Picture the scene:
Parents were seated around the room, drinking tea and coffee, eating biscuits. The Dads were wearing jackets, the Mums were smartly dressed. There was a quiet murmur of chatter.
The assembled group had been waiting for an hour for the drama performance to start. The children had spent that time carefully rehearsing their monologues and performances, practising who went where, which props were needed at what point. Lighting was set. Seating laid out.
All was calm.
And then a mad woman wearing filthy jeans and an oversized Chicago Cubs sweater with the sleeves rolled up, burst through the door, followed by a small blonde child. Neither were wearing coats, so they’d both got soaked on the short run from the car park to the drama studio. Windswept, bedraggled, out of breath.
Yes, friends, this is what happens when your child says, at 6.43pm, “Oh, I forgot it’s my LAMDA drama performance tonight. I’m due on stage at 7pm.”
ARE YOU KIDDING ME?
ARE YOU ACTUALLY TRYING TO KILL ME?
At 6.42pm, I’d just sat down with a cup of coffee, and Flea was wearing her hockey kit. I was wearing the sort of outfit that gives “working from home” a bad name.
Not my finest moment.
I’m going to take some consolation from the fact that you have literally never seen a 40-something woman move so fast.
“Quick! Grab clothes. Any clothes. Just clothes!”
“YOU DON’T HAVE TIME FOR LIP BALM.”
“Oven. Oven. Go in and turn the oven off.”
“Right – get in the back seat, and get changed there.”
“It’s fine, we’ve got 12 minutes still. 12 minutes. Why is this car doing 20 miles an hour? FOR F**KS SAKE, MOVE, OLD MAN!”
“I don’t care that your sweater is twisted. Keep the seat belt ON, child.”
“Okay. Eight minutes. Eight minutes is do-able. We just need no red lights.”
“I’m not angry, darling. I’m just excessively alert.”
“BOLLOCKS, why is that light red? Maybe I should just jump it. Actually, no, is that a police car? Best not.”
“Are you wearing shoes? Did you bring socks? Well, why didn’t you bring socks?”
“Six minutes. Oh God, I think I’m having a stroke.”
“Do you even know your lines? Actually, I don’t want to know.”
“Don’t get upset. Honestly, darling, a bit of adrenaline is a good thing. It’ll make you perform better.”
“Where’s the drama studio? Which side of the school? Which car park should I aim for?”
“Four minutes. Are you sure you’re on first?”
“ARGH. Who the sodding hell invented speed bumps?”
“Get your seat belt off. It doesn’t matter, I’m doing 10 miles an hour. Just get ready to run.”
“TWO MINUTES. RUN, RUN, RUN.”
I think I have parental post-traumatic stress disorder.
(Flea made it for curtain up, and she rocked it, just for the record)