HERE'S something they didn't tell you about at ante-natal classes - that 18 years down the line you'd have to collect their A-level results.

Normally I'm sitting in the car outside, waiting for news. But as Smaller Son is still on his travels, I've been deputed to go and find out how he did.

Believe me, if you're nervous when they tell you their results, it is much, much worse when you're the one who's going to have to tell them.

I'm standing with another dad - his son is in Africa. There's a mum whose son is in Borneo and a granny whose entire family seems to be in Florida. We are all, we admit far more nervous than on that long ago day when we collected our own results.

We were here early. School is late opening its doors. Girls chew the ends of their hair. Boys plunge their hands deep into pockets and kick the ground or each other. The other parents and I talk nervous nonsense.

The doors open. Everyone pushes forward and at the same time seems to hold back. There are lots and lots of white envelopes.

It's not a bit like you see it on television. No screams, no leaps, no shrieks.

Oh yes, there are few gasps of horror or delight, a few beaming smiles, a few puzzled looks but all in all the atmosphere is quiet and restrained - which only goes to show what a performance is encouraged by the cameras.

Compared to all the shenanigans I've seen on TV, it's so subdued that for a moment I think it must have been a disastrous year. In fact, it turns out to be the best ever.

But I don't know that as I look at the envelope in my hand and tell myself to stop being a wimp and open it. There are lots of bits of paper. On one, some results are loud and clear. The other is a mass of small grey print and I'm not wearing my specs and I can't make sense of all the numbers...

Staff - who know the results already of course, are swift to move in and offer congratulations or advice - and explain that mess of grey. Then everyone goes outside and hits the mobiles.

All around the grounds there are students comparing notes and results. Smaller Son has done well, very well. So have most of his friends. Their futures - well, the next term at least - are assured.

I rush to find a quiet place to ring the lad, who is in Helsinki waiting for news "Well?" he asks, before the phone has barely rung.

I tell him. He is pleased. From the Baltic to Borneo there are celebrations.

The atmosphere has lightened a bit now. These students have worked hard and got their reward. There are one or two minor blips around, but I feel a great weight lifting off all the people there as I head back for the car . Little groups of friends talk to staff and move on. There are a few hugs and happy punches. Relief fills the air.

Then in a quiet corner I see a girl gazing disbelievingly at the paper in her hands. This is clearly more than a minor blip. In among the quiet rejoicing, she seems devastated.

They don't tell you that in the ante-natal clinic, either.