HALF TERM ALREADY?

I’m a broken woman. I can’t give the children what they want, even though I don’t want to give them what they want, if you see what I mean. It all started like this…

“Can we go to Disneyworld for half term?” says Flo.

She asks this in a straightforward sort of way, just like she was asking if we could have fish fingers for tea. The boys join in.

“Yes, Mum, yes, yes, yes!” They holler from the back of the car, followed by a long “Pleeeeease?”

Max then breaks into a long discourse on Disneyland Paris versus Disneyworld. It’s like he’s been studying it all as a Sandwich Course after school. He knows every hump and bump of the various rides and has obviously made calculations regarding the weather conditions in both regions. The others process the data and all agree that America wins hands down.

“Whoa,” I shout, trying to get a word in. “We can’t I’m afraid, it really is too much money.”

“Okay,” they reply in sing-songy resigned voices. “We’ll go to Disneyland Paris.”

I explain gently that we can’t go there either. We’re not going anywhere for half term. Hopefully we will go to the beach for the day if the weather bucks up but that is it. The rest of the journey to school is spent with a run down of the holiday arrangements past and present of every member of their classes. The seventy-five children from their three classes seem to have covered every glamorous inch of the globe. I refuse to believe this. How can the average children of an average State primary school have visited so many different countries? Whenever I have dipped my toe in the balmy waters of holiday booking, I have been severely burned. A family of five going anywhere by air is serious money.

“Are you sure your friends are telling the truth?” I ask.

They all look at me from various points in the car, and I glimpse their exasperated faces in the rear view mirror. Anyone would think that small children never make things up.

“Mum, even David has been to Disneyland Paris.”

I don’t want to encourage this kind of talk, but I am beginning to see things from their point of view.

The problem is I don’t disapprove of Disney in a sanctimonious middle class sort of way. My dislike of it is purely selfish. Firstly, even if I got the money together, I do hate the way theme parks cost so much. I’m too impatient to queue for everything. I panic in crowds, feel sick on rides and am scared of heights. It’s hopeless.

”You know me,” I say. “I’m not great at fun fairs.”

Three faces nod at me seriously.

Bobby says, “Don’t worry, I’ll look after you on the high bits.”

He’s six, and he knows his mother is a nutcase - this is not good.

I bite my lip.

“Let’s talk to Dad,” I add.

When in doubt stall for a bit just to diffuse the disappointment, although I know very well what the Father of the Children will say. Let’s hope the weather gets better - they’ll love it at the beach.

Life in the Slow Lane is written by Clare Kent. She has three children - Max is nearly eleven, Flo is nearly eight and Bobby is six and a half - and lives in Wiltshire.

Read Claire's previous diary