Tea towel, tie, tinsel. Tea towel, tie, tinsel. Mrs Smith is making a final check of the contents of the costume bags (named), hanging on the pegs in the classroom. Mrs Smith is leaving nothing to chance. She won’t be allowing anyone on stage wearing something still smeared with traces of spaghetti hoops and as for the tea towel bearing the legend “Piss off, I did it yesterday”, it may well reflect the way Mrs Smith feels about the Nativity but still …
Nativity practise has been underway since September, not officially of course. Mrs Smith hid the singing in plain sight by putting “music”, “drama” and at a push “PSHE” on the timetable, only breaking cover after half term to demand the hall timetable is rewritten to allow the stage to be set up. How then, thinks Mrs Smith could the choir of angels still forget the fucking words to their two-line song at the dress rehearsal to the whole school earlier today? Mrs Smith is beginning to rue some of her casting choices. Mrs Smith is nothing if not subversive. The aforementioned angels are the current crop of KS1 miscreants and ne’er-do-wells, all of whom could give Crabbe and Goyle, The Krays and the great train robbers a run for their money. Ah well, keeping them all in one place and dressing them alike makes keeping track of them easier for everyone Mrs Smith notes.
Fortunately for all, the Star in the East is indeed bright. The Wise men however are not. The Star takes her role very seriously, and has had to be asked not to blaspheme when the Wise Men forget their cue and don’t follow her towards the stable as the story dictates. Mrs Smith feels her pain.
Mrs Smith has had to deal with the cascade of emails from parents saddened that their child has been overlooked for the plum roles of Mary and Joseph. Three already have a costume apparently! Yes, thinks Mrs Smith, I’d really want my child to have the opportunity to sit on a chair for 30 minutes doing nothing but smiling at sheep.
Mrs Smith takes the register on the day of the performance to find half her cast have been taken ill with the sickness bug currently running riot in KS1. So far Mary, Gabriel and two narrators have succumbed, and the Innkeeper is beginning to look decidedly green around the gills. Mrs Smith raises her eyes heavenwards. Mrs Smith is not religious, but “God help us all” she mutters.
Doors to the hall will open at 2 pm for a 2.15 pm start, consequently the queue began at 12.45 for the front seats. One parent has bought a chair, a flask, and a blanket in preparation. Mrs Smith is always amused that the best seats in the house are taken up by parents who then watch the whole show through the screens on their mobiles or iPads. There will be grandparents the world over who think this Nativity is simply 30 minutes of a snowflake singing songs about Be-flea-yem. Mrs Smith has reserved the middle ten seats for no one in particular, she just enjoys pissing off the professional queuers. Mrs Smith will remove the paper from the seats just before the opening number and will wait to see who moves first.
Mrs Smith takes her seat, high on a slightly unsteady piece of PE equipment at the back of the hall. Mrs Smith has been doing this for years and is well practiced in Teacher production sign language. She can command the assembled cast to begin, to stop, to be louder and to sit down. She can stop a sheep from hitting a donkey and get an angel to take their hands out from down the front of their pants. She has no control over bladders or gag reflexes.
This is unfortunate.
Mrs Smith catches sight of another member of staff suddenly move towards the stage bearing a roll of blue paper tissues as another helps the Innkeeper towards the hall door. It seems that one gift left for the baby Jesus this year is assorted bodily fluids. Ah, thinks Mrs Smith, nothing says Christmas more than a projectile vomiting innkeeper and a shepherd who leaves the stage trailing his dressing gown through a puddle of his own wee!
Mrs Smith hopes the spillages are mopped up quickly. The finale to the show involves eight barefoot snowflakes dancing to a snippet of the Nutcracker. She really doesn’t need anyone slipping in sick, although the 250 pounds from You’ve Been Framed would be a bonus, especially as her book corner seriously needs updating.
Thank fuck for that. The baby is born, the Kings have arrived, they remembered their presents, and no one has found out about Herod yet. Mrs Smith will be wetting the baby’s head with several large glasses of something cold this evening.
Mrs Smith is off to search Amazon. She has a serial washing up dodger as her school secret Santa. That tea towel from earlier? Perfect, just perfect.
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