Joy

I should not be this delighted at Squirrel's decision. But I am. So I am keeping it quiet.

Squirrel tells me that she has, for now, decided to hang up her ballet shoes and take a break from ballet. I nod, look sympathetic, say I understand, and that I am very proud she makes her decisions so carefully.

Inside I am turning cartwheels of joy. Because I no longer have to suffer the weekly ballet torture or be stared at in uncomprehending disbelief by the ballet mums because I do not talk sparkle hairgrip language.

And the end of year dance show? Off the agenda. Crack open the champagne. (But shhh! Don't let the cork pop, because Squirrel might hear.)

The ballet hell

You can tell I am a woman of aspiration. Because not only am I prepared to suffer Tiger and the horse riding, now I twice-weekly cry in pain at Squirrel with the ballet. This double torture is currently thanks to the Grade 1 exam which requires an extra ballet lesson every week for eight weeks.

What ballet is for, I do not know. I cannot bear it. Many years ago I sat in a posh seat to see the San Francisco ballet troupe all jig along to Swan Lake. No doubt it looked like an extraordinary painting, but the ballet bit I just did not get. And, despite some effort, still don't. It is a lot of thin, wiry women jumping up and down wearing silly clothing. I can jump up and down, not obviously with the bit about being thin, or flexing muscles as strong as road hammers. I tell Squirrel she could do that too, without the unbearable suburban ballet lessons, and I can save the ridiculously large amounts of cash I hand over termly for the privilege of having mug stamped on my forehead, which qualifies me to be fleeced some more for the extra exam lessons, piano rehearsals and hall hire.

What Squirrel is enjoying about the ballet experience, I cannot tell. It would be the sparkly hairgrips and fluffy hairbands so beloved of the coven of ballet mums, only I am too mean to buy her any. And it is not the actual sight of professional ballerinas jumping up and down, because I refuse to let her watch any in case she gets ideas. It could be the fact that both her sisters have declared ballet disgusting and revolting, which probably for Squirrel passes as an endorsement and celebration of her art.

Well for the interim, I am doomed, because the exam is still a week away and there must be this lesson, and this rehearsal, and this additional time, and that practice, because according to Squirrel's ballet teacher Twig, every minute counts.

In all of this miserable woe and prospect of doom I can find only two crumbs of comfort. One is that taking Squirrel to ballet is now, until the end of term, Dig's turn. And the other is that it is not performed outside, in the rain.

This is Squirrel, aged four, in a ballet lesson,
when she was allowed to take in baby lemur and wear skirts we had made ourselves.
Do not say she looks cute. That will only encourage me to keep up her attendance.

Why home educate? (4) Sport

We get to watch. We get to watch when Shark steps with singular determination to the sailing dingy; when Squirrel twirls, and with that face she thinks a serious ballerina should have; we get to watch how Tiger's eyes light up when she clings to a horse, and we even get to bite our knuckles and pray they don't all fall in, fall over, or fall off.

Every week throughout their lives we see some new and wonderful physical ability. From standing up to chew on the table edge, to falling off the climbing frame in the playground and not dying, swimming for the first time, cycling without pink princess wheels, then archery, abseiling, skiing. This month alone I've watched gym, trampoline, tennis, ice skating, kayaking. And the best of it is I can be right there when it happens. I can seek out any type of lesson that's wanted, we can choose the places and times to go, the instructors we like; and I can look at my little faces delighted and excited as a sudden new skill is found and disbelieved and found again.

Today I watch Tiger at the ice rink. Months ago she clung to the sides, her legs taking off without her. Then I watched tentative toe work, stretching out to the first leg's distance; then the sudden forward movement, one foot in front of the other, and then shooting straight across the ice with that face, that mixture of pure delight, curiosity, strength, ambition, shock, like Where did this come from?

Today I watch while Tiger jumps, really, jumps from the ice, with thin metal blades strapped to the bottom of her feet, and she jumps, up in the air and there is a breath of a gap between the ice and her blades and then down she comes back onto that ice and she stays upright! She actually stays upright! And her face is amazed and inside I scream wildly and declare that is the most stupendous and amazing moment and it will stay in my heart forever. Because now there's no stopping her. And next she'll be twirling and gliding and spinning and doublebackflipping on that ice. And as that vision grips me along with a terrible fear that makes me want to strap her into a helmet and body armour, I am gaping in awe, and I feel privileged and honoured, and with that triumphant fraction of a gap between the ice and her blades, have watched her grow up with a huge bound in confidence and self.

