Sports day – maybe

The trouble began at 6:12 a.m.

This was predictably early.

Normally Barry preferred to begin causing problems after breakfast.

At 6:12 a.m., however, Mrs Brand’s phone pinged.

Then Mr Brand’s phone pinged.

Then Mrs Brand’s smartwatch vibrated.

Then Mr Brand’s laptop made a noise.

Then the school app sent a notification.

Then the parent portal sent an email.

Then the text message arrived.

Then, just to be absolutely certain nobody had enjoyed a peaceful morning, a second email arrived explaining the first email.

Mrs Brand opened one eye.

“Oh no.”

Mr Brand groaned.

“What now?”

She read aloud.

“‘Sports Day is currently ON.’”

There was silence.

Mr Brand blinked.

“Currently?”

“Currently.”

“That’s an odd choice of words.”

“Very.”

The weather forecast predicted rain.

Then sunshine.

Then rain.

Then something described as “unsettled conditions.”

Nobody knew what that meant.

Meteorologists loved phrases like that.

It made terrible weather sound like it needed a cuddle.

Alfie suddenly appeared beside the bed.

Nobody knew how.

One moment he wasn’t there.

The next moment he was.

“Is Sports Day today?”

“Possibly.”

“What does possibly mean?”

Mrs Brand sighed.

“Nobody knows.”

“Excellent.”

That answer should have worried her more than it did.

At breakfast, Alfie was already dressed in his PE kit.

Everything about him looked organised.

His hair was neat.

His socks matched.

His water bottle was labelled.

He had even packed a spare waterproof.

Alfie treated Sports Day the way military commanders approached major invasions.

Barry was wearing one trainer.

“No trousers.”

“Where are your trousers?” asked Mrs Brand.

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?”

“I stopped wearing them.”

“That generally helps explain where they are.”

Marmaduke arrived shortly afterwards.

He was carrying a tennis racket.

“Why have you brought that?” asked Mrs Brand.

“I thought Sports Day might need one.”

“It won’t.”

“Oh.”

He handed it to Barry.

“You have it.”

Barry immediately used it as a sword.

At 7:14 a.m. another email arrived.

SPORTS DAY UPDATE

Mrs Brand opened it.

Mr Brand opened it.

Several thousand parents across London opened it.

The email said:

Sports Day remains ON.

Nothing else.

No explanation.

No context.

No reason for the update.

Simply ON.

Like a military operation.

Or a toaster.

At school drop-off, parents gathered in confused clusters.

Everyone stared at the sky.

Everyone refreshed their phones.

Everyone pretended not to panic.

One father was already wearing waterproof trousers.

This suggested experience.

Miss Jenkins greeted the children cheerfully.

“Looking forward to Sports Day?”

The children cheered.

The parents looked traumatised.

At 8:02 a.m. Mrs Brand received another email.

SPORTS DAY UPDATE

Her heart sank.

She opened it.

Due to weather conditions, Sports Day is currently OFF.

She stared.

Then she checked the sky.

The sun was shining.

She checked again.

Still sunshine.

Mr Brand messaged immediately.

How can it be OFF?

Mrs Brand replied.

Maybe they’re forecasting rain.

Three minutes later another message arrived.

Please disregard previous communication.

Parents across London laughed in exactly the same exhausted way.

Meanwhile, Barry and Marmaduke were in preschool.

The teachers had attempted to explain Sports Day.

Barry had interpreted this as permission to become competitive.

An unfortunate misunderstanding.

The children were practising races.

“Ready…”

Miss Patel raised a hand.

“Steady…”

The children leaned forward.

“Go!”

Barry ran immediately.

Unfortunately, he ran in entirely the wrong direction.

Straight toward the bike shed.

Marmaduke followed.

Naturally.

“Where are you going?” shouted Miss Patel.

“We’re winning!”

“That’s not the race!”

Barry looked confused.

“There are rules?”

At 9:11 a.m., Mrs Brand received a text.

At 9:12 a.m., she received the same message by email.

At 9:13 a.m., she received it through the school app.

At 9:14 a.m., the parent portal attempted to send it.

Unfortunately nobody could log into the parent portal.

Nobody.

Not one parent.

Not one teacher.

Possibly not even the company that owned it.

The message said:

Sports Day is ON.

Mr Brand replied instantly.

Again?

Mrs Brand replied.

Apparently.

At lunchtime, Alfie sat with his friends discussing race tactics.

This was serious business.

Arthur, his quiet best friend, had created a strategy.

It involved pacing.

Breathing.

Energy conservation.

Alfie approved.

Meanwhile Barry and Marmaduke were discussing a different strategy.

“What race are you doing?” asked Marmaduke.

“The beanbag race.”

“What’s your plan?”

Barry lowered his voice.

“I’m going to carry two beanbags.”

Marmaduke gasped.

“Can you do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Should you do that?”

“No.”

“Excellent.”

At 12:42 p.m. the rain started.

Not heavy rain.

Just enough rain to make organisers nervous.

