So, September, eh? Sucks, don’t it?

Still, it could be worse. You could be my eldest. Experiencing the trauma that is FIRST YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL. Or Year 26, or whatever the heck they call it these days.

And now, they don’t wear blazers, they wear ‘business-style suits’. I mean, I work part-time in finance marketing (as dull as it sounds) and even I wear smart-casual daily and jeans on a Friday. What the actual fuck?

She’s four foot-nothing, with half her body weight in out-of-date textbooks, hockey sticks and French and Spanish dictionaries to lug to school each day and she has to do it encased in cheap nylon? Smack, bang out of order.

After only two days of the new place, we’d had tears, moodiness, raging three-again tantrums and a full blown Exorcist-style reaction to High School Hell. By day three, I was starting to wonder…

“Guess it’s the teenage oestrogen making its presence felt,” sighed the husband, as our daughter slammed another door and curled another lip.

“Don’t be a macho prick,” said I. “She’s 11-going-on-9 and there’s more to this story than hormones.” I cogitated a plan for the morning.

Next day, I tailed my girl on her route to school. She looked small and lonely and took a huge circuit round to get to a further away bus stop. And then I saw why, for despite my girl’s best efforts, her tormentors were waiting to receive her.

A sweaty teen girl gorilla, with a couple of acne-ridden acolytes, had decided to make my baby’s life a misery right from the get-go this school year. They taunted, pushed and shoved. They gobbed on her and even stood on her toes.

I felt so sorry for my girl. I also wanted to maim those responsible.

Unfortunately, physical violence is generally frowned upon, so I considered my other options:

1 – Contact the school to discuss their ‘anti-bullying code of practice’
2 – Waste time scheduling a chat with her form tutor
3 – Slap Gorilla Girl down with some public humiliation

I chose Option 3.

I went home and grabbed some chic accessories with which to disguise myself. I practised accelerating starts on my clapped-out Golf. I also did some arm exercises, focusing on an upward-pulling motion (more on this later).

Next morning, I disguised myself in a Coach jacket, mirrored Ray-Bans and a vintage Missoni scarf. I parked up secretly round the corner from the bus stop. I crept stealthily along the pavement – sure enough, there was Gorilla Girl, pushing my young un about. I waited for her to angle herself just so and pounced.

In one deft move, Gorilla Girl received a full-blown wedgie, hooked over her school backpack in front of all her peers. Caught up in the moment’s thrill, I roared and beat my chest. Then beat a hasty retreat to my jalopy and floored it out of there.

I nearly shat myself laughing once I got back home. Then I settled to watch the common populace scream and wail on daytime TV with a packet of chocolate Hobnobs – all bar two eaten in one sitting.

But had it really worked? And what would my girl say? Would she know it was me? Would our perspiring antagonist have been sufficiently publically humiliated?

The answer came at 10.35 that morning – my girl’s morning breaktime – when my phone bleeped with a text.

“You’re the best, Mum x.”

Good work, Caner. Next stop, the nursery teacher who says my youngest doesn’t know how to share.

Die, bitch.

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