School

It's funny how watching the children grow up triggers long-lost memories of similar times in my own childhood. This week was Emma's first at infant school; reception year as they call it - effectively compulsory nursery school, as she's a full year younger than I was when I started school.

Dropping her off on Monday morning was always going to be unpredictable - would there be floods of tears, tantrums and wet knickers? And that's just from the mothers - I've never seen so many wearing dark glasses on an overcast day. Emma was absolutely fine, even though there was a look of trepidation in her eye. She had nothing to fear really; we were already aware that two of her best friends from nursery and play school were going to be in her class, so she was quick to settle in.

Inevitably there were some poor kids crying inconsolably; you don't know who to feel more sorry for - the child or the mother who can do or say nothing to make things any better. And then I remembered that I was like that child forty-something years ago, abandoned in a completely alien place and not knowing anybody. I can clearly recall screaming my eyes out as my Mother disappeared into the distance on her bike, rattling through the Sturmey-Archer 4-speed whilst pedalling like a Tour-de-France sprinter, and never looking back to see the emotional state I was in.

So I suppose we should be grateful that Emma is up bright and early every day (including the weekend) asking if it's time to go to school yet. Bless.