And I am not saying that any parent of a schooled child feels none of these things. Oh no. What I am saying is that home ed gives us all here at the Pile the time in which Tiger and her sisters can experiment, explore, choose and pursue whatever sport they need. I am there not only to set it up for a Tuesday or Saturday morning and then complain about it, but to see it working through and watch those moments of glory when Tiger does not fall flat on her backside for the third time in a row.

If it were only this. Because the local school provides numeracy and literacy hours, but not the thrilling diversity of sailing hours or trampoline hours. And their lack would put me in a mother's role of making up the deficit, probably with emergencies like swimming in the event of a canal or a drunken student party, ten years from now. But I couldn't cram our ambitious range of sports into those leftover weekends and holidays without Tiger giving up on me at 10.30 on a Saturday morning and shouting Mother! Leave me alone! Enough exercise already! Jam doughnuts next!

But most importantly, if Shark, Squirrel and Tiger went daily to school, I simply wouldn't have the imperative that home ed provides. In the land of home ed, the buck stops here. I look to no-one else to come knocking to provide a sports education for Shark, Squirrel and Tiger. I look to theirs and mine own judgements and Dig's overdraft. The knowledge of this responsibility gives me a huge kick up the rear end; it impels me to go out and find these sports and activities, plead for rates or special treatment, and get them all organised, scheduled and done. And I wonder would I do this if my kids all went to school? Because there on a Monday, Shark might come down and shout Muuuum! Have you washed my gym kit? If I don't have it, Miss makes me sit out.

Or worse, she might follow it with, On second thoughts mum, can I miss gym today?

Success and failure

8.00am. Water the tomatoes, courgettes, sweetcorn, carrot, cabbages that have been eaten, and the pea. We'll count that as a success. It is the only surviving pea in the harsh landscape that is the Grit vegetable garden.

9.00am. Plan the day. Promise Squirrel honesthonesthonest I will book her on the kayaking course next week. Yes, I know I said I would do it today but there may not be time. Look, next week things will be quiet because Shark will not be here. Honest. Honest. Honest. Next week.

9.45am. Get Shark into car. Drive to local downbeat town, where the lads hang about at midday drinking lager, the ladeez are very wide indeed, and the houses are boarded up, run down and have a washing machine in the front garden. But here the charity shops are well stocked and cheap. Here a canny buyer can pick up an Episode silk dress for 99p. Today we are sourcing seven days worth of jeans and tee-shirts for Shark to cover in mud, grass, river, and cow poo. She will be enjoying herself from tomorrow on an adventure holiday in Wales, booked yesterday.

1.45pm. Shopping success! Arrive home exhausted, penniless and starving. I am also rather whiffy thanks to running out of Dove deodorant. Swap over children. Get Tiger in the car and drive to the local stables to negotiate putting Tiger there for August holiday horse experience.

3.35pm. Horse success! Tiger is skillfully negotiated in at the stables for one week, learning how to muck out and do things with hay. Arrive home exhausted, financially destroyed, smelling of manure, starving, and depressed after finding out that the partner of Tee, who owns the stables, died last week in a road traffic accident. At home, Tiger has a fit because this morning at the charity shop I picked up a pair of Junior Joules wellington boots (RRP £29; RSPCA £2) and they are blue. Blue! Not PINK! How can she wear blue wellington boots to the stables! This is impossible. She is beside herself with fury because now look what this hopeless mother has done! She has bankrupted herself at the riding stables, promised Squirrel a watersports week, got Shark sorted for an adventure holiday, and chosen the WRONG BLOODY COLOUR OF WELLINGTONS.

4.00pm. Bang head against wall in despair. Swap over children. Get Squirrel in car to drive to ballet even though it is a five-minute walk. We do not have time to walk after arguing with Tiger.

4.03 pm. All the ballet mums hate me. While they are clucking and fussing about the doorway going into the ballet studio, they throw looks of disdain at me down their pointy pink noses. It is the last lesson of term and parents have to watch and I have clearly forgot. I turn up smelly, ruined, late, and with dribble from a hastily-eaten tomato sandwich running down my front. While I am gripping my hands to my head, Squirrel says we always forget about watching her at ballet. I say this is because we live a flipping hectic life and it's not as though I am lying on the sofa injecting heroin into my face.

