The Honesty Of Kids…

Tags

children, English, French, fun, funny, Humor, kids, languages, school, Teaching

 

Teaching English today.

Little girl looks at me quizzically.

‘You talk English?’ she says, sat in my English class, blinking her eyes in confusion.

‘Yes, because I am English’ I reply.

‘But you talk French too’ she continues (blink, blink).

‘Yes, but I speak better English than I do French’ I counter.

(Blink, blink) ‘But you speak French well’ she says, making my day.

‘Thanks, I try my best’ I reply, feeling quite pleased with myself.

‘But not too well’ she adds (blink, blink).

I don’t think there’s anything quite as honest as a 7 year-old child.

Excerpts From The Front Line…

Tags

education, France, French, funny, Humor, Language, Learning, school, Teaching

 

I’ve started teaching* English in my village to a group of French retirees. The lady who usually does it is the town-planner, so she’s often called into meetings, and for this reason my services were offered – not by me, but by one of her students – so I now take on her duties once every three weeks. Tuesday night was my first time in charge, here are a few excerpts from that evening.

 

I asked the group to tell me something they had done that week that they didn’t like. Three people said the same thing:

Denis: ‘I had to make some jam, but I didn’t like it’

Michelle: ‘I made jam, but I didn’t like doing it’

Francoise: ‘I made jam, 50 pots, but I didn’t like it’

Me: ‘Do you sell this jam?’

All: ‘No’

Me: ‘If you don’t like doing it, why don’t you just stop?’

All: ‘But the fruit will go bad’

Me: ‘So give the fruit to the animals, or people’

All: *blank stares*

 

On my teaching methods

‘Can you talk slower’

‘I can’t understand you, can you talk slower’

After saying a lengthy passage of text out loud

‘Can you write that on the board?’ (I do)

‘What is that? Is that a Russian character?’ (I’ve written my ‘h’s with a sloping bridge)

‘You keep dropping your ‘t’s, pronounce your ‘t’s’

‘Has he started talking slower?’

 

On my accent

Francoise: ‘Is he American? Are you American?’

Me: ‘No I’m from Yorkshire’

Francoise (frowning, turning to her friend Martine): ‘Is he American?’

Martine: ‘No, he’s from Yorkshire’

Francoise: ‘Oh yes, like the dogs, Yorkshire Terriers’

 

Apropos of nothing

Christine: ‘We had to get a new ram. It was having too much sex with the other sheep and would have messed up the gene pool. We bought another one’

On being asked what she did with the old one

Christine: ‘We killed it and ate it. Well, not all of it, most of it is in the freezer’

 

That’s just a snippet of the many things that were said that night. I loved doing it. Hopefully they did too. Can’t wait for the next class.

 

*The term teaching is used here in its loosest possible sense

Doing Your Bit To Help Out With The Local School 2. The Museum Visit…

Tags

children, education, Farming, France, French, History, Humor, Humour, kids, Learning, Museums, school

 

I get asked to help the school chaperone the kids on a visit to the museum in a local town. ‘This will be a doddle’ I think ‘Just walking around with the teacher making sure we don’t lose anyone’. I am of course wrong in thinking this.

The day of the visit arrives. It is beautiful, it is sunny.

Let’s all go inside a stuffy building full of agricultural tools then. So we do.

There are another couple of parents there. ‘Oh good’ I think ‘Safety in numbers and all that’. The other parents start taking the kids off in groups. I realise that the teacher is dividing the kids up into groups of seven and eight. The implications of this are hammered home as I see eight children – my son amongst them – being herded my way.

‘Oh well’ I think ‘It won’t be that hard will it? walking round an old museum full of tools’. The teacher then starts giving out quiz sheets to myself and each child.

I look at the sheet. It is full of strange words – which is nothing new for me as all words at the moment are a bit strange (it is French after all) but these are really strange –  as well as room numbers that correspond to the confusing words.

We head off into the first room. There are tools here that I have never seen before, and whose names I do not know in English. Apparently I am supposed to search in this room for the correct implement as listed by its bizarre name on the quiz sheet, and then take one of the letters from that name, and then do this in every room till we have a full set of letters which we will then have to rearrange to form the name of something else.

