Both ends of the 'stadium' rammed with parents & grandparents, dads on step ladders along the touchline dangling cameras & videos.
Next year's intake get a run, as do alumni - tears from toothless loser, poor thing. Something to remember forever?
Littlest ones sat in the sun, no shade or hydration. Job I have done with the drums etc taken care of by dozen extras - trainee teachers & pinch hitters. Their efforts very much appreciated.
As I can't even really see in, with the weight of parenthood and camera anguish, all I can really do to wander around behind the crowd & say 'Hi' to a few people who notice. Could be so much more if they wanted it to be - stopped & asked my opinion once in the last month?
But that would be far too much. This is all about the show, and in the days of film I am sure how Fuji made a bloody fortune. It's the ritual, the rite of passage and the precision of the schedule - familiarity & security of life moving on but nothing really changing? It is absolutely not to do with anything sporty, a celebration of speed, skill or ability. All about the group think, the homogeneity, the malleableness. Celebrate the job the teachers have done to produce this tightly choreographed mini-drama, when nothing has actually happened.
And everyone goes home happy, the teachers frazzled, cameras full. Sunstroke cases I am sure, and another notch in 'my childhood' notched on mums' Facebook pages.
Happiest of all, likely the in-house photographers' boss. I gave CD-roms of all my photos to Boss to give to the teachers; no one said thank you, so I guess he didn't.
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