Could I make a great strawberry meringue with such little notice?
BY JULIE GOODALL
I’VE never been the PTA type, even though I work part-time in a pre-school. Perhaps that’s why – kids at home, kids at work.
I love kids, but going to school to talk about them in the evening is a step too far.
“Mum! There’s a letter in my bag!”
“Surprise, surprise,” I say.
Craig flings his rucksack on to the table.
I delve into his bookbag, aware that a school letter means that somebody inevitably wants something.
I’m not wrong.
It’s the school’s turn for a fund-raising coffee morning at the local village hall.
Groups and charities in the area take it in turns to raise much-needed money to keep them afloat, and this time it’s Craig’s school.
I never cope well as a helper at these events.
My hearing’s not great so the buzz of noise puts me at a disadvantage.
On the other hand, baking something to sell isn’t a problem.
Wednesday? It’s already Monday.
Not impressed with the amount of notice, I pin the letter on my corkboard and start making a shopping list.
I’ll make my signature strawberry meringue and take in cream to go with it.
The next day, I pop to the shop after work and buy what I need.
Tomorrow, Wednesday, is my day off, so I have plenty of time in the morning to drop it all off.
I’ll get cracking tonight, after Craig is in bed.
Matt’s at darts so I can cook in peace.
“Come on, Mum! We’ll be late!”
“Well, that’s a turn-up. You telling me we’ll be late!” I wink at Craig as I juggle everything to the car.
“Can you blip it?” I say, key dangling from my little finger.
He obliges and I stand there, hopeful.
“And open the boot?” I add.
Rolling his eyes, Craig does then climbs into the back of the car.
Once everything is arranged, I get into the driver’s seat.
I start the car and drive to school, taking extra care around the corners.
If I’m not going to give up my time, the least I can do is turn up with something presentable.
It wouldn’t be the first time I’d demolished an offering on the way to an event.
The door slams as Craig darts out and up the path towards the playground.
“Bye! Have a good day!” I call jokily.
I can feel the heat of his embarrassment through the half-open window.
As expected, the village hall car park isn’t full yet. It’s still early.
The coffee morning doesn’t start for another half hour.
Gathering my donation, I manage
