It’s very strange to feel so removed from my children’s school.
In our last life, I used to be a governor, a PTA committee member, and a once-a-week-for-an-hour-of-mayhem parent helper.
Here, I’ve met their teachers twice, have exchanged barely a sentence with them, and keep forgetting one of their names.
I can only remember it when I think of Peter Rabbit.
The elusive name is Mcgregor.
But what I do know is that Ben rates his teacher. In fact he rates him so highly, that we’ve moved lights out forward an hour.
This is because Top Teacher told his class that they should all be asleep by 8pm if they want to be in a fit state for learning the next day.
How long have I been banging on about bedtimes being important?
Only nine years.
OK, so for the first few years my attempt at communication may have been through controlled crying rather than actual conversation, but I was trying to hammer the same point into reluctant little brains.
It worked to a limited degree on a good day.
Until the advent of Top Teacher, Hannah would cede control between 7.15 and 7.30, while Ben would pursue reading, manipulating plastic soldiers and listening at doors until 9pm.
Not any more.
These days I’m downstairs with the evening stretching ahead of me by 8.05pm.
I’d forgotten what’s on telly that early.
Not a lot, I’ve re-discovered.
Especially now we’re living in The Land that Digital TV Forgot.
But at least it means that the moment when they reach the age of going to bed later than us, when they’re awake and up and downstairs all evening may have been put back by a year or so.
So thanks very much Mr… what was your name? Something to do with Jemima Puddleduck wasn’t it?