It was a nice touch to serve filter coffee and canapés at the parents evening. Ever since the school had privatised itself, little details had come to the forefront: little important details. And somehow, they had managed to wangle it so those bloody school inspectors didn't get a look-in. Hah! As if parents didn't know what their own children needed (no refugee children and no special needs for starters!).
Mrs Johnson had fallen off her bicycle on the way there.
Well it wasn't really hers; she'd seen in propped up unlocked against a lamp-post last week, and finders keepers, losers weepers. It was painted red and white like a Post Office bike when she found it but Joshua the handyman had give it a quick lick of paint and now it was hummingbird-blue, or something like that.
She had a red nose from the bump (or possibly form the gin, but that's another story), and she sat at the table opposite Mr Register, little Boris's teacher.
Mr Register was obviously uncomfortable; he was telling her a story about pulling his hanky from his pocket and a twenty pound note falling out on to the classroom floor. He was saying that Boris had grabbed it and run off out of the school gates, shouting 'Finders keepers, losers weepers!' at the top of his voice. The next day the Headmaster, Mr Corbyn, had invited little Boris into his office; according to Mr Register, little Boris had completely denied having anything to do with it.
Mrs Johnson was appalled. How dare the school make up a story like that about her sweetest boy?
She gathered herself together, scooping the keys, lipstick, receipts and crumpled up tissues back into her capacious handbag and marching out.
'You won't hear the last of this!' she bellowed, before marching home to tuck into the champagne truffles and caviar that little Boris had so kindly surprised her with on Mother's Day. Imagine him saving three months worth of pocket money to buy her something like that!
The school simply didn't understand just exactly how sweet her sweetest boy was.