Best Behaviour

We have sunshine.

It is not very warm sunshine, or if it is, its soothing and encouraging effects are being offset by the savage north wind that is accompanying it, but nevertheless, today it has not rained all day.

That is not exactly true. It rained a little bit, when I was hanging the washing out, but I had some sharp words with the Weather Gods, and fortunately, they desisted.

All of the washing became completely dry. For the first time in ages I brought it in and just folded it up, instead of having to hang it over the fire to steam the damp bits out.

I am optimistic for a springtime.

I was glad for the improvement in weather, because Oliver has left today, and driving in horrible wet splashy conditions is not nice, especially since his car is a bit prone to leaking. He has just called me to tell me that he has arrived at Gordonstoun, and that the journey was boringly uneventful, which is my favourite type of journey, especially where the children are concerned. I have had far too many excitingly adventurous journeys to wish them on anybody, as regular readers can probably attest.

It does seem a very grown-up thing to be doing, driving off to school all by himself, and it is a bit odd, and sad, to think that he will be gone when I come in from work, and nobody will come bounding down the stairs to tell me about the outer-space androids he has slain or, less often, the revision he has done. I have enjoyed his company this holidays, it is strange to think that his schooldays are almost over.

The last term. My days of school runs and muddy rugby boots, parents’ evenings and school reports, are almost over. This is his last term. You, the reader, will have observed practically his entire public school career through the somewhat grubby window of these pages, from grubby prep school oik, to the tall assured chap he has now become.

We will be going up to school for a final visit at the end of May to say farewell. There will be one last sixth form bash, with dinner jackets and ball gowns, to which parents are rather grudgingly invited, for the sort of cost designed to make them splutter over their dry martini. Certainly it made me splutter, although it was tea in my case, but Mark is nothing if not reckless, and so we will be going. I have still got a ball dress left over from when Lucy left school, so I shall trot it out again, what a pity I have got no more children, I will never get my money’s worth out of it now.

On the subject of children, I am turning my attention to what to wear when we accompany Number One Daughter on her visit to the Dear Old King in June. She has very kindly invited me to join her for the Event. Mark, Number One Son-In-Law, Number Two Daughter and Ritalin Boy are all going to stay behind, in the bar probably, along with my brother and sister, who might be a restraining influence. I am going to be putting on my most middle class outfit, if I have got something that the moths haven’t eaten, and behaving with dignity.

It reminds me of Number One Daughter’s very first Parents’ Evening at her primary school, with an Infants’ Teacher whom I cordially disliked, and I imagine it was probably mutual. Number One Daughter, although only four, was fully aware of the undercurrents, and was thoroughly concerned that the evening would go with a swing.

You have to wear a dress, Mummy, she insisted, an objective that I can tell you presented a serious problem in those days.

Anything else? I asked, witheringly.

Yes, she said, anxiously. You have to promise not to say Bloody, Bugger, Shit or Fart, and you mustn’t sing the rude song about the Marines.

I have remembered the advice ever since, it has stood me in good stead at many a school gathering, and indeed on several other occasions when middle class behaviour is called for, and I offer it to you now.

It is called Best Behaviour.

I am going to have to practice.