All NaBloPloMo bets are off, people: Ann has a horrible sore throat and malaise. Had them before chairing the 7pm – 10pm PTA meeting, and they aint got better since.

And tomorrow I am heading down to Bournemouth (South Coast English Riviera-type place, which will be Cold, Wet and Oh-So-Unpleasant) for a two-day conference on Dyspraxia, returning late Saturday.  I shall attempt something via iphone if I’m not dead of Virus.

In the meantime, John’s mother has been turfing out detritus from her spare room, ready for continental in-laws arriving this Christmas, and unearthed treasure trove: all John’s old school reports.

He is understandably sensitive about letting me show you them, especially as I spent nearly an hour hooting with raucous delight, and crowing bon-mots about the child being OHSOVERYMUCH the father of the man. (Note to self: worry about child’s behaviour and attitudes… some more.) But I have permission for displaying this one. It is an Examination Potential report sent to parents, which in John’s case is fabulously optimistic in every subject (including ones that John was never, ever, discernably-from-age-zero, going to succeed at; although to be fair, they have scored out the more glaringly nolle prosequi-subjects) and so witheringly flat in its blasting of John’s prospects (not even a ‘possibly’!) in the dance arena. Which, ironically, he is fairly good at, being able to produce a very passable waltz when he has a partner who doesn’t Flail. 

He can certainly dance a damn sight better than he can make pots.

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