Life in the duck pond

Last weekend the children had to endure a 12 hour round trip to Derbyshire to enable my husband and me to attend a reunion at the boarding school where we first met 25 years ago.  It was the first time we’ve been back to any form of reunion and what at first seemed a good idea became increasingly terrifying as the time approached.  Several fashion crises later we drove up the long drive to the imposing red brick building and spent the ensuing hours trying to see the face of the big haired 17 year olds we remembered in the visage of the dyed and straightened / grey and balding 40 year olds.

Most people had kids, some even had kids at the school, but we had so much to catch up on the conversation wasn’t so much about what we were doing now as the drama which had happened in the interim. Death and divorce were high on the agenda.  I noticed a worrying correlation between those who looked slim and divorce and have suggested to my husband that if he wants to lose a few pounds that could be the way forward.  The people who had aged best were definitely the outdoors types who live in the country and whose skin has a healthy glow.  There was a distinctly grey pallour on the London contingent.  I think we fell somewhere between the two.

On the long drive home we dropped into see an aged aunt in The Borders who was convinced that my seven year old was me and that I was married to my father.  It was partly my fault as I hadn’t visited for a year and had given no warning that I was coming but my daughter was clearly disturbed by the experience as to her mind it was only recently that we were visiting the same Aunt for a sleepover and discussing the merits of X Factor versus Strictly Come Dancing.

I was no sooner back in Edinburgh than I had to get the train back to London for a series of business meetings including the literary agent for Vernon Kay who was devouring the tabloids in order to fathom what his text friendly client had been up to. 

During one meeting at The Groucho, in which we all pride ourselves on being family friendly, I found myself hiding the fact that I was furiously texting, arranging emergency pick up for my daughter, while across the table another friend was silently suffering having learned that her latest adoption bid had been unsuccessful.  However understanding our colleagues it seems we always have to wear a mask, working parents remind me of ducks who appear to glide effortlessly across the water while furiously paddling beneath it.

It was almost worth going away when I returned to banners and bear hugs from the children who had been allowed to stay up late to welcome me home.  The following day, to the irritation of my boss, I left work early in order to pick them both up at 4pm and have some quality time before having to dash off for another extra curricular commitment, this time the Parent Council at school.  I am constantly torn between wanting to involve myself in school because I spend so little time at the school gate and spending time with the kids.  My heart says I should just stay with the kids, my head says that if I don’t join the committees no one else will and ironically it is true that it is mainly working parents who dominate the PTA and the Parent Council.  In the absence of a solution I think I may just campaign to have plate spinning registered as an Olympic sport.  I am sure that I could win a gold medal hands down.