The worst ballet mum of all turns her head away from me; her contemptuous glance is probably reserved for me and the drunk tramp stinking of wee in the doorway at Lidl. And that disdainful glance has said everything. In the eyes of the ballet mums, I am failed. I can almost hear her think, That wretched hippy educating woman! Tsk. She obviously doesn't care one jot about that child. She can't even be bothered to turn up and watch the end of term lesson! And she has probably spent her day lying on the sofa injecting heroin into her face AGAIN.

Ballet exam

It is the day of the ballet exam. Squirrel's exam is at 10.00, so we are all told to be there for 9.00. This is inexplicable to me, because all she needs to do is have her hair up in a bun and put on a pink skirt.

But apparently it is all much more complicated than Grit thinks. The foul Miss Tuzy is there, ordering everyone about, and making sure the whole process is the ballet equivalent of 'medicalised'. Now me and Miss Tuzy have quite a history of mutual loathing. It is difficult to know when it started. Perhaps Miss Tuzy thinks I am a cold insensitive cow, while I think she is a prissy affected airhead.

For example, I am not allowed to adjust Squirrel's pink skirt. No. That's the specialist job of Miss W, who also attends to Squirrel's socks and shoes. Being only the relative of a ballet exam candidate, I can no longer deal with socks and shoes, despite having put on socks and shoes some 5,000 times in my short child career.

And then there's the hair. Grit cannot possibly be trusted with that. The loathsome Miss Tuzy calls out to Squirrel 'Have you brought your hairclips? And your hairbrush? And your band? And your net? And your hairspray?' Squirrel looks horrified at this list. Meanwhile, Grit would like to shout some very naughty unballet words at Miss Tuzy, preferably along with a couple of sticks sharpened into spears.

Of course Squirrel is not going to answer, and of course Grit hasn't got that load of crap, so everyone just stands there for a few moments in some sort of silent face off. Miss Tuzy makes it worse by pointedly smiling a frozen wasteland of a smile at the cringing Squirrel while Grit hunts through a handbag in search of a comb.

Well that's all there is. That and the value hairclips bought at 11pm last night at the 24 hour shop down the road. For a start we never buy hairspray and I'm not effing well going to start now so prissy meringue head Miss T can squirt it about, polluting the environment for a ten minute show. Second, we couldn't find a net. Quite frankly, because I couldn't be arsed to look. Third, I have brought the wrong hairclips. Miss Tuzy shouts this out when Squirrel takes them over, then adds for public benefit 'Never mind, you can use some of mine'.

At this show of munificence, Grit would like to go over, wrestle Miss Tuzy to the ground and give her a jolly good thumping. I have to do that, and the Chinese burn and headlock, all in my imaginings. By then, Squirrel's head is getting extra ballet bun torture, probably for being the inadequate daughter of the menacing Grit in the corner.

Next, Squirrel gets her shoes re-checked, and her ribbon attached. So my little Squirrel is, by degrees, wrestled off me and turned into a ballet exam candidate, complete with tight bun, identifying ribbon and Miss Tuzy clipboard. And at five to ten, off she goes, up the steps, ready to get her left and right mixed up and to gallop right through the tinkle-tinkle bit. And I sit downstairs, fixing an upturned drawing pin on Miss Tuzy's hairdressing chair with Blu-tack.

Only in my imagination, of course.

Did I say finished?

The news of Grit's lack of exam fever has evidently got round. Twig comes over to me at picking up time at today's rehearsal and reminds me with a serious expression that everyone likes the children to have a sense of occasion about the exam so that it makes a point of the rehearsals and the lessons.

I'd like to say well-considered, thoughtful things about how I think the process is as important as the end product and the fact that it won't matter to me whether Squirrel performs well or not in the exam, so long as she's enjoyed doing what she's done. But I don't. I don't get much chance. Twig glances at Squirrel and whispers it doesn't matter if there's a fail really, so long as Squirrel's enjoyed doing what she's done. I don't know whether to say thank you or not.

OK, I'm finished on this one

Well I've pissed off the ballet mums big time.

