About to dive headfirst into the whirling chaos that is the school gates, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn. Mme A is standing there, looking impossibly chic with an unreadable expression on her perfectly made-up face. "I must speek wiz you," she says. "OK," I push the kids through the gate, where they are immediately swallowed up by a mass of violently flailing limbs, then step to one side to let the other latecomers through. Mme A has adopted a combative stance. "Eez it true that your cheeld 'as geeven ze teecher a ring? And zis is OK wiz you? Eez it? Eez it?" She has gone mad... insane... all those years of dietary deprivation have finally come home to roost. I smile, trying to placate the poor woman."Erm, yes. It was a plastic ring from her dressing up box. Why shouldn't it be OK?" Mme A looks as if she is about to explode, "My Henri is doing ze copy-cat! He 'as been steeling my rings and geeving zem to ze teecher! Eet is ...
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