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A year from now, aged 41, I'll be preparing, once again, to take my place among the mothers of the latest intake.

I would like to think that September 2010 will see me arrive back at the school gates somewhat reinvented as a Nice Mummy.

My hair's got shorter, my waist thicker and my face more lined.

Last weekend there was a big farewell party for the Year Six children, parents and teachers.

Seemingly innocent conversations about who put what in their little one's lunchbox quickly separated the organic mums from the chicken nugget brigade.

Over the years, I've also become a constant source of embarrassment.

I will try to conduct myself among the other mothers with dignity and maturity, be better organised where school matters are concerned and rather less aggressive when asked to help out at the school fair.

Realistically speaking, none of the above will ever happen.

I promptly resigned, and rebuffed any subsequent requests to help out at school fundraisers with a curt 'I leave that to the mums who don't work'. During intervening years I've crossed swords with several members of staff as my daughters made their way through the school.

I've ranted when episodes of bullying, I've felt, have been horribly mismanaged.

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