Monthly Archives: August 2016

The Beginner’s Guide to Primary School Part 3

Welcome to the last part of the Mothering Fright’s Beginner’s Guide to Primary School. In this Guide, you will learn the secret of how to win at dressing up day, the art of recycling and why I will never, ever wear a pair of Crocs on a play date ever again. Enjoy.

Dressing up day

Dressing up day will strike fear into your heart. World Book Day: fuck right off. Sponsored Charity Day: just do one.

When World Book Day rolls round, remember this sage advice, as I rarely say anything worth repeating: do not, under any circumstances, Google ‘ideas for world book day’. Because if you thought you were a mediocre parent before that internet search, you will loathe your general craptitide with a real passion straight afterwards. Hideously complicated outfits are paraded on Instagram, from full-blown Willy Wonkas to quilted, colourful hungry caterpillars, often accompanied by a breezy comment such as ‘found some purple velvet lying around and made this three piece suit and a hat for Jonny as he just LOVES Charlie and the Chocolate factory! [Insertion of annoying emoji].Oh piss off. I have two words for you to remember when World Book Day looms: Harry Potter. God bless JK, because this is the costume of choice for parents who have better things to do with their time. It goes like this: one week before: EBay for cloak, glasses, tie and plastic wand. On the day: dress in regular school uniform, apply eyeliner lightning scar and throw eBay purchases in general direction of child. Done.

What is knuckle-chewingly irritating is the utterly spurious connection between a charity and the dressing up request.  A letter comes home from school: We’re raising money for the county’s air ambulance service. Helicopters fly in the sky. The sun is in the sky. So please can all pupils wear yellow on Friday.

Yellow? Yellow? I cannot bear yellow, ergo my child has no yellow clothes. It’s a colour so sodding optimistic I want to grab it by its smug little neck and punch it in the face until it’s black and blue. Cue much eBay trawling to see if I can find a t shirt that is vaguely acceptable to a five-year-old that will deliver in 48 hours. And anyway, what’s wrong with a bloody ambulance with wheels?

dressing_up_magic

One child’s art is another parent’s recycling

You may need to upsize your recycling bin, as a steady stream of ‘artwork’ is sent home. You will become expert in interpreting hurried felt tip scribbles and of finding ways of asking ‘what the bloody hell is that supposed to be?’ without actually using the words ‘what the bloody hell is that supposed to be?’ At one point early in the first term, my husband and I had a discussion as to the educational benefits of colouring an entire piece of A4 paper in blue crayon. We never found out. But either way, you will find yourself in your pyjamas, in the dead of night, silently feeding the aforementioned artwork into the recycle bin, then artfully laying an empty juice carton and screwed up newspaper on top to cover your tracks.

Mum Friends

No doubt you already know some mums from various places, be it pre-school, toddler sessions at the local sports centre or Costas. Probably Costas. You will also know some mums that you wish you didn’t. You know, the ones you chat with as you watch your offspring not kick a stationary football at the fifth attempt who mention that their little Petey may try out for Arsenal next year. The ones that enquire as to which books your son enjoys, to which you innocently reply anything with lots of pictures of fighting in them, which is met with a smile of pity and a comment about how much Charlie simply adores reading Animal Farm and Great Expectations. The ones that three minutes into a conversation, as you mention that you loathed breast feeding or sometimes would gleefully string your kids up by their ankles or have fed your child chocolate buttons and they weren’t even at a birthday party, look at you with barely disguised disgust and you realise that you will never, ever be friends. Yes, those mums.

Well, becoming friends with mums at primary school is not that different. Just a little bit worse. And when I say a little bit, I mean a lot. Let me explain…

