School runnings
Now I’ve been in this game for over two and a half years, yet one sight that never fails to bemuse is when you do the school run. There are a number of Primary (Junior High - ish) schools which we have to patrol, as the parents insist on parking where they shouldn’t.
Before anyone has a go, may I say this; I have no objection to people picking up and dropping off their children in close proximity to the school gates. So long as that is all it is. You have every right to be protective. After all they are your kids and your life’s work. Life’s work? Think not? My, have you got a shock coming. They are your soul and immortality. This much I understand.
What I do have a problem with is people who jeopardise their own and other peoples children’s safety by parking thoughtlessly. Things like half blocking the street so the buses and other drivers can’t get through; parking on the apex of blind corners; blocking a drivers critical line of sight at junctions; and where double and active single yellow lines cover all these hazards. All to save a few metres walking. Now there’s a key word, walking. People don’t do enough of it. Mind you, they do seem to do a hell of a lot of running, at least while I’m about.
This brings me on to attire. Girls, some of you are going to have to sort out your underwear, especially for your top half. A sports brassiere would be favourite. I’ve lost count of the times a female parent has come running up the street screaming; “Don’t book me!” while her top half has been performing bewildering and acrobatic peregrinations of her wobbly bits. On one occasion last summer term I was forced to avert my eyes in case I cracked up when a young lady wearing an overly low cut top literally ‘popped out’ on one side.
She looked at me curiously when I, as the gentleman I was brought up to be, put a hand over my eyes and went “Ahem!”
She looked down, and I heard her say “Oh shit.” In a very small voice.
“Mummy, mummy, the car, the car, we’ll get a ticket!” Shouted excitable offspring.
“Wait a moment dear, Mummy’s busy.” There was a brief rustling of clothing being rearranged and children jumped into her car. “Am I being booked?” She appeared in front of me, personage once more decently arranged, batting eyelids at my feigned embarrassment.
“Not on this occasion madam.” I said, an apologetic wince on my face.
“Thank you.” Was that a girlish giggle? Well, it probably gave her something to gossip to her friends about.
Before anyone has a go, may I say this; I have no objection to people picking up and dropping off their children in close proximity to the school gates. So long as that is all it is. You have every right to be protective. After all they are your kids and your life’s work. Life’s work? Think not? My, have you got a shock coming. They are your soul and immortality. This much I understand.
What I do have a problem with is people who jeopardise their own and other peoples children’s safety by parking thoughtlessly. Things like half blocking the street so the buses and other drivers can’t get through; parking on the apex of blind corners; blocking a drivers critical line of sight at junctions; and where double and active single yellow lines cover all these hazards. All to save a few metres walking. Now there’s a key word, walking. People don’t do enough of it. Mind you, they do seem to do a hell of a lot of running, at least while I’m about.
This brings me on to attire. Girls, some of you are going to have to sort out your underwear, especially for your top half. A sports brassiere would be favourite. I’ve lost count of the times a female parent has come running up the street screaming; “Don’t book me!” while her top half has been performing bewildering and acrobatic peregrinations of her wobbly bits. On one occasion last summer term I was forced to avert my eyes in case I cracked up when a young lady wearing an overly low cut top literally ‘popped out’ on one side.
She looked at me curiously when I, as the gentleman I was brought up to be, put a hand over my eyes and went “Ahem!”
She looked down, and I heard her say “Oh shit.” In a very small voice.
“Mummy, mummy, the car, the car, we’ll get a ticket!” Shouted excitable offspring.
“Wait a moment dear, Mummy’s busy.” There was a brief rustling of clothing being rearranged and children jumped into her car. “Am I being booked?” She appeared in front of me, personage once more decently arranged, batting eyelids at my feigned embarrassment.
“Not on this occasion madam.” I said, an apologetic wince on my face.
“Thank you.” Was that a girlish giggle? Well, it probably gave her something to gossip to her friends about.
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