A slice of life as viewed from the eyes of a child

MY tiniest child went on a field trip to the local supermarket last week.

And it was honestly the most wholesome experience I have had for a long time.

Because, of course I went. What if something happened to her in the ten-minute walk from her class to the shop.

Who cares if it is on the safest pathway known to man?

I mean, I would blatantly have just followed them anyway. And no doubt have been arrested for it.

No. Far better be out in the open about my helicopter parenting issues…

As previously discussed, the route is a short one.

We are talking less than 20 minutes there and back.

So why would their teachers have blocked out three whole hours for it, I pondered.

The answer should have been obvious: It takes me half an hour to shoehorn my kid into her uniform of a morning.

Can you imagine how long it takes dozens of them to get their coats and wellies on? (Then off and on yet again for an impromptu potty trip, or two?) Ages. That’s how long. Then came the UN style negotiations about who was whose very best friend that day, and can girls hold hand with boys, etc.

Finally, they all staggered out like little drunks at kicking-out time, and we were on our way.

Our route took us through a lovely little woodland area.

It was really most relaxing. Right up until I heard one of my charges announce to the group with absolute confidence that “Hooray, we are at Center Parcs now!”

Jubilant chaos briefly ensued. Until that fake news was retracted, and the tots were reminded of the task at hand.

Off they dutifully toddled, towards their mission: To buy ham, pease pudding and stottie bread, for today’s snack.

I’m telling you, times have well and truly changed since we

were all at nursery. I personally recall being made to eat underripe, rock solid pears for every snack time.

They tasted like soap.

I still can’t bring myself to eat even the ripe ones to this day…

The children were beautifully behaved for the entire trip.

The only confusing part was when their teacher, keen to get them as involved as possible, handed them pound coins and asked for help paying the cashier lady.

To which she was greeted with mixed advice such as: “Miss do you not know how to use self-service? I can help you.” And: “It’s easier if you do Apple Pay.”

Once our antiquated currency was dubiously handed over it was time to make our merry way back to school.

Which took twice as long as the journey there.

Not because all those little legs were tired, but because every few steps one of them would break into a round of jumping on the spot, which the rest would then instantly copy.

It would cease just as quickly as it started. Then begin again, seconds later.

I’ve never been seasick, but I imagine the feelings these erratic motions brought on comes very close.

Not so soon afterwards, we arrived back at base. The children were almost as tired as the adults.

(Now I understand why my daughter always needs a nap after her school day has finished.)

And they tucked into their Northumbrian delicacy sandwiches with gusto.

Which is incredible, seeing as my daughter pretty much survives on a diet of jam sandwiches and Quavers at home.

In short, they had the time of their lives. Got some fresh air. And learned a little something about their heritage, too.

Who knows what the next sojourn will bring?

Maybe pouring a perfect pint of Brown Ale. Breeding Bedlington Terriers, perhaps?

Or all of them getting NUFC tattooed on their tiny arms…