It is amazing the audacity of parents sometimes. I’ve already complained about the whole parents evening trauma – and believe me, it is a trauma. But this morning I had a classic. I’d just finished a teeth-pulling lesson on Chaucer with year eleven; serious agony for everyone involved, when Hilary from the office came tearing down the corridor. (I say tearing, it was more of an over-excited waddle.)

Apparently, Mrs Phillips (mother of the dreadful Kevin) was in reception, claiming that I was an hour late for a promised meeting with her. Hilary had tried, and failed, several times to explain to her that there was no way I’d have organised a meeting with her at 10:15am, because I was teaching then. But Mrs P would not be moved; she had proof she said. I had told Kevin I was seeing her then. Kevin, who wouldn’t even hear a fire alarm if it went off in his ear could not possibly have actually heard me say this; mainly because I didn’t say it, and even if I did say it, he wouldn’t have listened anyway.

So there she was, lying to me, and using her cretinous son as evidence. I stood firm, this was a matter of principle; and I told her in no uncertain terms that she was mistaken. I could see her start to doubt herself. I was winning. And, at the exact moment that her bottom lip started to wobble, the head walked past us and stopped: “Seems to have been a mix up, eh? Well, as Mrs Phillips is here now, you can see her anyway, can’t you Mr Baker?”

Words fail me.

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