Village life.

Most people, in most of the world and through most of time, have raised their own children in the same small place they grew up. I didn't expect to be doing so, but my daughters go to the Playcentre my sister and I went to. One of the other parents was there at the same time as us. Three of my Form Two class (the last year of primary school, when we were 12) are also there, and the other day someone from the class ahead came intending to enroll.

On Thursday I took my beautiful bright first-born with her shining eyes and precious mind to the school that I went to as a child and signed her up to the sausage-grinder. I don't know whether I hope she doesn't buckle under, remains strange and pure, but probably sadly lonely, or whether I hope she learns fast and easily about how to win friends and influence teachers. I didn't do either, most people probably don't.

We felt it was rather an important moment and that possibly it could have been marked with a warm welcome and a bit of validation of the choice we've made to give schooling a chance. Unsurprisingly it was not; school isn't about feelings is it? The person in the office typed Hazel's name and date of birth into the computer and said someone would contact us about school visits near the end of Term 4.

Hazel beamed when I told parents who were doing school pickups and they said how exciting it was. We held each other's hands tightly all the way home.