Friday, 3 July 2015


I had that warm, tingly, sun on your face feeling.

I’d just watched my girl running - yes, technically, definitely, sort of running - down the track for the sprint race at her special school sports day. She was at the back of the pack but she was having a real go.

Minutes earlier, I’d stood back, amazed at her bouncing along in the sack race, her cheeks reddening from the effort. I got flashes of her beautiful grin as she shot sidelong glances and giggles at her dad: a middle-aged man with sticky-up hair, wearing flowery shorts, shouting out "Boing! Boing! Boing!" as he pogoed along beside her.

Special school sports day is always fun. One of my daughter's classmates, having been told he could dress as his favourite sporting star, came as Kevin Pietersen in full cricket gear, pads and helmet and all, which I can attest makes the long jump a challenge.

I even got involved myself, as part of an impromptu and rather hefty parents team in the Parents v Staff Tug Of War. Victory tasted sweet. An estimated 30 stone team weight advantage had nothing to do with it, I tell you. It was all technique.

It was my second sporting foray of the day, having already taken part in the mums' race at my boy’s sports day earlier the same day. I’d seen my opportunity to cause him burning shame, and I’d taken it, because he’d been a little sod all week.

He watched as I had galumphed up the track, trailing in the wake of several mums who were younger, fitter, and - as my own mum would quaintly put it - less ‘booby’ than me. I’d adopted an unusual running style: the ‘right hand clutching right nork, left hand clutching left nork’ technique* (*first pioneered by Dolly Parton when she forgot her sports bra for track practice. Probably). It had seemed apt to protect my assets (coincidentally encased in a Tony The Tiger ‘They’re GGGGGGRRRREAT!’ T-shirt) as I needed way more jiggle-proof scaffolding than that provided by my standard M & S bra.

I walked back over to see my boy sitting on the ground next to his dad with his hands over his face. “Brilliant!” I thought. “I’ve really embarrassed him.” But no, the ‘hand-bra’ style had passed him by, possibly because he was watching from behind the start line and had only been able to see the back of me. No, his hands were not hiding his shame, they were suppressing derisive laughter. “You came last, Mum. You’re RUBBISH.”

Yes. Yes I was. But at least I didn't have sore jugs and two black eyes, and I consider that a victory, even if nobody else does. 

Song is Lonnie Mack - The Bounce

1 comment:

  1. I know I can catch up on your blog for a smile,even a warm glow of empathy as we negotiate "Holland".(a la Emily Perl Kingsley).....but you pipped yourself today,chum.
    I had to get the kleenex out reading your description of the mums race.
    "Thanks" - I needed a damn good laugh tonight.
    (With you,not at you,of course.)
    X Beth