It’s basically undisputed fact that Ferris Bueller’s Day Off is The Greatest Movie ever made.

Don’t agree? You might as well stop reading now. You and I? We have nothing to talk about.

If you’re still here, though, you’ll remember the final 10 minutes or so of Ferris Bueller – where Ferris is racing to get home before his parents, so they don’t realise he skipped school that day.

Friends, it turns out I’m the old, tragic Ferris Bueller.

Last night, Flea took her first ever unsupervised visit to the local supermarket. It’s about 2 minutes from our house by bike, so it’s not like it’s an Arctic exhibition or anything.

Still, the trip was better planned than your average journey to the pole. We planned the route (just one, quiet road to cross) and practiced it together. Money was put in purses, bike tyres topped up, iPhone charged.

And today was the day – Flea went to the shops.

It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?

When I was 7 or 8, I rode my bike to the shops ALL THE TIME.  Flea’s nine. But somehow it felt like a BIG thing. Maybe because Flea’s on her own, as an only child. Or maybe I’m neurotic.

She set off at 5.49pm. By 5.50pm, I’d fired up “Find my iPhone” on the Mac and was obsessively refreshing the page, tracking her progress.

Why is she stopping at the top of the road? Why? Oh, she’s off again.

She’s at the supermarket. Signal’s gone. That means she’s inside the supermarket. Or she’s fallen down a sewer. Or is in the back of a van on her way to Calais.

Why is she inside SO long?

At 6pm, the green dot appeared again in “Find my iPhone” at the supermarket. And there it stayed. And stayed. And stayed.

It was now 6.08pm.

That’s 20 minutes. Allowing 5 minutes to cycle there and back, that’s 10 minutes to find a tin of tomatoes and some spinach.

Too long.

I wait a minute more.

Enough’s enough.

I grab the keys, lock up the house and set off up the street in the car. I don’t see her. I start to feel a bit sick.

Reach the top of the street, round the corner. Still no sign.

Start to drive up the street, and oh BUGGER IT – she’s cycling straight towards me, looking pleased as punch. If I spoil this moment for her I will be the Worst Mother in History.

I duck. Not recommended in the Highway Code but fortunately she’s too distracted to recognise our car.

Swing into the supermarket. Execute world’s fastest three-point turn. Charge back out of supermarket car park, using local garage forecourt as a short cut. I have to be at home when she gets home. She can never know I doubted her.

Turn back into our street and slam on the brakes when I spot Flea 10 metres ahead of me. Don’t turn around, I mutter to her. Don’t turn around.

Hold my breath to see if Flea cycles straight down the street to the front door, or ducks down the alley to go straight to our back gate. Thank God – she ducks down the alley. I speed down our street like a crack dealer fleeing the Feds, and screech to a halt outside our house.

I race into the house, fumbling the keys twice on the way.  Tread on the dog’s paws in my rush to get to the back door. Open the back door. Into the garden.

Casually wait at the back gate, where my child has just arrived.


“Oh, you’re back. I was just playing with Teddy. How did it go?” 

I think I got away with it.

Mother of the Year.