  1. Some mums are competitive. Look, I get it. We all want our kids to be great. Given the choice, if you were ticking the Offspring Request Checklist, you would tick ‘the best’ by at least a few categories. Sport? The best please. Music. Oh, the best please. Tap dancing? Not so much, maybe. No one ticks the ‘thick as shit’ or the ‘eye wateringly crap’ box willingly. But we don’t get to choose. I mean, for my eldest I may not have chosen ‘the best’ by the box marked ‘eye-rolling capabilities’, but you know, you have to go with what you’ve got. So, as I said, some mums are competitive. And then others are so uber-competitive they can’t help but shriek uncontrollably across the playground when their delightful little Jemima gets a gold star. Again. Whilst you stand behind her simultaneously wanting to poke her in the eye and pray that the teacher isn’t going to tell you that your slightly less delightful son poked someone in the eye with a stickle brick. Honestly, I don’t know where he gets it from.
  2. There will be mums who rock up looking like they’re about to go on a night out. Full make up, coiffed hair, clothes without mucus or Weetabix spatter on them – I know, incredible, right? Their wardrobe contains such essentials as a fur gilet, a bag that looks like a handbag and not a wipe-clean, sagging shoulder bag containing wet wipes and spare pants with Batman on them, and tops and trousers that are made from exactly the same fabric. These mums make me surreptitiously scrape off a dried bogey that was donated to my t shirt by one of my sons and force me to wonder if I can pass off these battered old Converse as old skool chic. Apparently not. It’s all about the Glittered Fit Flop, which up until this summer, I thought was a street term for a failed celebrity diet.
  3. There is always at least one mum who would not acknowledge your presence if you ran up to her naked and licked her eyelids. Despite friendly hellos, despite a smile and a nod, they will look right through you. No, I have no idea either.
  4. The playground conversations are where your parenting choices are thrown into stark relief and you find yourself creating the parenting Venn Diagram with the purpose of identifying those parents who align with your parenting world view. The “oh, we only let Camilla on the iPad on the last Friday of every month and she is fully supervised the entire time,” mum gets put in a circle that barely clings to my universe rectangle, ending up strangely close to the circle containing the parent who said “Bobby has watched all the James Bond films, and has seen the Exorcist, he loves it,” whilst those parents who express good intentions of limiting exposure to Stampy Longnose on You Tube but are failing miserably, get plopped with relief into my circle – the one marked Mediocre but Still Trying.
  1. And then, there are some mums who are bloody lovely. You arrange unrequested play dates with their kid and yours, for no other reason than to have a cuppa and a chat. You big up their child to yours, slowly and patiently brainwashing them into believing that Oliver is their best friend and wouldn’t it be nice to have another play date with him, and yes, it was only last week that he came over but Oliver is such fun, isn’t he? And then after a bit of that, you dump that strategy, and just go to the pub and get pissed with your new mum friend.

Performances

Parent assemblies. Christmas songs. Year group performances. In primary school, there are several opportunities each year to lose whole hours of your life that you will never get back. For most parents, it will be opportunity to have confirmed to you that singing, performance or anything that involves your child either speaking to an audience or in fact sitting still without picking their nose is not open to them as a career choice.

For more details on this delight, click here for a blow-by-blow account of a recent class assembly that I had to endure. Sorry, enjoy. That was definitely the word I meant to type.

Beware the primary play date

A little like the teacher’s home visits, those early play dates with your child’s new friends purport to be about one thing but are actually about something entirely different. Sure, you are going round to little Frankie’s house so that your son can play with his new little chum and they can indulge their mutual love of whacking inanimate objects with inflatable light sabres. Bless them. But what it’s actually about is sizing up a potential new mum friend. Or, dare I say, enemy.

Let me illustrate with this salutary tale. Picture the scene. All the new parents were attending a Meet the Teacher event at school in the July before our kids started that September. I got chatting to a mum, let’s call her…ooh, I don’t know… Frankenmum, whose son (let’s call him… Wet Weekend, for the sake of argument) would be in E’s class and we arranged for them to come over to our house in the summer so the boys could get to know each other, we could get to know each other and everything would be simply lovely. I mean. What could go wrong?

The play date rolled round on a hot and sunny day, so as promised, I cracked open the small paddling pool and got the sprinkler going and we all hung out in the garden, the boys in their swim trunks, us relaxing on the grass. Conversation soon turned to our kids.

“So,” said Frankenmum, “what is E academically?”

A small, cold finger of horror started to prod the inside of my chest.

“Errr…” I struggled to find an appropriate response to this question as I watched my son straddle the sprinkler and hoot with laughter as a jet of water shot up his shorts and blasted his testicles. “Erm…”

It became apparent quite quickly that actually, Frankenmum wasn’t much interested in my answer.

“You see, Wet Weekend is a scientist.”

The icy prodding became more insistent. An alarm bell started clanging in my head. A little voice in my ear whispered “Get the fuck out of this play date now.” There was a lot going on internally in those few seconds. Externally, I heaved a smile onto my face.

“Yes, he is so talented in this area, although he is at sports, too,” she continued, beaming.

