School Days

The big day has arrived! Last night the shoes were polished, the pencils were sharpened and the school books were retrieved from behind the sofa... the alarm went off disgustingly early this morning and we all piled off to the first day of school, with Mummy hip-hip-hooraying all the way.

Trouble is, there were a lot of changes in our school over the summer so we parents were expected to stick around all morning to hear about it, so no sloping off to Ikea for me. But since I had already met the kids' new teachers I was able to relax a bit and catch up with some other mummies and swap summer stories: 'Yes, we had a great time, wasn't the weather wonderful? What? you spent a month in the south of France with hot and cold running Nannies? How lovely! Then your parents took the kids for a fortnight and you finished off your tan in the Seychelles? Super!' Ugh. I soon tired of that as the painted-on grin started to slip. So I crept off to the car, where I had cleverly stashed a flask of real coffee because the stuff they serve from the school canteen is pretty grim, and texted Rose to let her know what I spiffing time I was having. It's occasions like this I really miss my double-espresso-with-a-lesbian-tea-chaser buddy to giggle in the corner with over the dad who was blatantly talking to my chest and how Pickle heckled the Principal during the assembly.

Pickle, as it happened, didn't stop with heckling. It seems ten weeks of do-as-you-please, or close enough, has turned my Gorgeous Boy into a Grumpy Bugger. His new teacher asked all the children to sit and draw a picture and write about their holiday while she held a meeting with the parents. My boy lay on the carpet with his head under the sofa declaring that he didn't want to, 'It's boooooring.' Hmm. Mummy meanwhile is looking for the nearest hole to climb into, or at least to throw all the copies of Horrid Henry into - sorry Francesca Simon, personally I think the stories are a great bed-time read but my son seems to have adopted them as a life philosophy and I'm not sure I can take it. Not when Poppet has Moody Margaret down to a 'T' as well. She's been throwing stroppy tantrums all week, although I must say she was terribly polite and diligent for her new male teacher. I'm not sure what he made of her affected American accent which became stronger as the morning progressed; seeing as he's from Pennsylvania I hope he doesn't think she's taking the piss.

So my son ended up the only boy in the entire school, I expect, to get homework on the first day back.

Later on, after a meeting where my new role as Student Teacher was announced to all the other Mummies and Daddies, much to my glowing pride, it became clear that Pickle was still in a bit of a funny one when he pushed through the crowds to me and told me, loudly of course, that some 'pooey girls' had come to sit at his lunch table and he didn't want to sit with pooey girls so I needed to go tell them to get lost. Hmm. Shortly afterwards we were all released early and some mug offered to take him for a playdate. I nearly bit their hand off. However Poppet then demanded that, to be fair, she needed some friends over as well. So having lost one boy I brought two more home then Boy-Next-Door came round to join in as well. It wasn't actually too bad, at least they left the TV and electronic games alone and made up a game in the garden. I'm not sure how much they all liked being bossed about by my daughter; she may only be eight but she already knows how to get boys by the bollocks (metaphorically only... so far).

Later I delivered the boys home and went to pick up my own. His friend's dad seemed not unhappy to see the back of him. 'I tried to get them out to the park but Pickle didn't want to,' he told me. 'All he's done is play DS.' Bugger. He's turned into Cyber-Boy - is that a USB port growing on the back of his neck? Long story short the behaviour did not improve all evening and all the 'Don't be horrid, Pickle!' in the world wouldn't stop him jumping on his sister, faffing around in my kitchen and teasing the dog, or get him to do the homework. Nor did taking away his Lego, teddy bear or bedside light. And putting him to bed at six-thirty did not go down well either ('act like a baby, get treated like a baby - and they go to bed at six-thirty, matey!')

How long can you string out drawing a picture and writing three sentences? I'll tell you how long - he was given the assignment in the parent's meeting at 11h15, he finally completed it (after being threatened with a visit to the Principal's office) at 21h15. So that's ten hours. Is that a Guinness World Record on procrastination or what?

And here's me thinking that the new school term would make things better?!

Sod it. Tomorrow I'm off to IKEA.

Is it time for school yet?

Our house is bursting with new technology – I am writing this on my sparkly new laptop and Poppet is watching Tom and Jerry on the new 37inch flat screen TV (my birthday gift to Nobby, what could be better than something I can use as well?)

Our house is also echoing with angry expletives – ‘which blasted remote control do I use to turn this damn thing on?’, ‘how do I switch to the DVD?’, ‘Muuuuuuuum! It’s not WORKING!!!’.

Yes, we love those first few days after getting a new toy when no-one has a clue how to use the thing except the one who diligently read the manual (me). You’ll note that there has been no yelling about my new laptop... that’s because no-one else is allowed near it and I do all my own shouting in my head (‘where the hell is the ruddy File menu?’ ‘Why on earth did I upgrade to Vista?’)

