Krakatoa

A lull in work allowed me to attend Big S’s school assembly. It was her acting debut. We arrived in the little hall to find the reception class children sat on benches facing us and, nestled in the middle, were three baby owls one of whom was Big S.

As I tried to lower myself onto a tiny wooden chair, the teacher explained that in honour of Mary’s feast day the assembly would praise mothers. I hoisted Little S onto my knee and, in the hope of keeping her quiet, gave her a bottle of water which she sucked at tenaciously.

The headmistress appeared. She is tiny and pointy and, one suspects, a stickler for good behaviour. She invited us to be quiet, to put our hands together and to pray. Silence grew.

Little S looked up at me bemused. She raised one eyebrow, removed the bottle from her mouth and belched with a gusto that caused the windows to rattle in their frames. Heads swivelled in our direction and the headmistress, enraged, seemed to be on the point of releasing a platoon of winged monkeys. Little S seemed very pleased with herself. I furrowed my brow, held her gaze and whispered “No! Naughty!” at which point she released another blast which misted my glasses and then tore them from my face. The mothers sat around us began to snort and giggle and the prayer was abandoned. I imagine Mary smiling indulgently down from heaven. I certainly hope so as if she had the same look on her face that the headmistress did we are in big trouble.