‘Oh God, it’s the school concert on Wednesday,’ said Annie glumly, swirling pink fizz round her glass.
‘Damn,’ said Sam. ‘I’d clean forgotten. Not sure I can get away with missing two years running.’
‘We went last year – AND the year before. I was thinking that we could pull a sickie this year with relative impunity,’ said Sue, sucking on an olive.
‘Hmm. They look out for that,’ said Joyce, an old hand with her fourth child going through the system. ‘If you want to be really safe, call her in sick at the beginning of the week.’
It puzzles me, this. I’ve yet to find a parent who actually enjoys the school summer concert. Every year we moan and bitch about it. Every year we try to wriggle out of it. Are we really all such terrible mothers?
What makes it worse is that it’s supposed to be ‘fun’. The idea is that everyone comes along and camps out in the marquee and at half-time (sorry, still thinking sport, I mean, in the interval) we lay out our picnic rugs, open up our hampers and clink champagne glasses and generally have a super jolly sociable time.
In theory it’s lovely. In practice it’s hell. Firstly school finishes at 4.30pm and the concert doesn’t start until 7pm. So you’re left batting round town with a bored hungry child and nowhere to go. The only places open are the Wetherspoons (full of old soaks) and the McDonalds (full of fat slobs) – OK, massive over-generalisation but you know what I mean. Secondly the darn thing goes on until about 9.45pm so by the time we get home James isn’t in bed until 10.30pm and is completely knackered, cranky and foul the following day.
Thirdly, it’s interminable and being brutally honest, unless your child is actually playing, turgid to the extreme. Actually, come to think of it, it’s even worse if your child IS playing. I know, I know, I should be more charitable and I should be overcome with gooeyness at small children playing big instruments but by God what’s worse than 7 year olds on violins or the combined onslaught of twelve trombones? Or a thirty-piece recorder ensemble (surely there must be a better collective noun for recorders – a squeal? A screech?).
Thank heavens for Annie who stoically volunteered to collect James and keep him amused until the concert and to save us a seat behind a pillar.
This year I had fully intended to play the game, be a good sport, shave my legs and wear a linen skirt or something. I also resolved to pull together a posh picnic and sling in a bottle of something chilled (in the realisation that most sensible parents get through it by getting totally sloshed). Of course it didn’t happen. Time slurped past and it was too late to defuzz and pluck so on went the black jeans. Clean forgot the picnic so we had a frantic trolleydash around M&S for food. Arrived hot, sweaty and with a grubby carrier bag instead of a nice wicker picnic hamper or a trendy tiffin stack.
Annie was her usual calm collected self (always is, despite having a furiously demanding job), sitting serenely with a batch of saved seats, firing off emails on her blackberry and keeping four boys under control at the same time. Yup, two sneaky mothers had somehow managed to skive off altogether and parked theirs with her (God, I envied their style). She even had a pukka picnic, proper plates and wotnot, cream to go with the strawberries (which were decanted into bowls). We meanwhile hoiked bits of salami straight from the pack.
What can I say? For the most part we simply endured but there were a few moments of pure gold. The pre-prep brass group was fabulous – five and six year olds squeezing farts and burps out of shiny trumpets, tubas and trombones. The clarinets were even better. Just the two boys (friends of James) on one end of a phalanx of girls with one boy visibly prodding the other as he kept hitting bum notes. As the piece progressed the notes squeaked more, the prodding got harder and in the end the protagonist collapsed in hysterics. They had another go but it was a lost cause and after a few bars and a lot of hysterical squeaks they gave up, the girls giving withering looks to the boys who merrily waved and raised their instruments in triumph as the audience whooped and clapped (presumably out of sheer relief for a break in the monotony).
Then it was time for the staff song. They’d gone for Abba’s Money Money Money which came out a little dirgy (and wildly off-key on the part of the men).
Annie raised an eyebrow. ‘Bit ironic really, given the current climate,’ she hissed. Rumour has it that quite a few parents are struggling to meet the fees in the recession (and boy do I sympathise with that). There were lots of resigned nods at the lines: ‘I work all night, I work all day, to pay the bills I have to pay’ and a few glum faces at ‘it’s a rich man’s world.’
We hurtled out at the end, relief etched deep.
‘Back again on Friday for Speech Day,’ said Annie as we parted company in the car park.
‘Same deal? Sit together and share the agony?’
I nodded gratefully.
‘Damn,’ said Sam. ‘I’d clean forgotten. Not sure I can get away with missing two years running.’