As a small amount of bile rose in my throat, I realised I had made a terrible mistake. I am never going to get on with this woman, who has already decided that her four-year-old is going to be the next Stephen Hawking, only with an Olympic medal in the 800 metres dangling from his neck.

I made some non-committal comment about E being not so shit at Lego and drawing, and wondered how quickly this play date could be over. It was about this time E had discovered that he could fill his Croc with water as he passed over the sprinkler and then chase Wet Weekend round the garden, flicking water at him from his shoe. He thought this was hilarious. Wet Weekend, not so much.

“Mummy, tell him to stop, I don’t like it,” he whined.

I smiled. Boys.

Frankenmum didn’t smile. “Run faster!” she shouted at Wet Weekend.

The chase continued, with E now upgrading his Water Croc by taking it off and scooping water out of the pool. Wet Weekend continued to whinge despite the fact that E was such a poor shot there were no more than five droplets of water on him.

I laughed. Boys. But in the spirit of concession, I told E to stop.

Frankenmum didn’t laugh. “RUN FASTER!” she commanded of Wet Weekend.

“I can’t!” moaned Wet Weekend.

E came up to the pool, panting and laughing.

“Look,” said Frankenmum, barely bothering to hide her irritation that this boy of an obviously inferior intellect had bested her son in a game of splashing, “this is how you do it.”

At which point, she picked up my Croc that was lying on the grass, scooped up a Croc-ful of water from the paddling pool and threw it straight in my son’s face.

I will just repeat that in case you were momentarily distracted. She threw it straight in my son’s face.

Everything went very quiet, except for the panicked gasping of E who had swallowed half a Croc of water. My brain, trying valiantly but failing to comprehend what the fuck had just happened, decided to pack up and go for a restorative lie down, leaving me utterly agog.

Finally, I managed to scrape together a question in my head: what exactly is the appropriate response to this?

A: Pick up my other Croc and give her a faceful of her own medicine

B: Pick up my other Croc and slap her round the face with it, repeatedly.

C: Give Wet Weekend a science lesson about water trajectory he won’t forget in a hurry by sticking the hose up his left nostril until water leaks out of his ears.

D: Punch her supercilious, uber-competitive lights out.

Having consoled my son and wiped his face, it turns out I did none of the above. Not wanting to make an enemy of a parent before we’d even taken a step into the playground, and still reeling somewhat from what I had just witnessed, to my shame I just told E that I am sure she didn’t mean to throw water in a child’s face, and reluctantly moved on.

The moral of this tale? Beware the new primary play dates. It turns out there are no rules when it comes to competitive mums, so before you commit to that playdate, maybe run a theoretical scenario past them involving a sprinkler and Crocs and see what they say. Oh, and the other lesson I learned? Always wear flip flops to a play date.

water_croc

 

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The Beginner’s Guide to Primary School Part 2

This is the second instalment in the Mothering Fright’s Beginner’s Guide to Primary School. For those of you who read Part 1, my heartfelt and somewhat surprised thanks that you have returned to imbibe Part 2. For those of you who have come straight to Part 2, fear not, you can start here and work backwards, which is not a bad strategy for many things, apart from doing the Conga. For everyone, a quick reminder: there is nothing of actual use in this Guide. So sue me.

Uniform

However much uniform you purchase, it will be one item too few. There is much collateral damage involving uniform in that first year of primary school, much of which will leave you staring in disbelief and wondering what sort of supernatural trickery was involved to have inflicted that mark / rip / strange sticky substance in a place on that item of clothing that barely sees daylight. A school jumper, not removed for the entire school day, is taken off at home to reveal a strange orange stain on the shirt underneath that definitely was not there that morning. Velcro straps on shoes are hideously clagged with a mysterious red fibre even though the classroom carpet is blue. And the school jumper… well, this is the front line in the war against pretty much everything a 5 year old can throw at it and it seems any activity or event can prove it’s downfall:

