Summer Fete

One of the most common school fundraisers in our little corner of the UK is the “summer fete”.

(That’s a school fair for those of you back home scratching your heads. Its ok to be confused. I’ve been sitting in most of the PTFA meetings with a befuddled look on my face, as a lot of the names for familiar things are different.)

Apparently, I also stuck my foot in it by volunteering to run the cake stall. I was only told after the fact that it was an absolute madhouse.

It was.

About 10 minutes before the stall actually opened, a swarm of little old ladies hovered over the cakes. They carefully eyed and appraised each cake, and their competition. They hounded me as to when I was going to let them buy. They eyed me with distrust when they heard my accent.

It was work! First of all, for a former finance major, I’m now a mess at doing math in my head. Combine that with trying to quickly sort through the coins to get the proper ones, and its a recipe for disaster.

Add in the fact that I call notes “bills” and that I give change like I always have back home – starting with what they paid, I count back up to the “note” they gave me, instead of saying “18.10 in change”. Because, you know, I can’t do math in my head. And, hell, you aren’t going to break years and years of habit overnight.

(and as I told someone, notes are what you write to the teacher when your child is late for schoool. And aluminum only has ONE “i”. And their is no “o” in “fetus”, or “u” in color or “flavor” where I come from. So sue me.)

Yes, we did eat the merchandise 20 pence at a time. (Hey, they sooner the cakes were gone, the sooner we were done.) And you try staring at a table groaning with 15 different types of cup cakes (excuse me, fairy cakes) and not eat ONE.

Its impossible.

Its morally wrong.

We were helping the school.

Ok, so the Pimm’s that we were slugging back weren’t hurting, either.

In the end, I survived the cake stall.

I’m a bit sad, though, as I missed the kids riding ponies.
And bouncing in the bouncy castle.
And eating ice cream.
And getting their faces painted and their hair sprayed (although they were happy to share the love, all over my shirt, when they came to show me.)
And sit in the fire truck, and the police van (which I later told my son that that would be the ONLY time he should be in the back of a police van, EVER. I’m just sayin’…)
They may have run in the races, but I’m still not sure, as I was scrounging for change for a 20 for a 25 pence brownie.

On the up side, I also missed the meltdown at the toy stall, when Boo spied the truck he donated walking away…as he won a Minnie Mouse toy.

But I did have time to see the headmistress borrow a pair of football boots from a year 6 boy, and give the football speed kick a go. (I think she clocked in at about 35MPH).

And I did get to eat a burger, have another Pimm’s, and share a strawberry and cream covered scone with the Hubs and Boo.

The army also brought a climbing wall, and there was a guy doing chainsaw carvings, and 5-a-side football matches going on, too.

At the end of the day, the kids were tired and happy. I was tired and happy.
And proud of our little school!

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