‘We went last year – AND the year before. I was thinking that we could pull a sickie this year with relative impunity,’ said Sue, sucking on an olive.
‘Hmm. They look out for that,’ said Joyce, an old hand with her fourth child going through the system. ‘If you want to be really safe, call her in sick at the beginning of the week.’
It puzzles me, this. I’ve yet to find a parent who actually enjoys the school summer concert. Every year we moan and bitch about it. Every year we try to wriggle out of it. Are we really all such terrible mothers?
What makes it worse is that it’s supposed to be ‘fun’. The idea is that everyone comes along and camps out in the marquee and at half-time (sorry, still thinking sport, I mean, in the interval) we lay out our picnic rugs, open up our hampers and clink champagne glasses and generally have a super jolly sociable time.
In theory it’s lovely. In practice it’s hell. Firstly school finishes at 4.30pm and the concert doesn’t start until 7pm. So you’re left batting round town with a bored hungry child and nowhere to go. The only places open are the Wetherspoons (full of old soaks) and the McDonalds (full of fat slobs) – OK, massive over-generalisation but you know what I mean. Secondly the darn thing goes on until about 9.45pm so by the time we get home James isn’t in bed until 10.30pm and is completely knackered, cranky and foul the following day.
Thirdly, it’s interminable and being brutally honest, unless your child is actually playing, turgid to the extreme. Actually, come to think of it, it’s even worse if your child IS playing. I know, I know, I should be more charitable and I should be overcome with gooeyness at small children playing big instruments but by God what’s worse than 7 year olds on violins or the combined onslaught of twelve trombones? Or a thirty-piece recorder ensemble (surely there must be a better collective noun for recorders – a squeal? A screech?).
Thank heavens for Annie who stoically volunteered to collect James and keep him amused until the concert and to save us a seat behind a pillar.
This year I had fully intended to play the game, be a good sport, shave my legs and wear a linen skirt or something. I also resolved to pull together a posh picnic and sling in a bottle of something chilled (in the realisation that most sensible parents get through it by getting totally sloshed). Of course it didn’t happen. Time slurped past and it was too late to defuzz and pluck so on went the black jeans. Clean forgot the picnic so we had a frantic trolleydash around M&S for food. Arrived hot, sweaty and with a grubby carrier bag instead of a nice wicker picnic hamper or a trendy tiffin stack.
Annie was her usual calm collected self (always is, despite having a furiously demanding job), sitting serenely with a batch of saved seats, firing off emails on her blackberry and keeping four boys under control at the same time. Yup, two sneaky mothers had somehow managed to skive off altogether and parked theirs with her (God, I envied their style). She even had a pukka picnic, proper plates and wotnot, cream to go with the strawberries (which were decanted into bowls). We meanwhile hoiked bits of salami straight from the pack.
What can I say? For the most part we simply endured but there were a few moments of pure gold. The pre-prep brass group was fabulous – five and six year olds squeezing farts and burps out of shiny trumpets, tubas and trombones. The clarinets were even better. Just the two boys (friends of James) on one end of a phalanx of girls with one boy visibly prodding the other as he kept hitting bum notes. As the piece progressed the notes squeaked more, the prodding got harder and in the end the protagonist collapsed in hysterics. They had another go but it was a lost cause and after a few bars and a lot of hysterical squeaks they gave up, the girls giving withering looks to the boys who merrily waved and raised their instruments in triumph as the audience whooped and clapped (presumably out of sheer relief for a break in the monotony).
Then it was time for the staff song. They’d gone for Abba’s Money Money Money which came out a little dirgy (and wildly off-key on the part of the men).
Annie raised an eyebrow. ‘Bit ironic really, given the current climate,’ she hissed. Rumour has it that quite a few parents are struggling to meet the fees in the recession (and boy do I sympathise with that). There were lots of resigned nods at the lines: ‘I work all night, I work all day, to pay the bills I have to pay’ and a few glum faces at ‘it’s a rich man’s world.’
We hurtled out at the end, relief etched deep.
‘Back again on Friday for Speech Day,’ said Annie as we parted company in the car park.
‘Same deal? Sit together and share the agony?’
I nodded gratefully.
PS - the picture is where I'd rather have been sitting. Ie outside my house with a glass of chilled pinot.
PPS - just HUGE thanks for the incredible support re the Liz Jones blog. It really seemed to touch a nerve but sadly doubt it will make any difference to her stance.
