Principal blunder

Well, funnily enough (or not, as the case may be), my first post describes an incident today which doesn't really make me laugh, although some - more ruthless types, perhaps - might find it amusing for a bit of friday arvo entertainment.

OK, I'll admit, I had entered a state of what could be described as a daydream, which featured such pressing matters as whether I fancied white or red wine for arvo drinks while cooking tea, and whether anyone would notice that I was wearing my daggiest trackie pants and sporting a super-flat unstyled hairdon't, to pick the kids up from school - when pulling into the 5 min pickup lane out the front of the school. And yes, this daydream state, coupled with the scarily snug proximity of passing buses and cars, caused me to negotiate the squeeze past parked cars into the pickup lane a little too closely. Thus, with the sudden demolishment of my dream-like state came the horrifying sound of one car scraping against another.

My gut-dropping horror was immediate, and instantly intensified by the realisation that the victim car was the shiny black number that belonged to none other than the school principal. For gawd's sake, what are the chances? But then, with said Principal hogging the most sought after carpark on the street causing overwrought mothers to negotiate the swing past at the peril of their own and his vehicle, one could argue that it was an accident waiting to happen? I'll keep telling myself that, anyway.

So yes, with there being many witnesses, including one father gleefully announcing - "you know whose car that is don't you?", I had little choice but to tuck my tail between my trackie-clad legs and haul myself out of the car to admit my driving folly. With it being end of term, and teachers safely inside wildly celebrating the delightful prospect of two weeks of student (and parent)-free bliss, my humiliation ran deeper still as I was reduced to knocking on the door and sheepishly asking the gestapo ..oops I mean, office lady....at the door if I could speak to the Principal (let's just call him Mr B). Waiting outside nervously, with the kids demanding - "why do you have to see Mr B, Mum?" - my thoughts turned to how I would break the news, but I had little chance to conjure up an elaborate sorry tale as Mr B appeared promptly, face frozen in Principal Politeness, and invited me inside. As tempted as I was to join the thronging, rejoicing mass of teachers behind the scenes (would there be champagne?), I actually said to him..."you'd better come out here"...with a more exaggerated tone of dread than was perhaps necessary or intended. To his credit, Mr B retained his polite and patient facade whilst no doubt inwardly eyerolling about yet another drama queen mother (and doesn't she know it's the last day of term?) and came out to face the music. Without the opportunity of drafting and editing my sorry tale, I simply blurted out - "I scratched your car" - to which, to his credit, Mr B's head tilted somewhat, but he didn't yet freak out.

With tentative, and perhaps slightly frantic curiousity, and no doubt expecting to see half his car guaged to within an inch of its life, Mr B held back a sprint as he followed me out to the scene of the crime. We inspected the damage together, and with my attitude shifting ever more abruptly to one of undermining the damage, in order to minimise the potential damage to my wallet, and Mr B keeping his cool and conceding that, really it wasn't too bad, we parted company with my licence number in Mr B's hand and the agreement that panel beaters would decide my fate. I do have to admit that my opinion of Mr B has now risen above the former one earnt by too many memories of swimming carnivals snickering with other mothers about his insistence upon donning skimpy budgie-smugglers to such events. He is now, in my eyes, either a great actor, extremely impassive due to a very long school term, or just a nice bloke.

(but it still makes me laugh to think of him stuttin' his stuff in his budgies at the local pool;))