henceforth refer to as Suspected Colleague until informed otherwise - pulled up alongside my vehicle once again.
We were early. He had the whole car park to choose from. He pulled up right alongside me. You do the maths.
As before, his radio was tuned to the same station as mine (okay, okay 7 million people in Britain were doing the same, but let's not pick holes in a perfectly workable theory).
Here's the thing, though.
He parked so close to me that I could not open my car door.
That's right, there was nothing for it but to establish eye contact.
Was he mad? Didn't he realise how dangerous this was? What if we were seen inter-acting? Our cover would be blown before we had even started to make a difference in the field.
Having exchanged knowing glances, Suspected Colleague acknowledged that he was indeed far too close to my vehicle by sagely nodding his head, reversed back out and went to park somewhere else.
As I say, secondary contact has undoubtedly been made.
Now I must wait for more information, another rendezvous, something to indicate what is expected of me.
I have been working alone for long enough in these dangerous times. At last I have back-up.

Quote of the day is provided by one of our most loyal and valued readers.
Superkid has just started Beavers (junior cubs to you and me). 'Loyal and valued reader' remembers when her mother was a Beaver leader some years ago and returned from a rain-ruined camping expedition to announce to the family: 'I have spent the entire weekend trying to handle 20 wet beavers.'
That, my friends, is quality parenting.