Le Kermesse

It's only a handful of weeks since the last school holiday and, whoopee – the next one is now just days away. Great. From the kids point of view, French trimestres - like ticks on a buffalo's backside - are but minor irritants, punctuating the calendar year and interrupting an otherwise blissful existence. For their parents, the yawning gaps in between school terms serve only to remind them that they chose the wrong profession - and how the hell they're going to fill the next 10 weeks.

But beforehand, there's the annual kermesse to endure (sorry, enjoy). As inexorable as time itself and moving with glacial slowness, the annual display of your little darling's artistic abilities is about to unfold before a captive audience. Feeling like Beau Geste about to be assaulted by a bunch of tambourine wielding tribesmen, you sit or stand (or wilt) around the edge of the playground in 40° + heat - and wonder who's bright idea it was to cut down the stand of Mulberry trees which used to shade it. And finally, after various last minute crises and a tantrum or two, the end of term festivities commence. While you melt in the sunshine, the teachers marshal their various classes' routines before the crowd (cue caterpillar-esqe processions for the 3 year olds, a folk song workout for the middle years and body popping for the girls about to leave for big school), all the while with mc janitor pounding out a mixture of accordion music and phat beats (and eardrum rending feedback) on the pa system.

On the plus side, it actually only takes an hour or so. The kids are happy to have had the chance to show their moves and, as ever, are now seriously hungry. Blinking away the sweat, they set about tables full of cake and crisps, their dads making similarly light work of the subsidised temporary bar. The hastily erected (and already slowly deflating) paddling pool is full of happily shrieking toddlers, the borrowed barbecues are lit and the classrooms locked. And the holidays have now officially begun. Good luck.