Fighting the good fight

Owing to a bruising staffroom debate over which should have take centre stage for the nativity play dance routine; the seasonal camels, elves or - unlikely though it sounds - aliens, I am late for school pick up and arrive, panting and cross, to discover that I am the only parent waiting at the gates.

This can only be bad. So far this term, I've missed one parent teacher consultation at my children's schools and the vicar, twice, at my own.

I look around me for clues. Not an inset day - there are cars parked outside and, anyway, Deborah hasn't enough pocket money on her to keep her in sufficient quantities of heroin and/or alchohol for a whole day's spontaneous truanting.

I hear laughter from the hall and my spirits sink further. Then there's applause and parents and children erupt from the doors.

Deborah is waiting just inside. "It was our special play about bullying," she says sadly. "All the other mothers were there except you. I wish you never did this job."

I can't think what to do, apart from count heads so I can, logically and rationally, prove to her that I wasn't the only absentee. But such tit for tat efforts are below Deborah's dignity - though not mine, sadly - and, anyway, the hall is now almost empty.

I'm saved, if not from Deborah then from my own guilt by the arrival of Vicky and Bad Lindy who appear, giggling, from the back of the hall.

"Want some?" says Bad Lindy, brandishing a colourful Little Princess flask. "It's Frescati," she hisses. "There's a faint aftertaste of whimsey, but I think you'll be amused by its animation."

"Whassamatter?" asks Vicky, peering at me.

"I missed the ....whatever it was."

"It was some simplistic bullshit about being nice to the world," says Vicky. "Honestly, don't worry about it. You didn't miss much."

"No," says Bad Lindy. "I was really hoping to pick up a few tips on mental torture. But honestly, it was the same old hackneyed stuff they had when I was a child. No new ideas at all. You'd think they'd have been a bit more imaginative with all those new cyber bullying opportunities but no. It just means they've taken the easy option and gone for safe, indoor, terror by remote control. Bring back the hands-on duffing up people, I say. At least it's exercise. Nothing like a good catfight to bring a little colour to your cheeks."

"I expect it's banned by Health and Safety," says Vicky. "Honestly. You'd think they'd leave bullying alone. Is nothing sacred these days?"

She disappears down the steps, falls and recovers her balance. Deborah, wobbly lip temporarily stiffened by surprise, watches as they go.

"Mummy," she says, "Is Vicky drunk?"

For the second time that afternoon, the words fail me. Deborah takes my silence for assent and hugs my arm reassuringly.

"Never mind, Mummy. At least being a teacher means you can't be drunk."

"Well, not all the time," I say. "But I'm working on it."