Today it's rehearsal with the piano. In Squirrel's case, it's the rehearsal with that annoying piano music crashing on in the background which stops her from concentrating hard on what she's learned to do, and marching through her dance sequences at a furious pace. Dutifully, like a good ballet mummy, I've reminded her a zillion times that Twig keeps saying part of her mark comes from her interpretation of the music, and that actually when the piano does the tinkle tinkle tinkle bit that's telling you it's time to point your foot out and tap three times. But by the time we get to the the tinkle tinkle tinkle bit, Squirrel's already done that and is off galloping about as if it is the crash bang wallop bit.

We are doomed, so I have reminded myself it is not a scholarship exam for the Royal Academy, it is a primary class for seven-year olds and Squirrel enjoys it, so that's that. In fact I have reminded myself so much about this, that by the time I get to the rehearsal today I look like a woman who doesn't care whether we even turn up.

This is the last rehearsal we get to watch before the exam on Wednesday. As I sit there watching my little girl all dressed in pink with a face of concentration, trying to remember which is right and which is left, I'm sort of proud of her in a strange, motherly way. Squirrel wanted to do this exam to find out what exams were like. That was her decision, and she's stuck to it. She's actually managed to get herself out of bed every Saturday morning and off to the exam classes with never a word of complaint, reluctance or hesitation, unlike Grit. And even though her timing is crap and she's got her left and right the wrong way round again, well, it all doesn't matter, and in my eyes she's done the course, stayed with it, and passed. So I have a little glow and feel glad and feel that really it's all over. The exam bit on Wednesday feels unnecessary.

When we come down the steps from watching in the big hall, it's clear the other ballet mums haven't got to Grit's relaxed point of thinking yet. They are hand wringing over the steps and the sautes and the demi-bits and fretting about this and that. And then Mrs Pushy Ballet Mum says 'Are you worried?'

Grit shrugs her shoulders, and says, 'Well, it's not a scholarship exam for the Royal Academy, it's a primary suburban class for seven-year olds'.

Oh dear.

Ballet

Now I'm not going to go on and on about this, even though it is going to completely dominate my life for the next few days. I shall just have to turn up and try to smile. Inside I will be a seething mass of resentment at having to sit next to Mrs Pushy Ballet Mum who is fretting all the time about Lucinda's shoes, hair, demi-plies (whatever they are), and whether her socks should be pulled up or starched. And if Squirrel does not get her timing right on Hand and Arm Extension I will break her fingers.

Saturday morning lessons

It's 8.40 and Grit, Squirrel and Tiger are sitting in the car outside Twig's ballet studio. Grit is delighted. Grit is Smug Mother. Grit is early. We are not now the family who is late. We are the family who is early.

In reality, being early is the only reason to be smug. I am not smug that Squirrel is taking ballet lessons for her exam. No. For that I am broke. Squirrel's extra lessons for her ballet exam start costing me from today. First the exam entrance fee. Then the lesson fee. Then the hire of hall, pianist, and examiner. And the cost of new ballet socks because apparently the ones with threads hanging out will not do.

I have worked out that ballet exams for 7-year olds are the means of scamming parents up and down the country of just another hundred quid so their little Squirrels can point their toes at a stranger who says well done and passes over a certificate. So far Grit and all the little junior grits have resisted the certification process.

We've resisted it in swimming (twelve quid when Tiger, Shark and Squirrel swim to the end of the pool); we've resisted it in gym (fifteen quid if they manage to stand on a bar without falling off); we've resisted it in trampoline (a tenner to say everyone can jump up and down); and we've resisted it in violin (OK then, we are not even on the list here: after three years Tiger is as inept as week one).

However this time Squirrel is determined to get that certificate. She's even getting out a bed early, at 8 in the morning - and for a Squirrel who didn't manage it down the stairs yesterday before 10.30 for breakfast, 8 in the morning is pretty good going. Which is how she's in the car outside the ballet studio at 8.44, when Twig should be here, starting the first exam lesson.

Well, at 8.45 Grit is rattling the doors of the dance studio. Clearly there's no-one here. Strange. No-one else seems to have been as punctual as we have, either. None of the ballet mums are here, which is highly unusual, because they are normally parking the 4x4s now and leaping out, dragging behind them Snowdrop, kitted out in an ironed ballet uniform and bun, just looking like proper ballerinas should look. With the absence of the ballet mums I'm getting a bit suspicious, so telephone Dig who checks that I have the right date and the right time and, most importantly, the right year. I ask him to make double sure it says 2007 on the exam letter and not 2008, just in case.

