Week beginning 16/07/18.
And now...the end is near: for a class and for an era.
I have no idea if anyone reads this blog from one week to the next but, if they do, this is the valedictory entry for the parents of the members of the current Indigo Class. The children, after a six week break, are all about to become members of Violet Class which will bring P. E.S.E., NCTs, PGL and several other things not exclusively known by initials, such as being prefects and head boys and head girls. The work will be hard but the rewards great: Mrs. Campbell is adept at ensuring there is fun mixed in with the effort.
How will the last week pan out? With events on every day, of course. It will be farewell to current buddies on Monday afternoon at a special party hosted by Miss Brown's class - do feel free to contribute a token something to the mountain of snacks which will, no doubt, be available. On Tuesday, the class will experience a taster of life in Year 6 for the morning. Wednesday sees the celebration of Mrs. Hutchings' seventeen year tenure as headteacher with an afternoon of picnicking and fun. I think there are only five of us (amongst the staff) who pre-date her for whom September will seem especially odd but the children, of course, have never known anyone else. Thursday is less frenetic with the Spoken English Competition in the afternoon - good luck to Evan, Phoebe and Nathan. And then just Friday will be left which is really centred around the leavers, both children and, on this occasion, adults (or, rather, one adult). In between, we will endeavour to finish the last pieces of written work, the last bit of Art, scale a few final Maths problems and chase a tennis ball around a field one last time. Then, history beckons and Indigo Class will be no more...
Good luck to one and all, both children and you, their parents. Take care of each other and return refreshed and re-vitalised, ready for a final year of primary school.
No, that's it.
There really isn't any more.
No matter how hard you look, this is the last word.
Well, apart from these...
Try not to end up like Bessie Bighead from Dylan Thomas' Under Milk Wood...
"Bessie Bighead, born in the workhouse, smelling of the cowshed, snores bass and gruff and dreams of putting flowers on the grave of Gomer Owen, who kissed her once behind the pigsty when she wasn't looking but never kissed her again although she was looking all the time...".
This really is the last word now.