  • A classroom painting activity. Either aprons are for wimps, or my son puts his on back to front. Actually, that is pretty damn likely.
  • Baked bean eating. While do kids insist on loving a foodstuff so bloody small and slippery and covered in juice? Jumpers come home looking like a knitted ice rink for snails, with crusty silvery-orange trails criss-crossing the front.
  • Other kids. Another child’s inability to carry a loaded paintbrush to the sink without tripping over their imaginary friend means a globby smudge of dried-on paint on some part of the jumper on a regular basis.
  • The common cold. Mucus, meet sleeve. Sleeve, meet mucus. Need I say more?
  • My son has the utterly infuriating habit of chewing on the sleeve of his jumpers. A perfectly serviceable jumper suddenly looks like the dog’s been snacking on it, forcing me to darn it. And darning was something I was pretty much hoping to avoid in my life time, given that I do not live in sodding Victorian times.
  • Paint aside, there are still many ways to trash a jumper whilst in the pursuit of artistic expression. Why not glue some glittery shapes onto it? Or stick a few mini poms poms on the elbow? Or simply wipe your PVA-sodden fingers across your chest. All of which have the common denominator of glue, or as I now refer to it, the evil albino mucus that drips from the wizened nostrils of Beelzebub. I know, catchy, right?

jumper_dirty

And as a tragic caveat to uniform, let us turn our attention to the much abused and neglected PE kit. Lovingly laundered and folded a week before term starts, it is then squeezed and pummelled into a drawstring bag that seems to have been designed to hold something the size and shape of a tennis ball. By the time the trainers and plimsolls are inserted on top by means of a greased shoe horn, you wonder why you ever bloody bothered. It instantly looks like it’s been festering in a small damp bag for seven weeks. Seven weeks later at the end of term, after it has actually been festering in a small damp bag, you have to don a full chemical suit just to extract it and throw it hurriedly into the washing machine using extra-long stainless steel prongs.

But don’t expect your child’s PE kit to come home at the end of term. Good god no. The first time I emptied E’s PE bag, I pulled out a tee shirt and shorts belonging to Daisy, a girl at least 3 sizes smaller than my son. I briefly wondered just how many weeks my son had been attempting to run around in a kit that would have practically cut off his circulation and bent him double, but I decided the best policy was not to ask. (This approach will stand you in very good stead to survive primary school generally, I find).

Your child will rarely grow out of shoes. Long before that, one shoe will have succumbed to a mysterious but fatal incident that sees you rushing into the nearest Clarks at 4pm, desperately scanning the sale racks. A Velcro strap will have ‘fallen off’, a hole will suddenly appear in the side of the shoe the circumference of which looks suspiciously similar to that of your child’s forefinger, or it will simply go missing in action, usually in the 40 minutes between getting changed for PE and returning to the classroom.

Learning to read

You will be given books to ‘read’ with your child that have no words. This will slightly fuck with your mind.

You will then be given books to read with your child that have three, three letter words per page, the utter banality of which will fuck with your mind some more.

You will think your child will never, ever learn to read. When he looks long and hard at the word ‘car’ and confidently reads it as ‘acrobat’ you will sob quietly inside.

Your child will be using the phonics system of learning to read. Mine used Jolly phonics, a name so wildly inaccurate it made me grind my teeth into calcified nubs. First come the ridiculous songs and actions. Then the torturous experience of watching a 5-year-old sound out a word so inaccurately you can’t even begin to find something to say that isn’t the word ‘twat’. And let’s not forget the dawning realisation of both you and your child that almost every other word in the English language seems not to conform to the rules of phonics. Couple that with the interminably slow progress of reading a sentence and the utter vacuum of expression a child reads with at this stage, and you start to think you are sitting next to Stephen Hawking when his batteries are running low.

In short, it’s a mind fuck.

acrobat_spelling_card

The Reading Journal

It looks innocuous enough. A slim book in which you write comments and observations about reading with your child at home. It is also where the teachers write their comments, so there is added pressure that there is an outside chance that the teacher may read what you have written. You will become expert in writing bollocks comments about the hideous last 20 minutes of your life where you had to threaten your child with no TV for the next three months if he didn’t sit down and read to you. You will also develop a complex code of comments whereby ‘he really tried hard to blend his words today’ really means ‘the little fucker threw the book at my head when I tried to tell him that the word mat wasn’t in fact pronounced poo bum’, and where ‘he seems a little disengaged with his reading today’ means ‘I suggested we read together and he lay down on the floor and made a funny monotonous groaning sound for three minutes’. Oh no, wait. That could have been me, actually.

You had PE today, didn’t you?

Whilst you will never really know what your child gets up to on any given day in school (see What they did that day from Part 1) you will pretty much always be able to deduce when they have had PE. Why?