‘This is going to be a long morning’ I think to myself.

Coupled with this headache-inducing quiz is the fact that children – funnily enough – do not seem all that interested in looking at 200-year-old farming tools, and so have started acting up.

Have you ever shouted at a child in a museum? How about eight children? I have. I would prefer not to have to do it again. I would have preferred to not have had to do it 36 times, but that’s agricultural museums for you – they bring out the worst in kids.

Realising that this quiz is a non-starter for me and my limited grasp of ancient-agricultural-implements-French, I corner the teacher. ‘I don’t get this’ I tell her ‘I’ve never seen these things in England, let alone France – how do you win this game?’. Evidently you win this game by cheating, because she whispers the answer in my ear.

Then she looks at the expression on my face and writes it down on a piece of paper and hands it to me.

The seven kids (one of them has been removed for constantly disrupting the group, not my son by the way, he’s still stuck to me like glue) and I continue on our way, now mysteriously being able to identify each clue in each room with alarming rapidity.

We do it so quickly that we arrive in the reception room on the ground floor of the museum, where we are met by another parent and her seven wards (‘Why did I get eight?’ I think to myself ‘Teacher mustn’t like me’ I answer myself, pondering if this is the first sign of madness). She looks at me, resignation written large on her face, and then pulls out the timetable. We have finished the quiz with plenty of time to spare. In fact looking at the timetable it appears that we have another hour to wait before we have anything else to do.

I look at the 14 kids milling around a room full of glass cases with farming books inside them, thinking this is going to be a long hour. I look at the other parent, inquiring as to how she got down here so quickly. She pulls out a piece of paper, the teacher’s scrawled answer unmistakable.  ‘Oh well’ I think to myself ‘At least I’m not the only one who isn’t au fait with ancient French agricultural tools’.

Doing Your Bit To Help Out With The Local School 1. The Cycling Safety Course

Tags

cycling, education, France, French, fun, funny, Humor, kids, Nursery, Parenting, school, stay-at-home Dad, training

 

I’m trying to integrate into my new community here in la belle France. It’s easier when you’ve got kids as you can talk to the other parents and offer your services at their school. If you don’t have kids and you do that you just seem strange.

 

And when I’m not offering my services my partner is offering my services. Which is why today I found myself escorting a group of four and five-year-olds to the local park, so they could learn about the rules of the road. Except not actually on the road, because that would be madness, no we just set up a few obstacle courses that effectively mimicked things they would need to look out for when they did eventually ‘hit the road’.

 

As an example of what these obstacle courses amounted to I will tell you about the section I was in charge of. I was in charge of the roundabout, or ‘rond point’ as it’s called over here. This meant I had to stand there and make sure they went around it the right way. Which, depending on where you hail from as you read this, may actually be the wrong way for you. It used to be for me, coming from the UK where I went round it the other way. But I’ve adapted and now only occasionally go round it the wrong way. Which is the right way for the UK but the wrong way here. What was I talking about? I’ve forgotten…oh yes, the safety course.

 

So the teachers laid down the rules to the kids before we began, and ensured they knew exactly what they had to do. It boiled down to this:

 

The teachers said: ‘Children, this will help you understand the rules of the road and be better riders. The skills you learn today will set you up for now, and also for later in your life‘.

 

That seems pretty standard and straightforward to me, as it must do to you too. However judging by what I then spent two hours (they asked me to cover two classes, what can I say? I’m stupid) watching I don’t think that’s what the kids heard because…

 

The kids said: ‘This is our chance to get even with the other kids we don’t like! Smash into everybody! Run them off the road! THIS IS NOT SAFETY TRAINING THIS IS A RACE – AND ONE WE ARE GOING TO WIN AT ALL COSTS!!!!’

 

It was like Ben-Hur crossed with Death Race 2000 with a dash of Battle Royale. I felt particularly bad for the kids whose parents had forgotten to bring a bike, and so were relegated to using the school’s tricycles instead. They were slowly squeaking round that park like Danny in ‘The Shining‘. They did not fare well against the rest, and were picked off with ease by the larger predators.

