Family matters: Pat McDermott on fridge art

Gone are the days of sticky, indecipherable artworks brought home to adorn her kitchen. Pat McDermott laments the lost art of fridge decoration.

Hovering at the school gate on the last day of term a few years ago (okay, 25 years ago), I saw my five-year-old approaching. She was wearing a paper crown covered in silver stars and carrying a drippy painting. It looked like a house or maybe a turtle. I’d learned to wait for clues before saying, “What a lovely cat.”

“Do you know what Miss Fogarty calls painting and craft stuff?” she asked, placing it carefully on the car seat – paint-side down.

“No. What does she call it?” I asked.

You could count on Miss Fogarty to say something nice.

“Pointless busy work.”

Miss Fogarty made a good point about pointlessness, but fortunately, I’m a fan of school art and craft. Nothing says “I love you” like a teapot stand made from clothes pegs, red felt and superglue. Although the green clay house with “Dear Mun Hapy Chirstmas xxx fr Geoffrey” on the bottom runs a close second.

“Who’s Geoffrey?” asked the MOTH (the

Man of the House). Our boys’ names are Patrick and Rowen, but if they know, they’re not telling.

November is the peak month for school art and craft. Slippery dips are too hot to slide down, school shoes stick to the bitumen in the playground and nobody wants to be anybody’s friend any more. Not even in the staff room. Twenty-four semi-comatose kids sitting crosslegged on the floor in Room 1 need something to do, fast.

With a clap of her hands, a skilled primary school teacher can make paintbrushes and safety scissors appear from thin air. Another clap and everybody has glue sticks and glitter. By 3pm, there are mountains of sticky stuff to carry home and hang on the family fridge.

For years, every time the MOTH opened the fridge door and reached for a beer, a storm of gluey drawings would hit the floor. I tried sticking some on the washing machine, but the artists felt marginalised and the spin cycle wreaked havoc. I had to enforce a three-day display limit because I kept losing the electricity account and the green waste pick-up timetable under the art.

Move on a few years and November meant less bad art, but more bored teenagers. Exams over, they watched television, argued with each other and hung from the fridge door, willing food to appear.

Requests to clean the pool or walk the dog were met with vague promises to do it tomorrow or next week, certainly by early 2032.

Everybody wanted to give a party or go to one. “Only 40 people! You won’t have to do a thing.” Except call the police.

Then, just when we thought we couldn’t stand it a moment longer, they went on “gap” years. The best bit? They were a long way away. The worst bit? They were a long way away with our credit cards.

The night before each one left, I sat on the edge of the bed watching them pack all the wrong things, leaving out singlets and warm “jammies”. When I discussed strangers, sex and not drinking to excess, they groaned and put their fingers in their ears.

Now the MOTH and I are about to head overseas ourselves.

The kids are nervous. They’ve issued warnings and instructions. No helicopter rides, no shortcuts down dark alleys, no talking to strangers, no forgetting all those

PINs, no revisiting that seedy bar in

London where we met 40 years ago. They’ve organised our phone plans and money cards, our itinerary and flight times. Do we have the emergency numbers they gave us? “Ring when you get there and don’t let Dad out of your sight,” advise the girls. “Don’t let Mum buy us clothes,” warn the boys.

The world’s changed, they remind us.

It’s November and it seems we’ve lived long enough to be a worry to our children. Aren’t we the lucky ones!

By 3pm, there are mountains of sticky stuff to carry home.