The park we go to has a wooden playhouse into which my children love to drag me for make-believe tea parties. Despite living in the glorious Cotswolds, we are sadly not immune to the effects of the disaffected youth, and the interior of the cabin is regularly adorned with graffiti. Usually this is relatively harmless (although if I were ‘Soph’, I’d be worried about getting a reputation), but last week my attention was drawn to a crudely chalked picture of an enormous penis. Fortunately it was very badly drawn (do the youth of today take no pride in their work?) and therefore not easily recognisable.
‘What’s that, Mummy?’
I thought fast, and decided I wouldn’t come clean.
‘It’s a rocket ship.’
Situation resolved, we left the playhouse in favour of the slide, which was blissfully free from phalluses.
Yesterday I picked up my son from school and was beckoned into the classroom for a private chat with the teacher.
‘Is everything okay?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes, everything’s fine,’ she said. ‘It’s just that we started our space project this week, and we were a little concerned about this picture he drew of a rocket…’