School Run

Coat on, keys in hand, you lift the school bags from the hook by the door, one in each hand, before calling for the kids to follow.

The front door clicks shut behind you, the chill of the morning air brushing your cheeks. The street is damp from an earlier shower, glistening in the low, grey light. You herd the kids towards the car, their voices bouncing between them as they argue about whose turn it is to sit in the front.

You unlock the silver Focus, the soft beep cutting through the quiet street. Bags go in the boot, kids into their seats, seat belts clicking into place. You start the engine, the dashboard lights flickering on, and pull away from the curb.

The drive to school is short, past rows of terraced houses and the corner shop with its metal shutters still down. You pull up outside the gates, put the handbrake on, and turn to check they’ve got everything: lunchboxes, water bottles, homework. Quick kisses, a “Have a good day,” and they’re off, joining the stream of children heading inside.

Back in the car, you reach for your travel mug, taking a sip of tea before pulling out into the traffic. The road towards the council offices is steady with commuters, wipers flicking now and then at a light mist of rain.

Another weekday is underway.