  • They’re wearing their shoes on the wrong feet.
  • Their shirt buttons are buttoned up incorrectly, and one side of the shirt hangs a good ten inches lower than the other. It’s a look.
  • They’re wearing someone else’s school jumper.
  • They tell you they missed play time as they were still attempting to button up their shirt.

The clean plate sticker

Your child may well be most excited in those early days of school by being a recipient of a sticker from a lunch time helper, awarded for eating all of their dinner. Although as it turns out, you can also get this sticker by the surreptitious scraping of your left overs onto your neighbour’s plate whilst they are momentarily distracted by a carrot slice in their ear.

Parent as pack donkey

You will become a handy coat rack and crap carrier twice a day. As your child barrels out of the classroom, you will be buried under a tsunami of coat, jumper, book bag, three crumpled pieces of A4 paper (that you are told in no uncertain terms are not to be folded), a sticky sweet wrapper as it was someone’s birthday, an injury form, water bottle and a ridiculously over-sized book as your child couldn’t possibly go to the library and choose something that would fit in their bag. As the tips of your fingers start to turn white and your shoulders begin to throb, said child is then incredulous that you haven’t bought a snack with you as they skip alongside you, swinging their empty arms with gay abandon.

Tune in next week for the last thrilling instalment of The Beginner’s Guide to Primary School. It’s where you’ll find out how to deal with Dressing Up Day without stabbing someone and what happens when you wear Crocs to a playdate. Or is it that how to wear Crocs to Dressing up Day and what happened when I stabbed someone at a play date? Oh well, I am sure it will all become clear when I actually write the bloody thing.

MouseMoo

The Beginner’s Guide to Primary School Part 1

Some may still consider me a novice primary school parent, what with my son shortly to be only going into Year 3. However, in those three short years, I have learned much of the mysterious ways of the primary school. So as my youngest now embarks on the good ship Primary, I think it is time I spread my anti-wisdom around a bit for all those parents out there who will also be untying the mooring lines from their offspring and pushing them off into the uncharted territory of school, to watch them bob around aimlessly whilst they learn to work their rudders. At which point I shall gracefully swim away from this boating metaphor, as I really do not know what the fuck I am talking about.

Uniform purchase

At some point between July and September, the purchase of uniform will take place. All hail the cut-price supermarket clothes, is all I can say. The local uniform shop where we are obliged to buy the branded items is a sphincter-clenchingly irritating dichotomy of being last decorated in 1973 whilst its young customer assistants are bang up to date with their studied aloofness and inability to spot a customer in need from five paces.

Two years ago, I left the purchase of non-branded items to the middle of the summer holiday. Oh, how I didn’t laugh when I sailed up the Asda escalator to be confronted by a scene from the Apocalypse, only involving slightly more easy-iron shirts in inappropriate sizes. The only thing left hanging on the uniform rails was my will to live. An odd pair of grey shorts lay forlorn on the floor, four sizes too large, whilst half a pack of socks swung at an odd angle from a hanger that once gripped a navy skirt. I managed to find an assistant to enquire if they were expecting more in, and she gave me a smile of such pity that a little part of me died inside. So now, as soon as I see the summer holiday looming, it’s a family trip to the supermarket for us, then I don’t feed them for six weeks to stunt their growth and it’s job done.

I’ll name that jumper in one (Sharpie pen)

Labelling your child’s uniform. Simple, right? Wrong. There is a hierarchy of labelling methods that correlates precisely to how shit you are as a parent.

At the top of the parenting tree smugly sways the sewn-in labels. Oh, look at me, with my groovy coloured font and my neat little stitches. There are mums (and I wish not to be sexist, but I have never yet met a dad who would dream of entertaining such ludicrousy) who spend days before school starts hunched over a mountain of uniform, meticulously sewing a label into each shirt, skirt and sock, every stitch a pledge of love and devotion for their beautiful, well turned-out offspring.

Below this on the tree there are the iron-in name badges. You can still show off with a funky font and a range of colours, but this practical naming solution means you never have to try to thread the end of a piece of cotton into an opening smaller than an ant’s arsehole, or jab a needle under your thumb nail, a pain so hideous it makes you spontaneously invent a new swear word as the ones currently at your disposal are just not up to the job. But let’s not forget, this is not a solution for the lazy. After all, it means that you have to iron your child’s uniform at least once.

