Another biblical upside of Easter is that without schools the roads of London open before you like the Red Sea.  Journeys which normally take days can be completed in minutes. I went to a meeting yesterday where every single person was there up to an hour early and wearing a look of post-Apocalypse shock at the ease of their journey.

Road chaos is not the only blight that schools cause.  I am reminded of one of the low points of parenting – and we are talking stiff competition here – parents’ evening.  Even Baby Jesus couldn’t raise this event from the dead.  A draughty sports hall where eighty odd, and I use the word advisedly, teachers seated alphabetically await their two and a half minutes in which to tell me what they most dislike about my son.

On one occasion I was tempted to seek out the German master who wrote in a report ‘Recently the veil of feckless incomprehension appeared to have lifted, briefly’.  Who says they have no sense of humour?

‘He lacks motivation’  they whine, teacher-speak for bone idle. ‘Then motivate him’ I say, locking eyes, that most dangerous of Mothers, the one that answers back.  ‘He’s an anarchist’ one complained, ‘and you encourage him’.  I blushed with becoming and hopefully unnerving modesty.  ‘His work is untidy’. His room is untidy – do I telephone  you and expect results? Do I ask you to tackle his constant demands for money, his ‘taste’ in clothes or his inability to floss? I do not, dear reader, because I imagine that they have better things to do, as do I.

One wretched teacher, and a woman at that, had the temerity to ring me in a SHOE SHOP in order to tell me that the boy had fallen asleep in an exam.  Wake him up then madam and can I try these in the navy blue?

What far off planet have these people come from that they imagine any teenager listens to his mother?  ‘Son, your works untidy’. ‘Message received Ma, I’ll sort that out immediately. Sorry you had to mention it’.  I don’t think so.  They have access to the child for eight hours a day without achieving any discernible improvement yet they sincerely believe that a swift word in my shell-like and all will fall miraculously into place.  Are none of them parents, or even residents in Real Life?

My revenge, never actually implemented, would have been a Teachers’ Evening. This would have been a twice yearly event requiring them to leave work early, struggle through rush hour traffic and sit on a small, hard chair in a dusty corridor in order to listen to a litany of complaints.

I would have served spectacularly bad coffee and Pound Shop custard creams and whilst waiting for their moment with Mother in charge of Personal Hygiene they could run their eyes over my collection of takeaway menus or inspect my pristine gym kit.

I could even have left my holiday snaps displayed on the wall and offer a short tour of the utility room with an option of rummaging through the lost proper basket.  The happiest days of my life? Could do better.