I am not sure who was more enthusiastic about Piglet’s school disco, he or I. Indeed, it might be time to accept that the four year old piglet now has a better social life than me; one with friends who make Parma Violets sweet and dance to Baby Shark. In other words, the kind of social life that I can only dream of at the age of thirty-eight and at a time in my life when acquaintances no longer invite me to things that I never do.
We had dinner before to get us in the mood. When I thought Piglet and I could enjoy a time with mom and son, with nutritious snacks and intellectual conversations, I opted for a small vegan mezze bar that emitted house music to a busy crowd of six on Friday night (4:30 p.m.!) , including me. Piglet and two waiters. Then we packed up with oat milk latte (me), french fries (piglet) and soy tzatziki (a mistake) on the way to a drink at a hipster watering hole, just a few meters from the school gate, where I briefly fraternized with my 20-year-old Colleagues cooed over piglets for five seconds and then returned to their wine barrels while I pretended to be a giant unwieldy plastic giraffe.
After twenty-five minutes (very small glass) of wine, it was time for the disco, which, if I remember correctly, had a bar that served real alcoholic beverages. How early is it too early to request a bottle of Becks from the head of the PTA? I need some food for an hour to get the biggest hits from Black Lace (apparently still the song “Superman”, which I thought was extinct in the eighties) and conga dancing with fruit shots (I saw through) Surviving My fingers were horrified when a little girl dragged her little brother around the front of the Conga line and held him up by his tiny forearms.
I drink from a plastic glass as if it were Glastonbury and not the school hall and find that Piglet is not interested in dancing with Mummy, possibly because he is already a teenager and Mummy is now a massive embarrassment, or possibly because he is more is interested in the big climbing frame outside.
“Come in piglet!” I shout: “You’re playing the theme song for Strictly Come Dancing in here!”
“Oh, you’re on the cider!” one of the teachers comments and points to the plastic glass.
“Oh no!” I say as if this were somehow the case for the defense: “It’s just camp!”
I’m afraid that for others it might look like I’m trying to relive my youth who shouted to Born Slippy in 1996, but in a classroom full of receptionists. I find that at least three other parents take part in the alcoholic drinks here, albeit in smaller plastic glasses.
I am clearly too worried to gain other parents’ recognition for my amazing parenting skills.
After an hour that feels like ten, the disco is over, and all that’s left is a miserable twenty-minute wait for the train home. It feels like it’s about 2am in the dark of the stormy platform, but my phone says 6:48pm. Piglet is still enthusiastic about his disco gadgets and the various sugary snacks with which he fired them, and runs up and down the jetty that leads over the tracks. I hope he remembers the “serious conversation” we had the other day after he almost ran into a train in his enthusiasm for the “river view”. Maybe I shouldn’t have taught him to be so interested in the Avon tidal range.
We come home and Piglet is still not tired (these are the Parma violets), but play with his cars for half an hour. Another school disco was over, and it was remarkable like the first one, only this time I thought about bringing a pair of spare shoes so Piglet wouldn’t wear his school shoes.
Still, I should enjoy it as long as it lasts. It won’t be long before the disco goes on without me and my only role is to pick it up at 2am.
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