 

My daughter was a keen participant in the ‘race’, I saw her take down two other competitors that weren’t actually competing but were just trying to navigate some bollards. She then discarded her jacket, ostensibly because she was too hot, but I think it was because it made her less efficient, as after that her hit ratio went through the roof. It’s very odd to see such a mad gleam in the eye of someone who is only four-year’s old, and is wearing  a pink Disney’s Frozen safety helmet. I won’t say no next time she asks me for a second story at bedtime, I’ll be too scared to.

 

I got away relatively unscathed in my position at the roundabout. There were only four collisions, and one child who needed to have plasters and cuddles applied. I did have to move out of the way a few times though as some of the kids seemed intent on hurtling into me, as well as their ‘friends’.

 

I’m going on a museum trip next. It’s a museum full of old agricultural implements, you know: scythes and things with points.

 

I need to stop offering my services….

Meeting My Daughter’s New French Teacher…

Tags

Back To School, Family, France, French, funny, Humor, Parenting, Relationships, school, stay-at-home Dad, teachers

 

I go to the wrong door. This is the second time this week I’ve gone to the wrong door. That’s because today is Wednesday and it’s dinner-time. All the other days I’ve collected my daughter from her Maternelle at 4.30pm*. They move them after dinner-time you see.

 

They also change the teachers.

 

So the teacher I have met the other two days this week is not the one I meet today. Today is the day I meet her actual class teacher, not one of the other ‘cool-down’ teachers – the ones that seem to take them when all the hard, morning work is done, and they just have to keep them awake till their parents take them in the afternoon.

 

Or should that be evening? I only as as they keep saying ‘bonsoir’ to me. When does afternoon become evening? I would ask but I don’t know how to.

 

But I digress.

 

So this is the first day I’m meeting my daughter’s new teacher, and also the first day she is meeting me. As I approach the door a pleasant looking middle-aged lady is there to greet me. She looks at me quizzically at first and I peer in the door and pause.

 

She’s probably meeting lots of parents today for the first time, I think to myself. Lots of parents may not be able to pick their kids up at dinner-time, so it may fall to their other half, or grandparent, to collect them. I could trade her in, I think. Maybe get one of the less aggressive (when it comes to food) ones. Or the less violent (when it comes to cuddling me) ones. Or maybe I could get another boy? I’ve always fancied having two boys around the place.

 

My eyes scan the room. So many options.

 

But probably best not to pick one of the Chinese ones.

 

I’d save a fortune on biscuits, smoothies, marbles and psychotherapy-for-cats sessions (oh yes, I do believe that’s in the future). I wouldn’t have so many bruises on my arms, legs, torso, face etc etc. I would be able to eat my food, without someone else constantly monitoring the quantities consumed. Without someone else asking me, why I’m eating more of something? Why I’m having another one? Why am I wearing that top? Why am I having a shower? Why am I going outside? Why are we going in the car?

 

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

 

But it would just be the same, I realise. So maybe it’s better the devil you know?

 

Well, that plus the whole kidnapping another kid, getting arrested etc. etc.

 

So I admit who I am, forever dooming myself to coming to collect this bundle of questioning fun, that eats all my food, makes me buy her marbles, and gives the best – if slightly violent – cuddles.

 

Oh well, if I change my mind there’s always next year’s new teacher….

 

 

*In case you are wondering my partner always, always drops her off in the mornings, and I take my son to his school, just across the road. My daughter is very clingy to her mum in the mornings and my son likes me to chase him to his school. I’m better at running. My partner is better at being clung to.

 

We did try it the other way round once. We call that day ‘The Day Of Tears’. We won’t repeat that.

The Short Happy Life Of Francois The Fisherman…

Tags

education, fun, funny, Humor, Parenting, school, stay-at-home Dad, strange

 

Hello my friends, you may not have heard of me, but my name is Francois, Francois the fisherman. I am very happy today, even happier than when I caught the biggest fish of my life. OK it was made out of straw, and covered in glitter, but it still counts.

 

Why am I so happy you ask? Well because today is the day of the carnival, a celebration for me and all my life works, that takes place every year. I can’t say I recall last year’s though, but then as I am only 8 days old I wouldn’t, would I? I tried asking last year’s famous fisherman what I should do but, try as I might, I can’t find him.

