Now that's not what I call music

You know when you're destined to have one of those days, so in true Bridget Jones style:

Milligrams of Valium consumed: 4

Number of primal screams: 3

The phone rang at 7.15 am when I had one leg in a pair of pants, and Spouse was barking why aren't there any clean socks in my drawer. During the weekend my passive aggressive streak got the better of me, and I disregarded Spouse's clothes washing needs. The childminder was calling to say that she is sick and will not be able to collect the Little Darlings from school today. This was a particularly acute irritation since today is their first recorder lesson. I was counting on the childminder enduring the post first lesson enthusiastic practice, and by the time I returned from work they would have worked out that the recorder is, effectively, an utterly pointless, so called, musical instrument. The only purpose it serves, in my humble opinion, is to put children off music for life while simultaneously driving parents to revisit the decision to bring new life onto the planet.

It's quite simply an impossible task to make a recorder harmonic, even Mozart would have struggled. I have to concede that they are capable of making weird noses like the Clangers, but this is not exactly how I expect the hard earned money I invest in the Little Darling's education to be spent (ok so I still haven't quite cleared last term's fees, but that's not the point). The school must be aware of this. Normally we receive a permission slip when the children are to embark on a new activity. This was the case with drama club, football practice and swimming. The headteacher clearly knew that if parents were given the option of their Little Darlings being taught something useful instead of learning the the art of acoustic torment they would have signed only under Guantanamo style torture. When I deposited the Little Darlings at school this morning and the children compared their shiny new recorders in the playground (Boychild was using his as a gun, of course), we parents huddled in a corner and bitched. Sadly not one of us had the bottle to tell the teachers that we would prefer it if our offspring could kindly be exempted.

Now I have to ensure that during the evening of the concert at the end of term I am otherwise engaged before Spouse sneaks in his apologies.