While Dig's checking the day, month, time and year, at least I can be satisfied that having Squirrel at ballet means there is extra pressure to get Tiger out of her bed and sat in the car ready to go to her violin lesson, which starts at 9.00.

Tiger on the violin is a sound no-one wants to hear. I have almost cried in pain. Nevertheless, Tiger has stuck at the lessons, even though she has given up the practice. On the violin front, Tiger is drinking in the last chance saloon, and she knows it, and is confessing that she's only keeping up the pretence of learning how to play the violin so she can see Miss Honey, who is her violin teacher. We've called her Miss Honey because she is so sweet and nice and patient in listening to Tiger play the violin, and she never shouts 'I can't bear it anymore!' like mummy Grit.

At 8.55 we have to conclude everyone else is late. Either that or it is an elaborate hoax to play a trick on Grit, or everyone else knows something we don't and they're not coming at all. Anyway, it's time to get Tiger to violin, so with a sulking ballerina in the car, we head off to the next lesson.

By now, we are late. Not at late as Miss Honey. Miss Honey doesn't get to the lesson until 9.20. I suspect that, because she is so sweet and nice, she doesn't like to confess out loud that she's given up on us because for the last two weeks Tiger hasn't turned up at all, and in fact mummy Grit has sent in a letter which effectively says 'I give up'.

Well we haven't given up today. Tiger makes everyone's ears hurt by torturing her horsehair for five minutes and then I take the sulky ballerina home to puzzle over the letter again.

But let's look on the bright side. By the time we get home at 9.45, Shark's just rolling out of bed for breakfast.

Tennis starts at 10.

The final performance

Day 2 of the ballet torture and Squirrel is on stage for the matinee and evening performances.

The day starts with The Hat. I have a ticket for The Hat but if she doesn't contact me or turn up, then it'll be a spare seat. And I don't want one of those. Neither does Dig, who's taken to hiding in his office, just in case one becomes available. Throughout the morning I make complex email and phone arrangements so that The Hat's ticket is available to her, right through the entire matinee performance, now scheduled to run from 2pm to 5pm.

Next, I do the fine timetabling. Squirrel's on about 3.10pm. I'm precision-timing this so I don't have to wait around a second longer than necessary. I've even included a two minute delay at the roundabout roadworks and considered my accelerator speed in a battered Citroen Berlingo, which shows just how fine the timings are.

Then Squirrel announces she wants to stay for the finale. I refused to let her last night, so she missed her slot. And I have no intention of staying tonight, either. The show will just have to go on without her. However, it's difficult to deny her a final waft about on the stage with Aunty Dee, Shark, Tiger, and, hopefully, The Hat in the audience, so I relent and adjust my timetables accordingly.

The next torture is getting Aunty Dee to the theatre for 2pm, show start. She's going to follow me with Tiger and Shark in her car, and I will lead the way. It's a five minute drive, seven with the roadworks, and I leave 25 minutes for it.

Aunty Dee drives slowly. Very slowly. So slowly in fact that I am crawling down Moon Lane at 20 miles an hour and she still cannot keep up with me. She leaves a gap that's so huge other drivers cannot bear it either. They overtake or pull out from their parking spaces so that by the time I reach the bottom of the lane she's five cars behind and I can see the tail back stretching into the distance behind her. Then, for fear of losing her, I'm constantly pulling into bus lanes and laybys with all four hazard lights going full pelt. After ten minutes I reckon I may as well leave the hazards on until we inch our way into the theatre car park because they are probably a true reflection of our driving status at 25 miles per hour on the 60 mph dual carriageway.

By the time we get there, I'm sure I'm suffering chest pains. But The Hat turns up, which helps, just as the show's starting. Everyone scampers off to sit through the misery of the thing and I can go home and recover for an hour before I dash Squirrel down for her bit.

And so the day passes. By the evening performance I can see the end in sight and start to relax. I've brought some drawings that Tiger, Shark and Squirrel have done and I go round with blu-tack in the art area of the community centre where there's an exhibition, and I stick them up. I reckon they're as good as what's up there and I feel the need for a bit of subversion after what I've suffered today.