School administrators can smell risk from three postcodes away.

Another email arrived.

SPORTS DAY UPDATE

Mrs Brand opened it.

Sports Day temporarily OFF pending weather review.

Mr Brand phoned immediately.

“What does that mean?”

“I think it means they’re staring out of a window.”

A minute later another email arrived.

Please await further updates.

The further updates arrived two minutes later.

At 1:06 p.m., Sports Day was ON.

At 1:18 p.m., Sports Day was OFF.

At 1:31 p.m., Sports Day was ON.

At 1:47 p.m., Sports Day was described as “tentatively ON.”

At 2:03 p.m., it became “provisionally ON.”

At 2:11 p.m., it was “under active review.”

At 2:19 p.m., one email accidentally referred to it as “Science Day.”

Parents stopped trying to understand.

School pickup resembled a support group.

Parents exchanged information.

Nobody trusted any of it.

“I heard it’s tomorrow.”

“I heard it’s this afternoon.”

“I heard Year Two already finished.”

“I heard it’s moved to Scotland.”

Nobody knew anything.

The teachers looked exhausted.

The children looked delighted.

Barry bounced out of preschool.

“Mum!”

“What happened?”

“We practised races.”

“How did that go?”

“I nearly won.”

“Nearly?”

“I got distracted by a squirrel.”

That sounded accurate.

Marmaduke appeared.

“We chased it.”

Mrs Brand closed her eyes.

Of course they had.

That evening another email arrived.

This one was unusually long.

Parents approached it cautiously.

Like archaeologists examining a cursed tomb.

The message explained that Sports Day would definitely happen tomorrow.

Probably.

Weather permitting.

Subject to review.

Pending conditions.

Final confirmation to follow.

Mr Brand stared at the email.

“That’s not confirmation.”

“No.”

“That’s uncertainty in bullet points.”

The next morning began exactly the same way.

Notifications.

Emails.

Texts.

Portal messages nobody could access.

Sports Day was ON.

Then OFF.

Then ON.

Then OFF.

Then, at 10:03 a.m., the final announcement arrived.

Mrs Brand opened it.

Mr Brand opened it.

Half of London opened it.

The email said:

Due to weather conditions, Sports Day has been postponed until next week.

There was silence.

Then relief.

Glorious relief.

Finally.

A decision.

A real decision.

Parents everywhere celebrated.

Plans could be made.

Calendars could be updated.

Life could continue.

Then another email arrived.

Please note: Sports Day has been postponed until next week.

Everyone ignored it.

Then another.

Reminder: Sports Day postponed.

Then another.

Confirmation of postponement.

Then a text.

Then an app notification.

Then a portal message nobody could read.

The school had discovered certainty and become addicted to it.

A week later the weather was perfect.

Blue skies.

Warm sunshine.

Not a cloud anywhere.

Parents approached cautiously.

Nobody trusted it.

Not after last week.

Mrs Brand checked her phone.

Nothing.

No updates.

No alerts.

No warnings.

No notifications.

The silence was unsettling.

“Do you think it’s happening?” asked Mr Brand.

“I honestly don’t know anymore.”

At school, children assembled on the field.

Sports Day was finally here.

Actually here.

Not theoretically here.

Not provisionally here.

Really here.

Alfie competed brilliantly.

Arthur competed sensibly.

Parents applauded.

Teachers smiled.

Everything went wonderfully.

Then came the preschool beanbag race.

Barry lined up.

Marmaduke lined up beside him.

Miss Patel explained the rules.

Barry listened carefully.

This worried her.

Barry rarely listened carefully unless he was planning something.

The whistle blew.

The children ran.

Barry grabbed his beanbag.

Then he grabbed Marmaduke’s beanbag too.

Miss Patel sighed.

Exactly as predicted.

“Barry!”

“What?”

“One beanbag!”

“Oh.”

He handed it back.

Marmaduke thanked him.

Which somehow made it worse.

The race continued.

Children ran.

Parents cheered.

Barry was actually winning.

For once everything seemed fine.

Then he spotted something.

A puddle.

A completely ordinary puddle.

Tiny.

Harmless.

Insignificant.

Barry stopped.

The other children ran past.

“Barry!” shouted Mrs Brand.

“What are you doing?”

Barry pointed.

“Interesting puddle.”

Marmaduke stopped too.

“Oh yes.”

The race carried on without them.

The winners crossed the line.

The cheering ended.

The event concluded.

Barry and Marmaduke remained crouched beside the puddle.

Studying it.

Like scientists.

Or ducks.

Miss Patel walked over.

“What are you looking at?”

Barry pointed.

“There are clouds in it.”

Miss Patel looked.

There were.

Tiny reflections of white clouds floating across the puddle.

The race was over.

The medals had been awarded.

Parents were packing up.

But Barry smiled.

“I think we won.”

Miss Patel laughed.

“Won what?”

Barry thought for a moment.

Then he shrugged.

“No idea.”

And honestly, that summed up Barry perfectly.