 

Also when I did ask people they ran away screaming ‘Mummy, mummy it’s come to life ahhhh!!’ Except they said that in French of course. Ahem.

 

I look happy don’t I? Pity that I couldn’t have been in front of a more suitable mode of transportation for my photograph, say a boat for instance, as opposed to a 2010 Renault Kangoo. Still, I can’t complain, I’m being taken round the town followed by my wonderful fans. I’d give them a round of applause, but I’ve got no hands.

 

Or feet.

 

It really makes fishing quite a task.

 

But I digress.

 

 

 

Look at my incredible parade of followers, on this great day. I’m being taken through the village of Aubigny Sur Nere, France, and as you can see the kids have really made an effort to impress me. Here you can see they have dressed up as lobsters. I love lobsters.

 

There are also some seagulls too. I don’t know who told them to dress up as seagulls. Yes, yes they are associated with the sea, but as far as I’m concerned they are rats with wings. Rats with wings that steal your chips and take a crap on your shoulder after they’ve stolen your chips.

 

But I won’t let that put a dampener on my day, lord no.

 

 

Another great bunch of youngsters, all dolled-up up to celebrate ME! I think they are dressed as starfish…or maybe squids with stars on them? I’m not 100% on this one.

 

Notice the bell in the possible-starfish’s hand? That’s to let everyone know they are in the presence of greatness – ME! Francois the fisherman!

 

 

Here we have some more of my fans, dressed up so smartly for the occasion, with lots of different elements from the sea on display. Look at the parents however – different story there. So sombre, so dark, why anyone would think they were going to a funeral instead of a carnival, HA HA!

 

 

Notice the packed walkways? Everyone is here to see me, I feel so blessed! What a day to be me, Francois the fisherman! We seem to be heading to the park now, I wonder what other delights they have in store for me? A song from some scantily clad mermaids perhaps…

 

(actually mermaids smell ghastly, and they can’t survive on dry land for more than an hour – 61 minutes + and they explode, trust me, you do not want to clean up mermaid guts).

 

 

Ahh, a fitting end to the carnival, they have made me a throne! OK, so it’s not a very tall one, and it seems to be made of hay, but I will allow it.

 

Not sure about my new followers dress-code though, not very ‘sea-worthy’.

 

 

Now what in blue blazes is that one doing down there? Now hang on a minute…

 

 

OOOh! It’s getting a bit toasty here…anyone got any water? Ooooh it’s getting hot!!! I’ve changed my mind…I don’t want to be (HOT HOT HOT!!) king of the carnival any more…can anyone (OOOOOH HOT HOT HOT!!) hear me? Hello? HELLO????????!!!!

 

 

 

Cultural French/UK Differences: The Lollipop Man

Tags

children, cultural differences, education, France, French, fun, funny, Humor, Parenting, school, stay-at-home Dad

 

For the uninitiated a lollipop man is a man/woman who stands at the side of a Zebra crossing, ensuring that vehicles stop so the children can safely cross the road. Lollipop men/women take their name from the brightly-coloured giant lollipop-like signs they hold, this catches drivers’ attentions and they then stop (or accelerate, depending on who’s behind the wheel). In the UK they usually look exactly as the chap in the picture above, generally retired and with an affable, approachable nature.

 

They do not look like this in France.

 

The lollipop man in our old village in the UK was called Paul.

 

I think the French lollipop man is called TK100016.

 

Paul wore a hi-viz jacket and whatever clothes he had decided to put on that day.

 

French lollipop man wears standard issue uniform. Standard issue for the riot police anyway.

 

Paul would always have a friendly word to say to you, and would ask how the kids were doing.

 

The French lollipop man shouted at me today because I slightly jogged over the crossing.

 

After his shift ended Paul could often be seen walking his dog around the village.

 

As soon as his shift ends the French lollipop man plugs himself in to recharge.

 

Paul liked gifts at Christmas, and would never refuse a bottle of wine.