And then, I can't help this, really, and I can't apologise for it either. When me and the other Cloud mothers assemble to walk the Clouds back through the yard area that they have to cross to get to their makeshift dressing room, there's a sigh of relief all round. The Clouds start running around in delight. Then one of the Clouds misjudges her skip and crashes headlong into a dustbin. I'm not the only one who laughs. Her mother's guffawing, and I think I'm not the only one then, for whom surburban kiddy ballet is misery, and a relief when it's over.

Be prepared

It is the first day of Squirrel's ballet performances, and the show starts at 7pm. We have been here since 6pm, thanks to Miss Tuzy telling me yesterday that Clouds are needed for a 'technical run through' at 6.15.

The Clouds are the first act in the second half. Now, I'm just putting together the information I'm gleaning. I've found a running order, and there are 20 dance sequences in the first half. If each sequence lasts 5 minutes then we're looking at 100 minutes. Given a late start and slow changeovers on the first night, say nearly 2 hours. Which makes the 15 minute interval start around 9pm. I reckon Squirrel won't be on stage until 9pm at the best, and 9.15 more probably.

Which means a three hour wait from when we arrived, and I am in a strop. All the Clouds and all the Cloud mothers have been ushered by Miss Tuzy and her clipboard into an airless room doubling up as a dressing room and told to wait. By 6.30 there has been not a word about a call to the stage for a 'technical run through'. By 6.45 I can safely tell Squirrel it's not happening. By 7pm I am not in the best of moods. It's just as well Miss Tuzy and her clipboard seem to have disappeared.

But for this, I am prepared.

Experience has taught me a few things and I have a stack of books about pirates and fairies and a bottle of white wine in a picnic hamper. The bottle of wine I have decanted into an anonymous plastic bottle where I can take discreet swigs of it and pretend it is home made lemonade. The books are all adventures stories and I start reading them to Squirrel in a loud and theatrical voice, sometimes accompanied by actions.

Now I'm not saying the wine took over at this point. Sometime in the last 20 years I did teach English and Drama. And after managing screaming triplets trashing a shopping centre I have no inhibitions and no dignity either. But I am starting off this evening in a bit of a strop about having to wait for three hours while Squirrel is blown across the stage, and it has to come out somewhere.

The actions become exaggerated and the pirate voice becomes booming. When I get to the bit where Pirate Joe is showing off his steely claw, which he got when the Mad Cap'n Crake slammed the lid of the treasure chest down on his hand and sliced it right through, I am thoroughly enjoying myself. In fact I am unashamedly showing off with a complete stage performance. I am surrounded by Clouds and a few Fairies who have wandered in from another room and whose mothers are not far sighted enough to stack the picnic hamper.

When the story's over I get a bit of applause and a Cloud attaches herself to my leg and asks for another tale about Pirate Joe, and this time, she says, can I show her the claw. I say I'll think about where I might have put it.

When Miss Tuzy appears in the doorway at 9pm to collect the Clouds and to suggest that for tomorrow evening's performance Clouds need not turn up before 8.15, she does not get the tongue-lashing she deserves. But I do give Miss Tuzy a brief unsmiling stare as Squirrel shouts out excitedly 'Mummy keeps a cut-off hand in her picnic hamper!' Miss Tuzy looks like she doesn't quite know what to say, and I think, Well done, Squirrel.

Rehearsal 2

Back to the ballet class at 4pm for another hour of torture. This time the loathsome Miss Tuzy shoves a letter in my hand demanding a contribution of £26 for a cloud costume which, so says the letter, need not be returned because it is fitted exactly to Squirrel's size.

Fitted, my backside. They do not want it back because they jolly well know that by the end of performance three the cloud costume will be covered in make up and Squirrel dribble, along with splatters of apple juice and glued on bits of carrot cake because we've all had to hang about for so long waiting for rehearsals and performances that we've missed tea and, driven by starvation, had to eat junk food in the dressing room. By Saturday night's performance Miss Tuzy may have had to take out a restraining order on me to prevent me bringing along a plate of spaghetti and tomato sauce and thrusting it into Squirrel's hands in an act of open defiance.

There is so much wrong with all of this kiddy ballet malarky that I could go on and on about it, despite having my mouth full of foam at that. So I will from this point attempt to be restrained and only comment on Squirrel's ballet where necessary or driven there by madness.

