My missing diary …. and the bottle of wine ….


I keep a pen and ink diary.  I abhor digital diaries.

The problem with pen and ink diaries is that if I misplace mine the entire facade that is my life comes crumbling down.

I have no recall of what my appointments are and basically it is all just freaking a panic.

Today I had a parent and teacher meeting and took my trusty diary along.  In the excitement of the meeting, I put my diary down so that I could make the necessary hand movements one needs to make in these sort of meetings.  You know how these things go.

Honestly it was one of the most “real” meetings I have ever been to.

I was the last parent of the day so already there is a level of relaxation for the teacher that this schpeel.

It really was an honest chat, not just about my child, but also about how “being a parent” it seems is as difficult for a teacher as it is for the normal riff-raff.  She shared all sorts of home truths with me, and I could have hugged her in appreciation.

All three of my children have been in her class, so we have a bit of a history, and it is sort of cool that she knows my kids.  I don’t have to blow smoke up her arse.  She knows my children and me and we have clocked up a few hours in talks over the last few years.

I really had a laugh and it was all good.

I left the meeting and I was mentally already somewhere else.  The result is that I did not check and I left my diary behind.

I only realised my error at about 17h45 and then frantically I was trying to go down the path and see where it might be.  I sent a message to the class teacher and she said she had found it and left it at reception so I could collect it tomorrow.

Good plan in theory — however I had no idea what my calendar looked like tomorrow and knew I had something on quite early, but no recall who it was with.

Here is the part that was really cool.

She offered to meet me at the school and give me my diary – as clearly I had no freaking clue what I had planned for tomorrow and this was filling me with huge amounts of anxiety.

The teacher met me at the school – then realised that she could not get the door open to the side where I was on.

She then walked around until she found a window that could open so she could pass the diary to me.  In turn I passed her a bottle of chilled wine.

I felt it was a good swap.

Yay for cool primary school teachers — who do not get offended when I use the word “fuck” in several of my descriptions and do not seem to mind finger puppets.