Legend

 One of the tricky things about holidays and teaching in your home town is the fame. It can be hard to be famous and I do not envy film stars. 

It’s not the shouts of your name, as you walk home from school, or even being told in the swimming pool about a recorder a parent has finally bought the child that I mind. That’s my fault for wanting to walk to work. In term time I expect all of that. However, during holidays I want to hide. I am (as we are encouraged to say now) overstimulated and disregulated (which even my spell checker knows isn’t a real word). In other words, I’m a brat. Miserable, grumpy, full of cold and forcing a smile for even people I genuinely like is a challenge. 

I need my space. 

I seek out places where children are unlikely to be. The Moot Hall with my favourite ghost, the records office, with its damp smell of the past, supermarkets in other towns. The Long Suffering Husband would have liked to have gone away but we didn’t manage to arrange it and it doesn’t always work. There have been times when walking on my favourite secluded beach in Pembrokeshire I’ve heard my name shouted, only to look at an embarrassed family or a small child winding itself around a parent’s legs, deeply regretting their choice. 

Children rarely care that you are incognito. A different set of clothes, a hat and a pair of sunglasses are catnip to their sleuthing powers. 

This holiday has been particularly challenging. I’ve been more bratty, sorry, I mean disregulated, than usual and while I’ve changed my pink bobble hat, am wearing a different coat and sunglasses the children have a lot to say about my apparent existence outside of school.

At least six times, so far in this holiday, I’ve heard, “Mrs AllTrades!”

This has been followed with an explanation to the adult they are with.

“That’s Mrs AllTrades she picked up the dinosaur poo!”

This has led to some interesting conversations with shop workers.

“No, it wasn’t dinosaur poo,” I tell a woman at a till, who is simultaneously crossing her legs and wiping her eyes. “I think it was fox. You know how they gorge themselves on the food waste bin and get diarrhoea? Well, it was outside the school gate.”

“And you picked it up?” The woman says, slightly gagging at the thought.

“Yeah. It was huge. It filled 3 dog poo bags.”

“Oh my goodness. Are you the caretaker?”

“No, no but I have a dog and I had bags in my pocket.”

“That explains it, then,” the woman says, “Legend!”

I could die now. Then they might write on my gravestone how I was fearless in the face of dinosaur poo.