Blowing it

It's playtime and I'm just about to call in the children for choir practice. My plastic trousers are sizzling on the radiator like a left-field hors d'oeuvre in a low-budget cookery programme with a brace of shoulder pads, resembling refugees from an experimental sanitary towel factory, keeping them company.

Outside the hall, the children are, as usual, peering putting their heads round the door like tiny spies. Either they're struggling with the metaphysics of self, context and reality or else Sasha has bugged their healthy eating snacks with little cameras and is paying per second of compromising footage.

I text Bad Lindy, Vicky and Francis to update them on my morning so far:

"Think may have blown shoulder pads gambit."

"What about mixed presentation platter of oily fish? Known international friendship symbol," suggests Francis, whose brain has clearly performed a successful separation exercise from the rest of his body and is now living underwater and suffering from pressure sickness.

"Stupid c***," texts Bad Lindy, with the characteristic depth of sympathy and fellow feeling that's made her such a strong contender in the 'Confidante of the year' awards. "Try blowing the f****** recorder instead. It's the only language she understands."

As I pick up the special non-trip rubber casing into which the overhead projector lead must be inserted, thanks to new health and safety regulations, retching slightly as I encounter its own protective coating of old jelly and bits of second hand sausage, making it to tactile sensation what strychnine is to tea at the Ritz, Conrad appears.

"Miss," he says, "I don't really want to come to choir." I wink at him. "Conrad," I say,"I'll let you into a little secret. I don't want to, either. But if you don't let on, nor will I."