need,’ she adds dramatically.
‘Only all day?’ I reply with a laugh. ‘Then you’re a stronger woman than I am, Isadora Jackson. I’ve been waiting all week.’
My blonde curls bounce wildly. People say they look like a halo, but although I’m a good girl, I’m certainly no angel.
‘Seriously,’ I continue, ‘the only thing that’s got me through the madness that is reception class during the first week in September is the thought of wine o’ clock. We’ve had so many children crying when their parents leave, the noise in that classroom is phenomenal. Phenomenal! Thank your lucky stars that the kids you teach are past that.’
Issy gulps her wine, raising her eyebrows in a challenge of disagreement. I know that look. It’s the one that says whenever anyone plays the ‘I work in the most difficult age group’ card, Issy’s going to take that card and trump it.
‘Teaching Year 6 isn’t a bundle of laughs, you know. All those raging hormones and that snarky pre-teen attitude…’ She visibly shudders. ‘Can you believe I had Ellie Watts in tears this lunchtime because Noah Cornall dumped her? They’re only ten! And the bitching and backbiting that goes on – I’ve not seen anything like it. It’s the Big Brother house, but worse. How many weeks to go until half term?’
‘Another seven.’ I pull a face, unable to believe I’m already counting down to the holidays. The six-week summer break had worked its usual miracle of helping me forget how exhausting it is working in a primary school and although I’d not exactly been jumping out of bed with delight when the alarm went off at 6.15 on Monday morning, I’d felt a quiet positivity about the year ahead. There’s something special about getting to know a new set of kids, and there had even been rumours of new furniture for the reception classroom. Heaven knows, the tables need replacing. Years of felt-tip pens being carelessly smudged over their surface meant their glory days were well in the past. But just one week in – four days, actually, if you discount the staff training day – and I’m already totally drained of energy, as I always am during term time. People at work say I’m bubbly and bouncy and full of beans, but that’s because I raise my game. How anyone who works with children finds the time for a social life, I’ll never know. When Friday finally rolls around, all I want to do is climb into my onesie and sleep for a week.
‘My class need to be the small fishes again,’ Issy says with a sage nod. ‘It’s always the same with the oldest in the school. They get ahead of themselves. Too big for their ‘let’s-get-one-size-larger-so-you-can-grow-into-them Doc Martens.’ Issy looks so serious, which naturally makes me want to giggle. ‘They’ll be the ones in tears when they start at secondary school next year, just like your little angels in reception have been this time. It’ll knock them down a peg or two.’
‘It’ll get easier, it always does.’
I know Issy thinks I’m being over-optimistic, but I can’t help it. What can I say? I’m one of those people who naturally looks on the bright side of life, except when it comes to Justin. But that’s no surprise, given that he’d gone from ‘we can make long distance work’ in December to ‘perhaps we should take a break – not split up, but accept long distance doesn’t work for us’ in January. I think I’ve every right to feel bitter. I’m living in this weird love-life limbo.
‘You’ll be fine when they get to trust you,’ I assure her. ‘You said exactly the same about your last lot. Remember Billy Rush? You were convinced he’d turn you grey, and look, your hair’s exactly the same murky shade it’s always been,’ I say with nothing but innocence.
‘Hey, watch it you! My hair’s not murky. It’s salted caramel,’ Issy replies, defensively stroking the thick, straight locks that tumble down past her shoulders. How she manages to look glamorous, even in her mint-green fleecy Primark pyjamas, I’ll never know. She’s one of those naturally well-groomed people whose skin always looks fresh and eyes bright, even when she’s tired or has a stinking hangover. It’s infuriating.
‘Yeah, right. Whatever you say. ‘Salted caramel.’ Is that what they call it at the hairdressers?’
I poke my tongue out at her, but she knows it’s all in jest. That’s the great thing about our friendship. We tease each other mercilessly, but we can switch to drying each other’s tears in a matter of seconds if needs be. And Issy, bless her, has done her fair share of being the shoulder to cry on this year, so it’s important to remember to laugh about things as much as possible.
‘They refer to it by number. But it’s the darkest blonde they do,’ Issy replies haughtily, running her hand over her locks once more. ‘You’d see for yourself if we were in the right light. This house has terrible natural light, and you know it. It’s the price we pay for living on the shady side of the street.’
She’s right about that. Even in the height of summer there’s a distinct chill in the lounge of the mid-terraced red-brick house we share. I swear we must’ve been the only people pulling down furry throws from the back of the sofa to keep warm during the one red-hot week that had passed as the British summer. Even long sunny days had done nothing to rid our lounge of its chilly gloom. And now, on an early-September evening, where it’s still light outside, both of us are in pyjamas, dressing gowns and super-thick socks, a necessity if we’re going to meet our annual challenge of making it to the half-term break without caving and putting the heating on.
‘So, are you going to pour me a glass or that Merlot or what? I’m dying of thirst over here.’
‘You’re not exactly encouraging me to share when you’re slagging off my hair and saying my job’s easy. Maybe I’ll keep the whole bottle to myself instead.’
There’s a cheeky glint in Issy’s eyes as she pulls the bottle to her mouth as though to swig from it. I know she’s only messing around, but it’s still enough to make me worry. It’s Friday night. I need that wine.
‘I never said it was easy,’ I correct quickly. ‘Just that you’ve not got the screamers and the over-anxious parents and the snotty noses and the pooey pants to deal with.’ When the negative aspects of the job were all strung out like that, working as a teaching assistant in a reception class sounded bad. Like a cacophony of noise and hassle and bodily fluids.
Issy shoots me a look. ‘You knew what you were getting into, you’ve got a degree in child development. It’s not exactly a state secret that four-year-olds have accidents and don’t know how to use a Kleenex.’
‘I know, I know.’
And I can’t imagine doing anything else. My oldest friend Connie’s stuck in a hell-hole of an office all day and she hates every miserable minute of it. She’s crying out to do something more worthwhile than filing and answering phones. School might be exhausting, but there are plenty of rewards too – some of the things the kids come out with are hilarious and it’s great watching them grow and progress day by day.
‘I do love the kids,’ I add, ‘especially the little ones. They’re continually evolving and that moment when they grasp how to do something new – there’s nothing like it. The pride in their faces…’
I place my hand over my heart, recalling the happiness on one child’s face today as he counted to ten by rote. It had been a touching moment, and one that reminded me how much I love my job.
‘You’re going to set me off crying at this rate.’
Issy rolls her eyes, but the grin that accompanies it is the real giveaway – it shows she understands.
