Mrs Meadows blinks. How did it happen? It seems as if the successes always slip gently into the past and only the problems recur. Fenella started answering to her name, oh, days before Christmas, but the catalyst was the day when Mrs Meadows, having explained again how rude it was to everyone else not to answer, said that if Fenella wasn’t there, then she couldn’t have her apple. Although Mrs Meadows quickly relented, even that small lapse of time - maybe two minutes? - when removal of membership from the group was threatened was enough for Fenella to feel the need to assert her commitment to it. Hooray and what a relief.

Now Fenella can’t remember whether she is a school dinner or a packed lunch, but she is now less of a challenge than Jed, another of the younger children only just starting staying for lunch, who tipped his lunch box out over the mat. Debbie mentioned this casually to his mum, who is a really good sort and very friendly. I was amazed at her response. “Oh yes,” says she, “he does that at home, too”.

Out in the playground the reception class are now “with the big children”. “I don’t really want to be with the big children,” explains Milly earnestly to me. “I hope we aren’t going to be with them today.” Milly’s sister, it turns out, had a bad fall yesterday and it seems as if someone may have pushed her. Gosh, I know how you feel, Milly, but that’s how the playground is: cold and full of enormous confident people rushing hither and yon. Don’t they push, though!

Many children have new shoes and compare sizes, although several squabbles over how a size 1 can be bigger that a size 13 are narrowly averted by the measuring test. Why have we got this ridiculous sizing system? It is a terrible truism, but the great and continuing source of delight in working with young children is watching them opening their eyes newly on this stale old world. Walking Jake to school just before Christmas and bracing myself for the unpleasant business of him not wanting to let me go, I had such a frisson. “Oh look mum, they’ve polished the playground,” he said as he slid on the ice. “No darling, that’s frost from the cold.” “Oh, I thought they’d polished it specially for the party,” he said and rushed in happily.

So now Leo approaches me and sticks out a foot for his shoes to be admired. Duly admired, he confides, “Sometimes I don’t want to come to school but with my new shoes on I do want to.”

Children learn so much from each other, too. It is as if the teachers provide the environment, heavily structured - here is the home corner, not more than four, here is Mrs Meadows writing down news with five children, here is Mrs Bond working on phonics, here is Hank on the computer graphics again and here, alas, is Jake, demanding once more that he play with me - well, apart from Jake there is the structured classroom and the children know what is going on and, the interesting part, they tell each other.

“Sorry, Mahmoud, you can’t come in the home corner.” Mahmoud counts, yes, there are four, he goes away. True, he reappears a minute later and counts again, but still, compare that to his inability to conform of a few weeks earlier. Again, “I have done my letter ‘M’ and I’m going to Mrs Meadows now,” says Regina, wistfully eyeing one of the dolls in the home corner. Sure enough, she returns later to reclaim it and mother it (upside down), but first she goes off to transact learning. So here it is at work, the integrated day.

Naturally, there is the schadenfreude - “Why is Jake crying? I don’t cry, ” but there is also compassion - “I expect he’ll get over it.” And perhaps for the integrated day to work fully you have to have integrated children and some of ours are still very young but it’s looking hopeful for the New Year.

Patience is a parent-helper in a reception class.