I was in the middle of painting a ceiling when I remembered that one of my children was at a friend?s birthday party and had to be collected by five o?clock.
I threw an anorak over my paint-splattered sweatshirt and rushed out. I must have looked like the bedraggled mum in the old Flash ad who was always late to the school gates because her cheap inferior washing powder left suds all over the floor.
The usual drill with kids? parties is that you turn up for the handover, politely decline a glass of wine or a cup of coffee, make small talk on the doorstep for several minutes while your nipper dawdles about sourcing shoes and coats, and then pray they don?t embarrass you by promptly ripping open the goodie bag and wailing: ?Yuk, I hate those jellies from the ?2 shop!?
