I left work an hour early this evening, in order to get home in time to feed the children before heading out to another school awards function. The children had been left instructions to make pasta, and might possibly have succeeded, but given Miss 13’s culinary display at the weekend, I thought it better if I was present. She made a wonderful meal for everybody, but by the time she finished counting out everything on the plates to make sure her sisters had no more than her, everything was cold. Who would have guessed that pasta could be messed up? Apparently it can if you’re 13, and telling your 16 year old sister what to do. Once again I found myself wading in to rescue dinner. I told the kids to go sit down while I started running back and forth in a manner Barry Allen would have been proud of. He’s “The Flash”, if you were wondering. If you’re still none the wiser, don’t worry about it. Let’s just note that red spandex with wings stuck to my ears wouldn’t be a good look anyway.
I’m getting sidetracked.
We got through dinner, my other half arrived, and half an hour later we found ourselves joining several hundred other parents and children in a vast hall to watch trophies, plaques, and salvers being given out for everything from “Cleverer than Stephen Hawking” to “Turned Up Most of the Time”.
The awards were handed out by a movie editor from Hollywood. I forget his name – he won the academy award for “Gravity” a few years back. He told a long and winding story about his life as a movie editor, which fell largely on deaf ears until he mentioned that his first job in the movies had been to fire the snow cannon on the set of 101 Dalmatians.
“Next time you watch it, when you see the snow – that was me.”
Our youngest daughter won several awards – and though immensely proud, I felt bad that so few of her friends picked up any awards.
Perhaps the highlight of the entire evening was our daughter’s form tutor announcing her retirement at the end of the year after spending thirty years at the same school, and the entire auditorium raising to it’s feet and giving her a standing ovation that went on and on. She had a huge wobble as she looked out at everybody – I don’t think there was a dry eye in the house. I kept expecting the orchestral score from Mr Holland’s Opus to erupt from a hidden orchestra pit.
Anyway. It’s late. “Half past my bedtime”, as our middle daughter used to say.