 

I think if I gave the French lollipop man any kind of gift he would immediately, and violently, arrest me, considering it an attempt to bribe a government official.

 

Paul had a lollipop.

 

I’m 95% sure the French lollipop man has a taser. He definitely doesn’t have a lollipop.

 

Paul let us take his picture once, for one of my son’s school projects.

 

If I attempted to take a photo of the French lollipop man he would pick me up by my throat with one hand, with his other he would take my phone off me and crush it.

 

Paul used his lollipop to stop traffic.

 

French lollipop man uses his eyes.

 

I liked Paul.

 

French lollipop man scares me.

Decoding The First Day At The New School In France…

Tags

children, education, France, French, funny, Humor, school, stay-at-home Dad

 

 

Me: ‘have you had a good day then?’

 

My Son: ‘Yes, I really enjoyed it’

 

Me: ‘Did you talk to lots of other children?’

 

My Son: ‘Yes, and I made friends with a girl from London’

 

Me: ‘Wow! So there’s another English girl there?’

 

My Son: ‘Yes she doesn’t speak much English, just ‘oui”

 

Me: ‘Errrrr…’

 

My Son: ‘And she has London on her t-shirt’

 

Me: ‘Wait…so was she from London or did she just have London on her t-shirt?’

 

My Son: (talking to me in a tone reserved for simpletons) ‘She was from London!’

 

Me: ‘Oh great, so you have an English friend then?’

 

My Son: ‘Yes, but she doesn’t talk much English’

 

I give up at this point and turn my attention to my daughter, who is happily munching an apple.

 

Me: ‘Did you have a good first day?’

 

My Daughter: ‘Yes!’

 

Me: ‘Did you talk to many people?’

 

My Daughter: (smiling) ‘I didn’t talk to anybody’

 

 

 

We found out a couple of days later that the girl in question was not actually English, she just wore a t-shirt with ‘London’ written on it. Honestly, six-year-olds, eh? The Enigma machine has nothing on them!

 

Sick Beds And Trapped Bees At The New School In France…

Tags

Bees, children, education, France, French, funny, Humor, school, teachers, Traditions, training

One of the actual classrooms we went in, this one is where you learn English – I did have to point out though that ‘Britain’ is not spelt with two ‘T’s. Whether this will have enamored me to our new host or not, only time will tell.

It’s a miserable wet Tuesday morning and my son, my daughter, myself and the (French) mother-in-law are visiting my son’s new school. We are visiting it during the school holidays and the head-teacher has very nicely agreed to open it, so that we can all have a look around and see what my curly-haired boy thinks of it.

It’s a huge building which, the headteacher informs us is ‘Very old…deux-cent’ (200 years). There are many rooms with all kinds going on in each one and, obviously, lots and lots of French writing. I find this daunting and I’m not the one that will be attending, but my son loves it.

We enter one room and the headteacher motions to my children to approach a large box on wheels that appears to be some kind of cabinet. He then, in a very magician-esque way, pulls off one of the panels on the cupboard/box/thingy to reveal BEES! Lots and lots of bees. The idea, he says, is that the kids look after the bees, the bees make honey, and the kids eat the honey.

After showing us both sides of the bee-box he then puts the cover back on, sealing the bees away. ‘What a holiday they are having!’ I say in broken French to my belle-mere ‘The kids go off on vacation to the lakes, or the south of France, and they get to spend two weeks bumping into each other in the dark in a big box’. Potential bee-right violations aside it’s another great idea that this school has – they also have some mini-allotments at the entrance to encourage the kids to start to grow their own food.

Bit too close to the entrance if you ask me – if this was England anything they grew would get plundered when they reached a ripened state.

We carry on and enter the staff room, dominated by the head-teacher’s desk in the centre of the room. He then shows us the other parts of the room (It’s very Scooby Doo – there seem to be doors that lead off into other areas all over the place) and indicates the sick bed.

Now I can’t speak for everybody but in my village back in England the school there had a very simple approach to sick children. If you cough too much – you go home. If you are sick – you go home. Look a bit pale? you go home. It was an almost knee-jerk reaction in its speed the way in which the school would get in touch with you if your child exhibited the slightest indication that they were sick.

