To the seaside for the annual school trip. We’re off to a good start when we arrive at school to discover that D is the only one wearing school uniform. Everyone else is dressed in best beach gear, armed with spades, fishing nets and enough stuff to last several days rather than one afternoon. How did everyone else know their children could wear home clothes? We’re obviously outside some mysterious communication loop, aka mothers who collect their children from school rather than relying on a childminder. There definitely wasn’t anything about beach clothes on the notice about the trip. Or maybe there was and I’ve just lost the ability to take in the most basic instructions.

D couldn’t care less that he’s in school uniform with a tiny bag that doesn’t even include a towel (I was half way to work before I remembered). At his age, I’d have been mortified. But then I was a girl.

Really Bad Parent that I am, I decline the invitation to go on the trip, paying £5 for the treat of spending a total of four hours in a coach and making sure other people’s children don’t fall into the sea and drown themselves. Good move as it turns out. One of the coaches breaks down and the driver won’t let people onto the other because of “insurance problems”. One child ends up in A & E and parents arrive back at school vowing that they’ll definitely be too busy in the office to go on the trip next year.

At least the children enjoyed it.

Sunday

A challenging journey to north London to visit a friend for lunch. Challenging mainly because we miss the train at Liverpool Street by 30 seconds then try to be clever by going to Moorgate and Kings Cross to see if there were any trains on another line. As any fool knows, trains to the north London suburbs don’t run from Moorgate on Sunday and Northern Line trains aren’t stopping at Kings Cross because of the London bombings. Not my finest hour as we run from Liverpool Street to Moorgate and leap on a tube, only to find ourselves taken straight through Kings Cross to Euston. No time to be nervous about going on a tube for the first time since the bombings. We only just make it back to Liverpool Street in time for the next train from there. I’m not popular because it was my job to check out the trains. E rages at me for not doing my “research” and then blaming her for the result. D tells me I’m spoiling his life. Uh-oh. Two against one and not for the first time.

Our friend (in her 40s) is on page 400 and something of the new Harry Potter book, delivered at crack of dawn on publication day. Of course, she’s read all the others. Am I the only one who’s finding it a struggle to get past the first chapter of book one?

Saturday

Harry Potter all day, with back-to-back videos on the big downstairs TV in the morning and a Harry Potter party in the afternoon at the library. JK Rowling has a lot to answer for. D goes to the party resplendent in his velvet Hogwarts robe with Gryffindor badge, light-up wand and round glasses (all courtesy of eBay over the past few weeks). It turns out he’s a bit overdressed. The prevailing fashion is robes made out of black bin bags. A bad week for misreading dress codes. Nervous librarians lead a few tentative games of pass-the-parcel, followed by musical statues, which goes on for hours while two or three determined children better than the rest at standing still stay in for round after round. No change from our childhood parties there, then.

Things get really wild after tea and finish with the children stamping on balloons and hitting a cardboard moon hanging from the ceiling with a stick to break it and get at the sweets and toys inside. Every time one child has a go, the others surge forward risking a poke in the eye or a bang on the head with the stick. The librarians stand there shouting, “Back, Back!” agitatedly. They obviously didn’t know what they’d unleash. D cries when the older and more savvy children grab handfuls of sweets but soon cheers up when some motherly girls take pity on him and share their booty. Being little and pathetic can get you a long way.

All week

Strange evening ritual as temperatures hit the high 20s well into the evening. D comes home from school, asks me to fill the paddling pool then totally ignores it. Better not let Thames Water know we’re using water so frivolously. Hopefully they’ve got too much else on, defending themselves against accusations that they’re wasting water to bother about us.

And finally...

To weigh in on the current Times debate about whether gays are born or made, I’m firmly in the “nature” camp. Why would you choose to be different if it didn’t feel natural? It’s far too much hassle.

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