Meanwhile the old technology is breaking down around us in protest at the spangly new machines taking over their turf. My old computer says ‘No’ most emphatically every day at the moment so I am trying to do something about it, struggling to decipher the cyber-speak on the technical websites as I go along and delving into my deepest memories of my days as an IT support specialist almost twenty years ago. This is whilst the Small People are tugging on my chair and climbing onto my lap demanding,
‘Is it fixed yet?’
‘Can I go on it first?’
‘Can I use your new computer while I wait?’
‘I wanna play Barbie!’
‘I wanna play Club Penguin!’
‘I’m first! You had a go yesterday!’
‘No, I’M first! It did a blue screen on my when I’d only being playing 5 minutes and hadn’t even done Barbie’s hair yet!’

You get the picture? Total bedlam. You can tell it’s the end of the summer holidays, they are suffering from ten weeks of close proximity and now they can’t even watch five minutes of Tom and Jerry on the same sofa without a fight ensuing. I, like many other mothers around the globe, cannot WAIT for school to start.

Actually, for me school has already started. As a trainee teacher this year I was invited to the pre-term teachers meetings last week to get me up to speed on the workings of the place before all the kids pile back in. It was very interesting crossing over from parent to teacher. I will have my own magnet on the ‘In/Out’ board and my own coffee mug in the staff room. For now, I am learning the Theory of Teaching and observing classes being taught until, shortly after half term, some brave teacher has to give up a few lessons to me and let me use their students as guinea-pigs for all I've learnt. I am quite excited about it – not sure about the others - and I guess this means I am a student again, although without the pub-crawls and vomiting, all-night studying and Pro-plus, £1-a-pint nights down the Union and student discounts. Them were the days.

It's hard to believe that we've made it through a ten week summer holiday relatively unscathed. There were only two trips to the Emergency Room and only one of those was for my own child. Poppet is now sporting an 'H' shaped scar on her chin after a run-in with the side of a swimming pool. Ouch. At least I now know where to dash when things go tits-up, although I have to say that particular learning curve was as painful for me as for my little girl. I won't write out the whole rant - I've already bored a few friends with it and watched them glaze over, even though I felt a lot better for it - all I'll say is I fully support Dave the Sausage Man's philosophy that in Budapest you need to avoid Post Offices, Chemists and Public Hospitals. After one year in the city my repertoire is unfortunately complete and I have classic rants about all three.

Last time I mentioned our two-week holiday in Croatia, although I think I hijacked my own post with the Miss Crystal Hotel story, how vain am I? Suffice to say the rest of the holiday was as relaxing as it promised to be. Nobby and me spent most of each day sitting by the pool reading while the kids were in the Kids Club falling in love with the animators so they could bawl their eyes out when we had to leave. Besides the Mr and Miss contests there was plenty of other entertainment, Pickle particularly enjoyed the Games Room which had two Playstations you could play for free in case your tight-wad Mother refused to keep coughing up a Euro-a-go for the pinball, pool and Grand Theft Auto machines. We all enjoyed the canteen meals - the kids ate pizza, chips and ice cream every day for two weeks while Nobby and I enjoyed a variety of fare, made all the more delicious by the fact that someone else bought it, prepared it and cooked it for us.

We did explore just a little bit and imagine my surprise to suddenly find myself cycling past the hotel I stayed with my own parents 25 years ago when the country was still known as Yugoslavia. That called for an instant text to my Mum. She replied straight away, reminding me how much my Grandad enjoyed the place and how we all loved Colin the 'Female Impersonator'. Hotel entertainment was a little different back then; Colin used to come on in full drag, somehow getting away with a tight, sparkly leotard with his ostrich feather head-dress, and he did a great job of clearing all the Germans out of the bar with his community singing of 'Hanging Out The Washing On The Siegfried Line' and other wartime greats.

Anyway, we came back to Budapest for a couple of weeks before Poppet, Pickle and I set off for a visit to the UK, slipping through a Time Warp on the way because I was about eighteen again when we landed at the other end. My parents laid on the full taxi service, both to and from the airport and to and from evening dinner dates so I could beer it up. Mum did all my washing, Dad loaned me the car and his route-master expertise (they have no need of a GPS, my Dad is a GPS) and I partook of all the Brit Grub I have been missing with the help of my brother and sister. Poor Nobby was well miffed to hear I had Chicken Tikka Masala and Peking Crispy Duck in the space of a week. It was a nice visit, apart from the English Summer weather (don't make me laugh) which had me reaching for the jeans and jumpers from day one and it was great to catch up with so many people. I stocked up on English books so thoroughly that I had to borrow another bag to get them all home.

Since then it has been a bit of a treadmill waiting for the old school bell to ring again. Thankfully Boy-Next Door is back in town and giving me a hand entertaining the troops. Perhaps he will also help surgically remove them from the Nintendo DSs and DVD player. I wonder if the school is giving a prize for the most hours clocked on electronic games? Somehow I doubt it but I would not have got through the full ten weeks without them. Roll on registration!