So my kinderbots did their Harvest Festival yesterday in a crumbly mid-Victorian church in the equally run-down seaside town where they go to school. Inevitably, I was late and had to scurry down the hill with Verbal Diarrhea Mummy who caught me rattling through my handbag (in fact hiding ciggies, mobile and other instruments of Satan). "Have you lost your keys? Our William lost his keys last week; I lost my keys in 1983 etc etc." Tragically no room to sit together or I would have had to kill her with Hymns Ancient and Modern.
The theme was a general big-up to God for giving us all senses to appreciate the harvest. Given the number of recent weekends I have attempted to haul my two (9 and 10) out to collect blackberries (seriously, is there a cut-off point for middle-class mummies to just GIVE IN to 2009 and leave them slumped in front of Hannah Montana rather than squeeze them mentally into itchy hand-made jumpers and enforce frolic about the hedgerows?) and, having failed, had the ensuing crumble rejected in favour of Muller-sodding-Corners, they had a cheek even being there.
Inevitably, my son's class was grateful for the olfactory sense. They twinkled and nudged through their poem, exploding into relieved grins and muffled fart sounds as they finished.
The church smelled of mice. My fellow mummies smelled of capability, Allure and hairbrushing. The two token daddies smelled of freedom from work and a swift half respectively. The vicar always smells of apples. The sugar paper the service was printed on smelled of childhood. The air outside smelled of the sea and chips. My bots smell of soap powder, playing fields and sleep.
On reflection, quite a lot to say thank you for.