Agnes is in Oxford for the final residential of the first year of her creative writing Masters; which explains my presence in Bristol, ensuring Ida turns up on time at school. (We were even there early today, which is apparently an unheard of event.)
The atmosphere at Ashley Down Infants bears no relationship whatever to that of my own first school, Swans Close, Stratford-on-Avon, which was relatively speaking a grim place, ruled over by a Miss Short and a Miss Walsh: odd that I can recall their names even after a lapse of 65 years. Ida's playground impressed me no end, with trouble-taking teachers and purposeful parents all milling. I suppose I was seeing it at the best time of year, warm and fine.
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