Friday, 22 September 2017


A few months ago, whilst under the influence and egged on by a mate, I impulsively put myself forward as class rep for Dumpie's class. I promptly forgot about it until three weeks ago when school started up, and in the words of Morrissey, "...that joke just ain't funny anymore."

Putting ME in charge of anything requiring organisation, memory or spreadsheets is a joke (the husband will vouch for this). I actually feel bad for Dumpie's class as I boast a long tarnished history of sending my children to school dressed normally on dress up days, without proper signed permission slips for class trips, and all manner of other parental faux pas I'm too ashamed to confess.

I would say I'm forgetful, but that's not entirely true, as I can clearly remember every lyric of every song I've ever loved - and with something bordering on autistic genius, can accurately recall the location and price of every sought after treasure in the world's most bustling market places.

This leads me to believe that the giant filing cabinet in my head is unfortunately slanted toward the niche/highly irrelevant sphere, and sadly school and parenting issues have been allotted a tiny pull-out drawer somewhere far in the back near a dangling, sparking lightbulb.

I've already messed up twice. Having been given the task of compiling an up-to-date class contact list, I promptly misplaced the new pupil's details, deleted the wrong child, and discovered I have not the faintest clue how to edit a spreadsheet. With the husbands help I eventually managed to muddle through, only to send it out under another classes name.

Today, sporting a lethal hangover, I nonetheless dragged myself to a coffee morning whereby within minutes of arriving, sent my mug of earl grey splashing across the spotless kitchen cupboards whilst trying to remove my jacket.

I'm pretty sure this is only the beginning. I can't even organise my own life let alone the lives of an entire sixth grade class. It would appear that my ineptness has been discovered, judging by the amount of 'offers of help' I have been given in the past few days.

When quizzed this morning, I truthfully couldn't even recall the name of Squitty's teacher - only that it begins with a 'C'.

And this dear parents, is the reason I have never stepped up for the role in these many years. I am hopeless. Ask me to bake a cake, throw a smashing cocktail party, find the perfect dress or write a tune in under ten minutes and I will not disappoint.

Ask me to keep abreast of scheduling requirements, deadlines and the myriad of other 'all-blending-into-one' school activities, and I will draw a blank. I will disappoint.

What have I done....