And then, at the bottom of the tree, slouched with legs open and a fag on the go, is the Sharpie pen. The naming implement of parents too lazy to get the ironing board out, or too those too unprepared to have ordered iron-in name labels two weeks previously.  Unless your child’s name is Ed Law or Sue Po, however, there may well be a space issue, so you end up writing tiny letters with a fat-nibbed writing implement that look fine and dandy for the first 12 micro-seconds, then as the ink bleeds across the label, you realise you have just basically redacted the washing instructions. On the upside, however, it is one of the few naming solutions that can be executed with child in situ. Child’s arms aloft, you can pull the shirt label toward a nearby table and Sharpie it to your heart’s content, or turn the waistband of trousers inside out and quickly scribble the name in the three seconds your child will stand still for. You can’t do that with a bloody iron. No really, don’t.

Just to clarify, I have never, ever, used a Sharpie pen to label my child’s uniform. *kicks two Sharpie pens under sofa and walks away nonchalantly, whistling*

fuck_sewing_sharpie

Years

The way the years are titled at primary school is a complete mystery. I know I was educated in an era when throwing a blackboard rubber at a pupil was an acceptable way of a teacher commanding attention, and in fact, in an era when there was actually such as thing as a blackboard rubber, but really, it didn’t used to be this complicated.

Now, the first year at primary is not called Year 1. Good God no. I mean, that would be ridiculous. In our school this first year is called Reception. Unless you write it down, when it becomes YrF. Which I think stands for Foundation. But could possibly stand for Fuckwit.

I could sort of understand this approach a few years ago, when reception was a gentle introduction to learning, the metaphorical atrium where children gathered to slowly acclimatise to this new phase of their life and where the curriculum consisted largely of colouring in and singing songs. However, with the introduction of the new curriculum in 2014 this is no longer the case. So concerned was the Department for Education that we were rearing a nation of dullards that the new curriculum dictates that by the spring term of reception the kids are expected to be calculating simultaneous equations and spotting subordinate clauses at around the same time as they master a knife and fork. Give or take.

So kids have to have been in school a whole year before they are in Year 1, at which point it finally becomes a lot simpler, and you count the years up to 6. Although don’t forget, when they get to year 3 they stop being Key Stage 1 and commence Key Stage 2. Which in old money, converts back to infants and primary. Although taking into account deflation, the increased value of sterling and the accelerated curriculum, probably actually equates to senior school and university.

So. We’re all clear on that then, yes?

The Teacher’s home visit

The home visit from your child’s teacher is one of the most high-pressure, high-stakes situations you will endure. You will spend the preceding three hours wiping every bogey from the kitchen chairs, picking up those tiny bits of Lego that you have pretended not to notice in the corner of the room for the previous five weeks and checking the cleaned toilet for fresh skid marks at least once every ten minutes. You will agonise over refreshment choice and ponder snack options. Biscuits: too sugary? Fruit: too messy? Homemade gingerbread men: too full of a 4-year old’s bogeys and bacteria?

You will sit in one room with the teacher, answering benign questions about your child, what they like and dislike, what nursery they have been to, and so on, whilst in the other room the teaching assistant gets down to the real interrogation with your child. You silently pray to the God of Keeping your Trap Shut that he doesn’t say anything too incriminating, doesn’t mention the time that you nearly shut his head in the car boot, and doesn’t repeat a heinous swear word that he may or may not have heard you say when you stubbed your toe on a bloody scooter that had been discarded in the middle of the kitchen floor.

As they leave they give you a smile that possibly means ‘your child is a retard and a horror’ and you smile back, a rictus grin that definitely means ‘I need a large glass of wine now’.

 wie_gingerbreadman

What they did that day

Get used to knowing nothing about what happens to your child every day. Along with sticking their laminated name by their peg and learning where to put their book bag on their first day at school, every reception child swears a ninja vow of silence. Henceforth, conversations about what they have been doing that day will run somewhere along these lines:

“So, what was your best part of today?”

“Lunch.”

“What did you have?”

“Can’t remember.”

“So apart from lunch, what else did you do that you enjoyed?”

“Playtime.”

“Lovely. Did you do anything in the classroom that was good?”

“Yes.”

“Ooh, what was that then?”

“We played.”

“That sounds good. What did you play?”
“Can’t remember.”

“Who did you play with?”

“My friends.”

“How nice. Which friends?”

“Can’t remember.”

 

The Beginner’s Guide to Primary School Part 2 will be published next week. I know. It’s edge-of-your-seat stuff.

 


Mumzilla