The other day Girl’s class found themselves with time to spare in the vast play area behind the Imperial War Museum.
The other day Girl’s class found themselves with time to spare in the vast play area behind the Imperial War Museum. The children looked wistfully at the swings, roundabouts and climbing frames. ‘I’m not sure we can go there,’ said the teacher. ‘I haven’t filled in a risk assessment form.’
Stories like this explain why I almost never go into Girl’s primary school these days. I can just about do those gourmet PTA fundraiser evenings where you stand around eating high-grade sausages and drinking chilled Czech beer, congratulating yourself on how aspirational and nicely spoken your fellow parents are. What I can’t bear, though, is anything that gives me the slightest inkling of what really goes on in the course of Girl’s school day. The truth just makes me want to go postal.
Sometimes, because she knows how to gladden Daddy’s heart, Girl will tell me anyway.
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