The race had started to the end of the summer term. All term-time clubs and school shit coming to a crescendo. What do we win, do you wonder? Your children — for six to eight weeks (free school vs paying).
There were fetes, leavers’ parties, presentations, assemblies, shows and bloody sports day. All this was times two to account for the decision to have two children. It was relentless. The juggle between work commitments and turning up was exhausting. Mixed with the struggle of wanting your child to have the best and not giving a fuck.
As part of the term-end hurrah, my son was off to France for a week with his school. Parents needed to drop their child off at 5.30am on a Monday morning. WTF? Luckily we successfully negotiated a tit-for-tat deal with one of the other parents. They would keep my son Sunday night, drop him to school on the Monday. In turn, we would then pick up both boys on the Friday night.
While my son was away, we noticed an increase in fruit flies in the kitchen. We only had to walk past the fruit bowl and it would awaken them. We made jars of homemade maple syrup home brew to capture and kill. But it was a futile battle. We tried to find the source — no joy! The maple syrup traps were full of the tiny fuckers.
The boys came back bearing French pastries and cakes as gifts. Well — the other boy did. My boy came back with a massive bag of French flag–coloured Haribo and a free pen from the ferry.
The next morning I fed the boys and started gathering all the belongings for the drop-off. I lifted the paper bag full of pastries. A plume of fruit flies emerged from the top of the bag and cascaded into the air like a dementor.
I panicked. I started shaking the bag furiously, swinging it in a circular motion like a windmill. With accurate speed to ensure minimal harm to the pastries. Fruit flies continued to escape the bag! Fuck. Shit. I had fucked up his gifts to his family. Right, I needed this boy out of my house pronto.
We bundled into the car and I tried to soothe my rapid breathing. The car gradually started to fill with fruit flies. The kids went mental in the back, trying to capture and kill as many as they could — slapping each other and screaming..
I kept muttering my mantra as I was driving: Kill the flies, not the children. Wind down the windows. Act normal.
I practically threw the boy out of the car at the other end with no time for niceties. I lied about a family emergency.
We found the culprit about a week later in my boy’s karate bag. A banana.
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