Rehearsal 1

I need some lessons in patience right now. Because after one hour and ten minutes I'll smash the bloody room up.

I'm standing here, one hour and ten minutes past 9.30 on a Sunday morning, in a sweaty room with flourescent strip lights burning and no windows. This is the dance studio, and right now some 200 ballet school students aged from toddlers to teenagers are pushing their way through it, crying in it, or rolling about on the floor of it, dressed in lurid greens and pinks, sparkly whites, metallic golds and silvers or blue and puce.

I should have brought ear plugs. That's the lesson. After not believing anything I'm told, of course. Like Squirrel being needed for a rehearsal at 9.30 on a Sunday morning. The chaotic noise of all these kids in costume being shouted at not to roll all over the floor has flooded deep into my brain. And when the pressure from that noise is subdued, momentarily overwhelmed by the pig-shrill squealing from Miss Tuzy to get off the floor if you've got your wings on, in flows the twittletwit of the ballet mums as they wittle on about buns and wings and the difficulty of getting sew-on sparkles.

By one hour and forty minutes past 9.30 I'm banging my head on the wall behind me where I've slumped to the floor, telling Squirrel that I have the same information as she does about the cloud rehearsal, so shut up because I am going insane thanks to the fourteen teenage girls next to me dressed as pieces of sky debating the dance styles of Robbie Williams.

That information, I point out to Squirrel again, is pinned on the door to the airless, sweaty room. There's a list of names - mountain fairies, sky, fish, crocodiles, village girls, trees and the rest - all with hours and minutes listed next to them. Clearly, the hours and minutes don't work. If they did, we'd be home right now and I'd be at the brandy. Clouds are listed at 9.30 after crocodiles. Crocodiles are still here, waiting to go upstairs to rehearse, but there's a problem with the feet, apparently, and some crocodiles haven't turned up. I cannot imagine why their parents haven't got them here promptly at 8.30 on a Sunday morning.

So this is another lesson. Never ever leave the house without books, crayons, craft paper and scissors, plus flasks of tea and fully stocked picnic hamper. Especially if you have been given guarantees that Clouds will be over in 30 minutes because they can't possibly fall behind schedule so early in the morning.

We have a week of this ahead. And if this goes on, the devil will get in me, and then there'll be trouble. I know it, because there was trouble two years ago. I cornered Miss Tuzy then and made her defend why she'd helped create a four-hour theatre performance with a five minute hole in it when the audience were told it wasn't the end, just sit down because we need to do some scene changes. The word incompetent is only the start of the utterance forming in my mind.

What date is it?

I am a bad, bad mummy. Today, I did not get Squirrel to her rehearsal for her dance performance. Twig is very upset. Squirrel is a cloud and has to be blown across the stage next week, and if she is not here to be blown about, says Twig, then she cannot learn to twirl in the right place.

I could, in my defence, say that I assumed I would not be able to find the rehearsal schedule on my desk, because I can never find anything there, so couldn't be bothered to look for it and check the dates. This would not go down well, so I tell another truth.

I am very apologetic. I say I am sorry we missed Squirrel's rehearsal. Actually we went to the woods today because I thought that there was a fairy walk organised by the local parks department. When we arrived there was only a man who hastened away from me when I asked him if he knew anything about the fairies. When we got home I discovered that I had read the calendar wrong and the fairy walk is on the 24th of July and not the 24th of June. And that's when I discovered we had missed the rehearsal to blow Squirrel about the stage.

You see, I have an inability to handle days of the weeks, months of the years, and time, in general.

Monday is ballet day

Well, Ermintrude's first day couldn't have gone too badly, because she's still here this morning. I half expected her to slide away in the middle of the night. But I'm starting to discover why we've been chosen by Ermintrude. Strangely, it was not because we could test her 'I like children' skills by throwing Shark, Squirrel and Tiger at her. It is because she has a boyfriend in London with a posh flat, good looks and a French accent. If I were her, I'd keep an eye on things as well. So she plans to go back to London at weekends, she says, if that's alright by us.

I'm beginning to warm to Ermintrude. She tells me she is a biochemistry student and wants to improve her English so she can get a job, come to London and keep taps on Francois. I say it is tabs, Ermintrude, tabs. I say I think the Grit family is perfect for tip-top English speaking. Ignore Tiger when she shouts 'Nincompoop baby' and don't look in the fridge.

