Today is the end of the summer term, and Peter and Jane have many, many weeks of holidays to look forward to.
Mummy is not looking forward to the holidays.
Mummy's bank account is not looking forward to the holidays.
Mummy's liver is not looking forward to the holidays.
At the end of term, the children give presents to the teachers, to say "Thank You For Attempting To Instill Some Knowledge And Wisdom Into Our Tiny Brains And Thank You For Not Throwing Heavy Objects At Us In The Process, Even Though You Were Quite Tempted To'.
There are two options for Teacher Presents.
Option one is to hope that the Nicest Mummy In The Class will crack and organise a collection between the other mummies, so that the teachers can have a good present, such as Marks and Spencers vouchers that they can spend on useful things that they want, like posh sausage rolls, wine and pants.
The other option is to hurl random tat at the teachers inscribed with 'Best Teacher In The World' in lurid glitter paint.
Even the 'Best Teacher In The World' does not really want 33 cheap candles bearing this legend.
Mummy has also been told by teacher friends that if the teacher has been a good teacher, it is a lovely idea to write a letter to them, to show appreciation for putting up with your little twatbags for a year without resorting to drinking in the workplace.
Mummy has learned through bitter experience that you should not write these letters after you have been drinking gin, as the teachers are slightly non plussed to receive a six page, tear stained epistle, musing on the relentless yet ephemeral nature of time.
A pretty card, simply saying "Thank you so much." is sufficient.
This year, the Nicest Mummies In The Class have agreed to organise collections for Peter and Jane's teachers again, which makes Mummy happy.
Mummy is baffled by the endless streams of emails this apparently simple process produces from some of the other mummies though, who seem inclined to over think things.
Mummy is astounded at the patience of the Nicest Mummies In The Class at dealing with this bloody nonsense.
This is why Mummy is never going to be the Nicest Mummy In The Class.
After the 376th group email from a hand wringing Boden Mummy lands in Mummy's inbox, Mummy types "FFS, just give the Nicest Mummy a fiver for vouchers and fuck off with your agonising over how maybe it might be more personal to buy the teacher a Guatemalan orphan with the proceeds of the collection. The teacher will be more than happy with a month's supply of Thai Green Curry and Pinot Grigio."
Oh fuck, Mummy did not mean to press send.
On the last day of term, Peter and Jane turn to Mummy and demand to know where their teacher presents are.
Mummy explains everyone is giving the teachers a joint present from the whole class.
Peter and Jane explain that that is no longer enough, that the Boden Mummies also send in a 'little something extra' and Peter and Jane must also provide or be judged.
"Bollocky arse", thinks Mummy, rifling through the cupboards.
Eventually Mummy realises there is nothing else to hand and reluctantly gives Peter and Jane a bottle of wine each for the teachers.
It is not that Mummy grudges the teachers the wine (well, she does a bit), it's just the summer holidays are very long and Mummy needs all the help she can get. Mummy feels somewhat alone now.
At the end of school, Peter and Jane stagger out, buckling under the weight of a year's worth of 'art works' and exercise books.
"Look, Mummy, look!" cry Peter and Jane.
"It is lovely..." mumbles Mummy.
"LOOK AT IT ALL, MUMMY!" order Peter and Jane.
"I am, darlings, I am!" says Mummy.
"Maybe you could sort through it and decide what to keep?" suggests Mummy hopefully.
"We must keep IT ALL!" howl Peter and Jane indignantly "Do not throw away our childhood, you monster!"
"Couldn't I just throw away a bit?" pleads Mummy "Look, Peter, you have eaten half of this exercise book, perhaps we don't need to keep the other half? And Jane, you have six identical half coloured in photocopies of a panda bear. Maybe we could just keep one?"
Peter and Jane growl at Mummy menacingly, and Mummy fills another box of dog eared memories to stow in the attic and be forgotten.