I’m told – after telling the head-teacher that these don’t exist anymore in England – that they do this because they understand the difficulties of working life for people with children. If your child is a bit unwell, or is sick, they take them to the sick bay and monitor them for an hour or so. If they perk up then off they go back to play/learn/whatever. If not then they will contact the parent (s).

This is another great tradition that I experienced in my lifetime that has sadly disappeared from the UK – too ‘risky’ these days I suppose, in our culture of blame. So I’m pleased that it still exists over here, in our new home.

My son is pleased as punch with his new school, which eases my mind. He’d been a bit sick the previous night and we were both worried that it was due to worry about his new, somewhat ‘alien’, learning environment. This is clearly not the case though, as he happily runs from empty class to empty class, admiring the old traditions that sit alongside newer technologies – touch-sensitive whiteboards for example.

We reach the cafeteria as our tour comes to an end and, the headteacher informs us, he will be able to dine with his sister as the nursery and the school eat together. This pleases my two children no end, ‘We will have dinner together’ they happily shout.

We head off back to the mother-in-law’s for dinner, walking down the high street, which is beautiful despite the miserable weather. As we do we pass by the local florists. ‘Look daddy!’ my son says, pointing to a bunch of flowers. ‘Oh yes, they are very pretty’ I say to him. ‘No look, there’s a bee!’. He’s quite right, there is, crawling happily over the…whatever it is (I’m not a horticulturalist, OK?). ‘It’s escaped from the school’ I tell him, and he looks back at me with huge eyes. ‘Bad bee!’ he says, ‘We’ve got to get it back!’ ‘We’ll tell the headmaster next week’ I tell him ‘He’ll send out the bee-police’.

This seems to satisfy him and we head off down the high street hand-in-hand, all four of us, looking forward to the future.

An Idiot’s Guide To Running A Welly-Wanging Stall…

Tags

children, funny, games, Humor, kids, outdoors, Parenting, school, stay-at-home Dad

 

 

I watch in horror as the heavy piece of rubber hurtles skyward, completely off course and heading straight for a family of four. There’s a mum, a dad  a toddler and a baby in a pram. Thankfully – and I use that term in the loosest possible sense – dad feels the full force of the welly. This gloriously sunny Sunday is not going well, I think to myself. And this is only the first 30 minutes. I’m manning the stall for three hours. Three hours. But surely that’s the worst thing that can happen on the welly-wanging stall isn’t it?

 

Nope.

 

I do a lot of volunteering in my village, partly to keep myself active, partly to feel part of the community and partly to keep my CV looking relatively healthy (some people don’t see ‘stay-at-home-dad’ as a worthwhile usage of time – they think we sit around all day playing PS4, when in actual fact we spend all our time writing articles that overuse the word ‘partly’ for our world-famous blogs *cough cough*). One of the groups I help out with is the local PTA.

 

I helped them run a Minion-themed night a few weeks back. There were over a hundred kids. Then we put minions in the room. Then we gave the kids pop and sweets.

 

I’m still having nightmares about that one

 

Kind-heartedly – or foolishly, you decide – I offered to help them out again at the summer fair. A yearly event involving inflatable castles, face painting, tombolas and lots of confusing games. They all cost either 50p or £1. That’s generally the upper limit for a school gala. Anything costing more than that is frowned upon.

 

I’m asked to man the ‘welly-wanging’ stall, and nod my head in agreement. ‘That’ll be a doddle’ I think to myself. ‘After all they do it every year’.

 

‘We’ve never done this before’ says the head of the PTA to me, on the aforementioned gloriously sunny Sunday, as he ambles past. ‘Good luck’. I set up my stall and mark out the ‘target area’, thinking as I do that it’s rather close – some might say dangerously so – to the football stall next to it. After I’ve marked out the target zone I set out my wellies, or wellington boots, there’s three different sizes, for the three different age-ranges we have. So small ones for the 3-7 year-old bracket, medium for the 7-11-year-old bracket, and really heavy ones for the ‘adult’ bracket.

 

I then look at the prizes. The youngsters get a toy tractor, the middle kids get a box of chocolates, and the 11 and over category get a bottle of wine. I point out that this means in theory we can have a 12-year-old walking away from a school fair with the top prize of alcohol in their hands.

