A Grand Day Out

It's school trip time of the year. One of Two has had two in the last few weeks. Parental volunteers called for. I went both times, sucked in by the expectations of my daughter. I wonder if other parents are expected to attend by their kids, or whether the kids don't even think for a second that their mum or dad will pitch up and spend their day with twenty other rampant spawn. I think by going once, whenever the first time was, I set the standard, and now I meekly acquiesce and troop miserably along to the school bus.

A few weeks ago we went to the local Big Park in Warsaw, to look at squirrels and the old royal palace. Two days ago we went on a much more fundamental school trip, sitting for hours on a bus to go somewhere for a few minutes, before hopping on the bus again to sit for hours on the way back. There were two other mums on the trip. At the start of the day one of them said to me, "I thought you were the only other parent coming, so I brought my iPod..." They sat next to each other, and I made One of Two sit next to me, so that I didn't have to sit next to another adult I wouldn't be able to speak to, or a kid that I'd want to give a skelp round the ear.

We didn't come prepared for a long trip, and had to talk to each other and play I-spy and the like. Eventually I produced my phone and we played eight hundred games of bowling. Other kids were much better equipped. iPods, portable DVD players... one of them even had his own iPhone. Is that normal? A ten year old kid with an iPhone? Whatever happened to endless choruses of The back of the bus they cannae sing, and every third kid throwing up into a poly bag? Happy days...

The purpose of the trip was to see life in Poland in the old days, a neat contrast with the plethora of new technology evident on the way down. Making rope, bread, butter, washing clothes, old windmills that kind of thing. The collective seemed interested and milled around in the sun sending text messages about how 200-years-ago they were being. They trooped off to lunch, to eat rolls which had been freshly baked in the 18th century. I sat outside, far away from the madding crowd. The chap who was showing the kids around the low-tech facility, wandered over for a chat. He asked me if I was the guard. I said I was a parent. You look very tired, he said. He was going all out to strike up a warm friendship. He offered me a sandwich. I said yes, but was dubious. We were in the heart of ethnic Poland, and the chances of me liking the cheese, sausage or ham that was likely to be in the sandwich were virtually nil. Ten minutes later the bread appeared, fortunately not delivered by my new friend, which meant I didn't have to eat it. It was covered in smalec. Smalec is a classic peasant food, lard, filled with bits of bacon and any other bits of the pig and maybe a bit of onion. But basically it's lard. There was a lot of lard. A giant, open-faced, square-cut lard sandwich.

I went and beat up one of the rich kids with an expensive phone and raided his lunchbox.

The trip home was about five minutes shorter than the trip out there, possibly because one of the kids had brought along their own satnav and told the driver a quicker route to take. We made it back safely which, on Polish roads, is no small achievement. About half an hour at the low-tech detention facility, six hours on the bus. A grand day out.

As the kids played on the grass after school, I wandered down to the changing rooms to collect all their things that they'd forgotten. i.e. everything. I became aware that there was a mum from the PTA walking behind me carrying a large box. She didn't seem to be having too much trouble, so I didn't rush to help her, but eventually, since we were approaching a couple of doors, I thought I'd better make an offer of some sort of assistance. She handed me a couple of keys, and I led her through to the room at the back, in the very bowels of the school, where the PTA keep their stuff. Suddenly she said, 'I have the leaving presents for the headmaster and the head of Key Stage 2, would you like to see them?'

Well, no, not really....

'Sure!' I said, hoping I hadn't overdone the faked enthusiasm. She put the box down on a table and started slowly unwrapping cups and saucers. There I was, thinking that the worst part of the day was over, and suddenly I was in the bowels of the school, alone with a mum from the PTA, looking at crockery. And if I was not mistaken, she was after my opinion.

I stared gobsmacked, as cup after cup, saucer after painfully unwrapped saucer was placed on the table. I thought, what on earth am I going to say? I'm from the west of Scotland. I don't have an eye for crockery. I couldn't care less about crockery. I can tell when it needs washed, and I can tell if there's something in it that I can drink or eat, but as for patterns and styles and designs... Eventually I found the words, several cups in. 'They're lovely,' I said. The PTA mum smiled. 'Oh, I'm really pleased you like them, because we weren't sure what people would think.' It appeared I was the voice of the parents.

I could imagine her later, when other bitchy mums were scowling at the cups and being brutally and frankly honest, saying, 'Well that miserable Scottish bloke liked them.'

She continued to unpack cups and saucers. I wondered if she was doing it all for my benefit, or whether she was unpacking them anyway. So I stood there in silence with the mum from the PTA in the bowels of the school wondering whether or not I could leave.

That was two days ago. And I'm still there. And she's still unpacking cups and saucers.