A Fresh Start by Nicola Foster

I have never been one for New Year resolutions. I am usually far too overindulged to muster any “get up and go” to revolutionise my life. Instead, my annual epiphany coincides with the beginning of the autumn term in September.

I think this stems from my own childhood when, despite loathing school, I would find myself delighting in a pair of new shoes, new pencil case filled with sharp, un-chewed pencils and a scented rubber. In a rather sad but accurate representation of my high school years, I would forward to covering new exercise books in old wallpaper cut-offs. This carrot of hope (which never lasted longer than it took to cover my books) has stayed with me and once again I am invigorated by the thought of drawing a line under the disorder of the previous year.

I have finally accepted that the children's school would rather the children arrive in time for the first bell at 8.50 am (when we leave the house), allowing them to be seated and settled by the time the second bell goes at 9 am (when we arrive). My first resolution is to arrive at 8.50 on the dot, whilst trying my hardest to speak nicely to the children in the process. Homework will be done in a cheery manner (by all parties) and reading books will be read as reading books, not doubling up as their bedtime story. On top of all this, the children will tuck into my wholesome, home-cooked food with the same gusto Gordon Ramsey's children appear do on his programme, regardless of what he is serving. I will be more regular with having friends for tea, instead of trying to cram a term of tea returns into the last fortnight of term. My Poppinesque portrait of domestic nirvana should probably be accompanied by the soundtrack of songbirds singing "A Spoonful of Sugar".

However, one of the dangers of a disorganised person trying to be ϋber-organised is it is too easy to miss the blindingly obvious. Last summer, I whisked the children to the shoe shop in the first week of the holidays. To my delight the shop was empty and the children did not need new shoes. Elated, I spent the summer congratulating myself and, towards the end of the holidays, I listened sympathetically to tales of entire days spent camped out in the shoe shop. My glory ended abruptly when, on the first day back, the children writhed in agony trying to cram their too small shoes on their now too big feet. Straight after school we joined the queue at the shoe shop to buy the shoes nobody else wanted.

I have not completely lost my grip on reality. I know I have set myself a series of wholly unrealistic targets. My plans for a new world order rely on considerable co-operation from individuals who tend to be rather uncooperative and, coupled with my weak organisational skills and poor track record with resolutions, I suspect I will begin to understand how the children's father feels about his unfailing optimism and support of Manchester City at the start of each Season, only to be met with the bitter pill of defeat and unachieved goals.