TOM JACKSON
The Times Magazine 59of cold lager from the fridge and emptying it
into my soul. “You nearly got me there.”
“No, seriously,” said Esther. “She’s not back
till next Tuesday. But don’t worry, I’ll...”
“That can’t be right,” I said, reaching for
the school calendar. “She’s been off since the
start of Advent, it’s nearly the Easter holidays
and there’s that ridiculous two-week half-term
to be fitted in somewhere. When does she
actually go to school? There must be some...”
But there wasn’t. And Esther was working
the next day. And while I could of course just
leave my ten-year-old in her room with her
iPad and Pokémon cards while I get on with
my work – which would make her very happy
indeed – I just know that at the end of my
life I will regret every single one of the days
that I spent doing that. So I cancelled theEating out
Giles Coren
Simpson’s Tavern
id I say last week that I took the kids
to that chicken place in Stratford on
the last day of the school holidays?
I was wrong. I got home that evening
(“Right, kids, shoes off, upstairs for
a bath, quick supper and early bed,
because it’s school tomorrow!”), said
to Esther, “That’s the little buggers
done with for a while,” went for a high-five
and... she left me hanging.
“Not so fast, Superdad,” she said. “Kitty’s
got another week.”
“Ha ha ha, right on,” I said, cracking a can‘It’s the very best of old
London Town. If hipsters ever
got their hands on the place,
it would be dead to me’