Sunday evening, eight o’clock.
The children have just gone to bed and you’re about to enjoy a cup of tea and perhaps a rich tea finger or two. You sit down, ready to get comfy on the sofa, making that ‘ahhh!’ noise that proper old ladies make.
And then it hits you, and you sag visibly.
“Shit,” you say, “I forgot to wash the school uniform.”
The start of a new school term is even worse. Despite your best intentions, you leave it until the last Saturday of the holidays to make your annual pilgrimage to Clarks, and as you enter the shop, you count at least 27 other families there already, clutching their tickets, staring hopefully at the display and occasionally just throwing themselves down on the floor and crying, beating at the carpet tiles with their fists.
The children are just as bad.
These scenarios are all too familiar to me, which is why reader, when we moved to Bristol, I chose a school for Belle without a school uniform.
Forget SATS, forget OFSTED, I just want to be spared the pain of Clarks on the first Saturday in September.