Anyway, while Ermintrude busies herself trying to work out what on earth Tiger is chanting, I get Squirrel ready for her ballet. Squirrel's ballet school has three upcoming performances at a local theatre. Now, I have to say that what's about to hit us here probably deserves a blog of its own. I could call it 'Torture, misery, despair. Suburban ballet schools.' It is such a rich seam of woe for Grit that I hardly know where to start.

So I shall start with Squirrel. Squirrel loves her ballet. She probably imagines herself as a proper ballerina, all pink and sugar plum fairy with gossamer wings that come out only for ballet and disappear while she's in the co-op, unless you look very hard and see a shower of silver sparkles all around her. This is OK by me. I know it is Squirrel's fantasy and this is fine. I have fantasies too. Mostly about Stephan actually, but I'm not aged 7. Anyway, the thing is, I like Squirrel to have her imaginings. But I do not feel obliged to want them for myself. This is what separates me from some of the other ballet mums.

There is a group of ballet mums at Squirrel's ballet who have daughters just like Squirrel, but those daughters have proper hair in buns. They have proper cleaned faces and their socks are washed. They have silver sparkles stitched into their cardigans and leotards that fit. These ballet mums go to great lengths to support the ballet fantasies and, I suspect, believe in them too.

And in this group, I stick out like a sore thumb. I have hair that looks like I've been electrocuted again, jeans that are torn in all directions, and stains down the front of Dig's old shirt, which I wear because I cannot find any clothes of my own. Unfortunately for Squirrel , she looks much the same. Her hair is combed once a fortnight because I cannot bear the screams. Her clothes are routinely unmended because I have more important things to do, and her leotard is three years old because I cannot face the misery of getting arguing triplets into John Lewis to buy a leotard for Squirrel at £12.99 when I am utterly broke anyway thanks to forking out a fortune for lessons in tennis, gym, trampoline, violin, and ballet.

It's unlikely, therefore, that in her ballet performance, Squirrel is going to be chosen as anything other than supporting cloud. Twig, the ballet teacher, has probably decided that since Squirrel is routinely late, does not wear her hair in a proper bun and has a leotard that does not fit, she is probably best placed in a role that will not be missed if she simply fails to show up at all.

Then comes my role in Squirrel's part as supporting cloud. Over the next three weeks I will be expected to cart her backwards and forwards at all hours for rehearsals. I will be expected to make sure she has her hair done up, be in the dressing rooms at the right time and then wait backstage. Each three hours will feel like torture. The ballet mums will be competing with each other, showing off fairy wings and hair nets, and I will be staring at the walls wondering if I am brain dead.

On the dress rehearsal, one of the ballet mums with salon managed hair and perfect make up will demand that I take my part as chaperone and get the kids from dressing room to stage at the right time. I will tell her no, because I am unreliable, and she will give me a cold hard stare, with her pen poised over my name on her tick list. Driven by the need to break the awkward silence I'll start to explain why I feel temperamentally unsuitable for the responsibility of leading kids dressed as clouds and rainbows. She'll look at me like I'm trying to be funny and then she'll snort and cross my name off her list with a great deal more pressure than required.

When that's over, Twig will make an excuse to talk to me so that she can remind me that I owe £16 for Squirrel's costume and please tell Miss Tuzy how many seats to reserve for me at £11 a head. 'Shall we put you down for 4 or 5?' she'll ask. If I drink heavily I will just be able to spit out a few words to Miss Tuzy whom I loathe. Not pulling any punches here, Grit thinks Miss Tuzy is an affected prissy airhead. Actually, if I did drink heavily, I might just tell her that.

All this is ahead of us. The very thought of having to engage in any of this is torture. But I bet you are thinking, why can't Ermintrude do all the running about with Squirrel and then Grit, you could just sit and watch the show. Exactly. If I do not do the running about with Squirrel, then I have to pay another £11 for myself to sit through three hours of amateur children's ballet in suburbia for Squirrel's fifteen seconds as supporting cloud. No. No matter how much I love Squirrel, I could not possibly do that. It is a step too far. That's a challenge I might throw down to Ermintrude, if she's still here. She can watch Squirrel, and I can hide in the ladies loo with a bottle of red wine.