Wednesday, 8 September 2010

The Return Of Poo

It is a mistake when you have to take one of the better touring buses on a school run. There is always one who finds the microphone and switches it on.

"I just want to say something," Low-life Lenny announced to the whole bus as he figured out which direction the ON switch should be placed.

"Esmerelda smells of poo."

It had been brewing. The children's jokes had been getting progressively worse. Starting with jokes about sheep with no legs and wonky donkeys with three legs, it was not surprising that poo was next on the agenda.

It had all begun so well, too. It had been one of those beautiful autumn mornings. The warn orange sun fell gently over the last gasp of heather bloom. The bracken was caught between green and brown. The trees were thinking about being on the turn. The valley floor was shrouded in mist and all roads teemed with coveys of grouse.

It was one of those mornings where you were glad to be alive.

The good news continued when I found out that the girl whose mother would ring up the office and scream down the phone if the bus was more than one minute late, was not on the bus anymore.

But now, I fear, after the euphoria of the first days back at school, the general behaviour will degenerate. There will be plenty more poo.

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