“Hey, Mum”, my daughter said. “We’ve just got, like 10 pages of guidance on returning to school. Most of it’s about nail varnish, trousers, new form allocations and parents-using-cars for drop-off-coz-they’re-scared-so-which-entrances n exits in case we catch the Pox on the way to school because if they don’t drive us there, we’ll be like – frolicking and that … But I’m just wondering about if we’re like, behaving like…badly.”
“What do you mean?” I asked her. “Behaving badly?”
“Well, not me. Obvs,” she said. “But y’know. The sort that .. do that stuff. Because if they like – put ’em in the Isolation Booths like they used to, they’ll just be going ‘er – helllooooo – this like, HOME FOR THE LAST SIX MONTHS – HIT ME HARDER BABY’. And all of that.”
“Hmm.,” I replied. “Yeah. I’m sure… they’ve thought of this.”
“Ha,” she goes. “Dream on.”
