We have a new politician amoungst our ranks. My son has just been elected school council representative for his class.

The election seems to have been a little arbitrary, but then it is a provincial primary school and not the Labour Party.

First, the teacher asked who would like to be members of the school council.

The entire football team put up their hands.

Then, some bright spark pointed out that you have to miss playtimes to go to meetings.

At which the entire football team, except Felix, put their hands down.

He gained 12 votes, and I am not a pushy mother in any way, but I did work out fleetingly that he cornered about 40 per cent of the vote.

Now Phil keeps calling him Councillor.

Maddie has set herself up as his Personal Assistant, and this is bliss, because she manages his diary and timekeeping.

My son is not a morning person. When I ask Felix to get his clothes on, ready for breakfast, it is possible I may recieve a negative response. Or indeed, no response at all.

But this morning, Maddie walked briskly into our bedroom and declared that Felix had only three more minutes to get dressed if he were to keep to his schedule.

So now, my son the Councillor has a schedule.

I’m not sure the schedule is written in stone, or indeed written down at all. I think it might be a word they both just love. But coming from his new PA, it had magical results. He was dressed in a trice, ready to meet the demands of this rigorous time-limited life as a councillor.

He’s had a couple of meetings now, and helped plan the fundraising day the school is having on Friday. As a sideline, he has gleaned some juicy details about what games there will be on the day. He is privy to advance notice. It is all very impressive.

But as in any political arena, there is plotting and intrigue. Those from Year 5 and 6 want to get “No Balls” Wednesday turned into “Balls” Wednesday.

Yes, it does all sound very Carry On: but for some it is deadly serious. Every Wednesday is a moment of quiet sanctuary at the school, for those who prefer not to spend their playtime dodging those merciless spherical missiles.

Some children are almost as small as the ball itself: our school’s little ones start at four years old.

But the footie fanatics can’t bear a lunchtime without their game, and have been begging for their Wednesdays back.

When I was an Important Teacher, a very long time ago, I was on playground duty one day when I saw an eight year old bright red and bawling.

He had just been hit in the face by a football during a particularly ruthless game.

I had no children at the time, and a very Mary Poppins attitude to emotional exhibitionism. I expressed concern, a little empathy, and moved quickly into the ‘buck up and stop crying’ phase of the operation.

God bless him, he did, slowing to hiccuping sobs which subsided. He opted to sit quietly at the side of the playground to recover. I stationed one empathiser and one busybody nearby (busybodies always carry intelligence faster, if more dramatically).

And I continued with my duty.

And about two minutes later, I received a rude awakening.

One minute I was sipping my tea, chatting to someone, enjoying the general playground hubbub: the next an orange meteor shot towards my face at breakneck speed and slammed into it with merciless force.

Everything went quite quiet. Because as much as Mrs Shrewsday was quite funny, made some great mistakes (like falling up steps), and usually had a smile on her face, she was very strict indeed. She wasn’t the sort of person one planned to hammer in the face with a football.

This was very difficult for me, because I needed everything to go on as normal. I needed life to proceed on its way and not watch me for a minute.

Because I was trying hard to resist the urge to turn bright red and bawl myself.

“Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mary Poppins”, cackled Fate. “Next time you won’t be so quick to stop them crying, will you?”

I kept it together, reassured the slightly anxious faces around me that all was fine, the world began to turn on its axis once more. But I never forgot that salutary lesson.

Phil has been making Councillor noises, too.

Oh, my.

Our town holds our heart. I moved here at three weeks old: and although college and work have taken me away, I came back because it was a wonderful place to bring up a family.

Those who know me may be slightly incredulous, because my town is not well thought of, pretty or glamorous.

But I’m the one who wanders in its forest twice a day. I’m the one with the tall, beautifully designed house in a delectably wooded estate, close to a fabulous waterworld and an enviable adventure playground. There is much here to recommend it.

Its design has never rendered it beautiful, though. Those in outlying estates strive desperately to disown it. In my view, its councillors seem to have been committed more to those outlying areas – where they live- than with my town’s heart.

And so the long awaited plans for its revamp have sat on hold for year after year. We were running stories on our town’s redevelopment when we were both journalists on its newspaper, twenty years ago. And still we wait.

In that time, most surrounding towns have stolen a march on us, and when we shop, we simply boycott the sad apology for a town centre.

Phil wants to run as a Redevelopment Candidate. He wants to galvanise the local politicians into action, and force them, finally, to find the resources to give my town its heart back.

I’m not sure whether he will go ahead with this: part of me hopes so, part of me prays not. Councillors can have a hard life, especially good ones.

If he does, we’ll have two councillors in the family. I shall feel like Jackie O.

Picture from http://bsajuniors.net – many thanks:-)