Sports Day

DD’s got her school sport’s day tomorrow. It’s my first one.

The sack race - aka 'running in bags' - I can see why DD sometimes questions the wisdom of grown-ups

‘What have you been practising?’ I asked her.

‘Running in bags,’ she said, shrugging like she’ll never understand adults.

Last week I dined with a few mums further up the food chain than me – mums who’ve been through the sport’s day thing before. I was going to turn up in heels with a snakeskin clutch and a camera and cheer every race DD was in. But no, apparently there’s more to it than that.

You have to be ready for the (dreaded) Mother’s Race. Apparently people turn up in sports kit and trainers, it’s that competitive!

I’m very glad at this point to be a mum, because DH will have to run against Andrew ‘Freddie’ Flintoff in the father’s race (apparently Trevor Sinclair creamed the other dads in the Junior School sports day last week). Mind you, FF’s probably taking it easy after his knee injury so he certainly shouldn’t be giving it his all (hear that, Andrew?).

Meantime, I’ll be up against his wife. I don’t know her, but I see her all the time. She’s really tall – built like a beanpole – and seems quite fit judging by the number of times she does the school run in her tight lycra gym kit. Someone told me she’s not very fast, but I’ve been assessing form and, a bit like with racehorses, I can pretty much guess from the length and curve of her legs that there won’t be any flies on her.

Me, I’m not sporty unless it involves getting to the champagne, so I was wondering how to find a get-out clause when I heard a story – truth or urban myth I’ve yet to discover – that the Mother’s Race has been banned since someone broke their collarbone at the Junior School event last week.

Sorry love, if it was your collarbone - but thank God if it’s true.