AS MUCH as we love our daughter, there was a tangible sense of relief this Thursday when the summer holiday finally came to an end and she returned to school.

It wasn’t just her parents who were glad it was all over, she was delighted too. She couldn’t wait to get back.

As adults, the months fly by and seasons blend into one and before you know it, you’re drawing up a preliminary Christmas list.

But I remember when I was my daughter’s age, with the whole of the summer stretching in front of me. Those six weeks felt like an eternity.

It’s important to fill those summer days with plenty of stuff. And stuff costs money. And money does not grow on trees.

I’ve heard of many parents shedding a tear when they lightly shove their offspring in the direction of the school building, but not me. And not her. There was barely a backwards glance from either of us as I raced home having safely despatched her into the school yard.

The 21st century tradition is to take the obligatory picture of your child in their shiny new uniform set against the backdrop of your sitting room door, and post that on social media.

Photographic evidence has indeed been taken in our household, if only to serve as a reminder to our eight-year-old in three weeks’ time - when she comes home with scuffed shoes, ripped cardigan and a paint-spattered blouse - that it all looked brand new at one point.

IT is 21 years today that I started comprehensive school. But I was seemingly keener than most.

I’d ended up at a school where none of my friends from primary school were going, which was a little further away from home, but had a half-decent reputation.

The start of term was the Monday. We had a letter to say it. Monday. So, off I trotted in the best uniform that Asda George could provide, and two bus rides later there I was outside my new school.

It seemed quiet. Really quiet. If I’m being honest, the seeds of doubt had already been sown on the bus, where I was the only one in uniform.

That doubt soon turned into panic when I wandered through the school car park towards reception. There were about four cars parked there.

It was then I realised that the school wasn’t open, that they had inserted a teacher training day on the Monday, and that they had written to parents during the summer to inform them. A kindly man at the gate told me all of this and bade me farewell.

My first day at school lasted three minutes.

It’s fine, I thought, as I took the opportunity to walk home via the newsagents, where I spent my lunch money on a huge bag of sweets. Nobody will find out. This was merely a dry run.

So, when we all gathered for our first assembly on the first (second) day of school on the Tuesday, imagine my utter joy at the sight of the kindly man from the day before introducing himself as the headteacher and making a point of mentioning me by name as the young boy that could not wait to start school, so much so that he turned up a day early.

That day began five years of merciless bullying from which I am yet to recover.