 

The PTA hastily agrees that we should ‘Contact the parent of the winning thrower, and make sure they accept it’.

 

Before I continue I should probably give you some information about the wild and crazy world of wellies, and indeed welly wanging.

 

Here’s a welly:

 

Want to know what welly-wanging actually is? Here’s some info from Wikipedia:

 

Welly wanging is a sport that originated in Britain in Upperthong, Holmfirth. Competitors are required to hurl a Wellington boot as far as possible within boundary lines, from a standing or running start. A variation requires participants to launch the welly from the end of their foot as if they were kicking off a pair of shoes. The high level of competition has led to precise, highly regulated rules for the sport. The sport is regulated and administered by the World Welly Wanging Association, based in Upperthong

 

They must have been really, really bored one day to have come up with this ‘sport’.

 

I open for business at 1pm prompt and, at first, think I’m in for a quiet day. People stroll up, look at me, look at my wellies, smile somewhat pityingly and then carry on to the hook-a-duck stall instead.

 

But things soon pick up. I’ve got an assistant you see, a ten-year=old lad from the school who loves drumming up business. ‘COME AND WANG A WELLY’  he shouts. And when that doesn’t work he effectively encourages/bullies his school friends into having a go. We soon start cashing in, especially with our attractive price – 50p a go.

 

Things go wrong when the adults get involved.

 

The kids, in either category, are limited by their development. The adults have no such limitations. Some truly monstrous looking men begin having a go at hurling the wellies as far as they can, and any fears I had of a 12-year-old walking away with the wine are soon put to rest. No 12-year-old has a hope against some of these man mountains.

 

It’s one of these behemoths who hits the daddy and his family. But daddy’s ok, he laughs it off. But I’m worried, more for the kid in the pram than anything. ‘This wasn’t on the risk assessment’, I think to myself. ‘These people are too close to the stall, it’s a health and safety nightmare’.

 

The headmaster passes me by and stops for a chat. ‘Everything ok?’ he asks me. ‘Not really’ I say to him, ‘These people are too close to the stall, it’s a health and safety nightmare’. He nods his head, ‘Yeah, we should have covered that on the risk assessment’, then he ambles off.

 

The next victim is a young chap, he’s chilled out, enjoying the sun with his friends. This enjoyment soon ends when a size 10 welly smacks him straight in the face. We’re lucky though, he’s 13 and brushes it off, saving the bragging rights for later.

 

Another adult strolls up, he’s not muscly, but you can tell he’s got power. He’s just got that ‘coiled spring’ look about him. He takes a run up, winds his arm back ‘This one’s a winner’ I think to myself. Then the welly disappears. Backwards. He’s thrown it 20-feet behind him, nearly taking out the entire dance class that’s scheduled to perform within the next hour. ‘It can’t get worse than this can it’ I say, to no-one in particular, looking off into the middle distance, wondering if I could just walk off and leave my stall….

 

The worst thing then happens.

 

A mum and her three kids roll up at the stall, they look like they’re having fun, and they’ve clearly made the effort for the fancy dress competition. Mummy is dressed as one of the Pink ladies from Grease, son is Buzz Lightyear and daughter is generic Disney Princess. They look like they want to ‘have a wang’. So does the 11-year-old next to them. But he’s already paid so he has first dibs. He takes a run up and, WANG!

 

The welly doesn’t even get over the starting line. No, it promptly takes a 90-degree left-turn straight into little miss generic Disney Princess’ face. The tears are immediate and the cries are loud. Mum looks at me, I apologise profusely. ‘It’s alright’ she says to me, ‘I think she’s just a bit tired’. I look at the little girl, who now has the imprint of a size 8 wellington boot on her face and think to myself ‘Yes, it’s definitely fatigue, not concussion’.

 

It’s late, I’ve had enough and so I pack up the stall and head off towards the exit, pausing as I do to drop the money off with one of the PTA ladies. ‘Same time next year?’ she says to me jovially. ‘Next year’ I say to her ‘I’m doing the hook-a-duck stall’.