The next time I write, it’ll probably be from HMP Holloway.

“Did you know that they jail mothers whose kids truant from school?” That’s what I told big boy the other day after I’d been hauled up in front of his form teacher and his Head of Year to discuss his various and unexplained absences from class over the past week.

Big boy, it seems, has been truanting big time. His Head of Year says that although he’s only been caught out a couple of times it’s ‘probably the tip of an iceberg’. Very reassuring, thank you. And so I began to think about ways to prevent it, to show that I am co-operating with the authorities so that when my case comes to Court, I don’t look totally feckless.

For example, I thought about taking a few days off work. I’d march him into school in the morning and then spend the rest of the day camped out at the school gates to make sure that he didn’t leave before the appointed hour. I mentioned this to him on the way to the meeting at school the other evening.

“Hmmm,” said big boy “I don’t think it would work.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because I don’t bunk school,” he answered.

“But you do,” I said sounding a little exasperated. “Otherwise, why am I going to a meeting to discuss your truanting?”

“I don’t bunk school,” insisted big boy. “I just go out at lunchtime to get chicken chow mein.”

“Well, first of all, you are not supposed to go out at lunchtime. That’s for the older kids. Secondly, you’ve been missing lessons.“

“No I haven’t!” said big boy. But before I could pursue this any further we arrived at the school gates.

It turns out that he was right – sort of. It wasn’t that he wasn’t turning up in the morning. It wasn’t that he was found running around the streets (well only a couple of times). It wasn’t that he was mooching about somewhere in the school grounds when he was supposed to be in lessons. He was in lessons most of the time, just not his own lessons, not the ones that he was supposed to be in anyway.

Big boy, it seems, has invented a new kind of bunking: if you don’t like a class, then go to another class. If you don’t like your French teacher, then go to another French class. If no French is available, then go to another subject that you quite like. Go to history, for example. It doesn’t matter that you’ve already been to history, just go to another history lesson. Of course, this does tend to skew things a bit. You might get double History followed by treble English and no Maths or Technology. But no matter, it’s a small price to pay for avoiding those teachers who can’t stand you, pick on you the whole time and make your life an utter misery.

The best thing you can do is go to those classes that have a supply teacher. That way you are less likely to be detected as an impostor. It also affords much greater opportunities for mucking about. You can be lazy, you can chat with your friends and if you get told off you can answer back without fear of reprisals – you just give a false name. That is what big boy had been doing. That and going out for chicken chow mein once or twice a week.

“But why have you been skipping technology?” asked his Head of Year.

“Because Miss picks on me,” answered big boy. “She always blames me for stuff when it’s not my fault. She hates me!”

“I don’t think so,” said his form teacher patiently. “ But if there’s a problem why don’t you talk to someone about it instead of missing class?”

“We need to sort this out now before it gets out of control,” said Head of Year. “In my experience, once it starts, it can be very difficult to stop. There are some children who hardly come to school at all you know and they started out like you did. And what do you think will happen to those children in the long run?”

“They won’t get an education,” muttered big boy looking at his feet.

It was agreed that big boy would report any problems to his form teacher or his parents and that for the time being, he would be ‘on report’ which would mean that his attendance at the right lessons would be monitored. I also decided to impose some sanctions: I banned the posse from coming around and told big boy that the sleepover he had planning would have to be postponed.

All was well for 24 hours although I admit that policing the posse ban proved to be very difficult. I kept finding them around the house, lurking in the living room or in big boy’s bedroom. I would have to eject them and then big boy would moan loudly.

“You’re so rude! You’re just tryin’ to mess up my life! It’s all ruined and I won’t have any friends because of you!”

Then I there was a message on my answering machine from his form teacher. He’d skipped technology again. “It’s out of our hands now. We’ve had to inform the Education Welfare Officer.”

“Do you know what this means?” I asked big boy, almost shaking with barely suppressed fury. “Do you have any idea what this means? Look at this!” I said pointing at the newspaper. “See that woman. She got sent to prison because her kids truanted. Do you want that to happen to me? Well do you?”

“Not really,” said big boy shuffling about. “But at least I could have my friends round.”

I think he was joking. I think so…….

Rebecca Misell lives in London with her two sons aged 11 & 13.

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