I swear, sometimes I wonder if the universe is just having a laugh, you know? Like, setting up these ridiculous little tests designed to expose all your pathetic flaws right out in the open. Today was one of those days. 10:45 AM, recess bell goes, a cacophony of small human yells and the distinct smell of grass and... well, small humans. I’m out there, supposed to be supervising, but then little Maya, bless her energetic heart, comes tearing up, all “Mr. Davies, play tag! Please, Mr. Davies!” And I think, *sure, why not?* Big mistake. HUGE. We start off okay. I’m jogging, laughing, a proper primary school teacher. But then five minutes in, maybe six, I swear to god I felt it. That familiar tightening in my chest, a little prickle of panic, my lungs suddenly refusing to cooperate like they’d just clocked out for the day. I was still *trying* to play, to keep up with these miniature gazelles, but my legs were just… not doing it. My heart was pounding like a goddamn drum solo in a shoebox, and I could feel my face getting hot, my breath getting short, like I’d just run a marathon instead of dodging a six-year-old. I actually had to stop, lean against the goal post, pretending to tie my shoe but really just trying not to faceplant in front of the entire Year 2 class. The shame, dude. The absolute, soul-crushing shame. It’s just… we’re supposed to be these capable, invincible adults, right? Especially to kids. They look at you like you’re a titan, a giant, someone who can literally do anything. And I’m standing there, forty-two years old, feeling like I’m about to have a heart attack because I tried to play a simple game of tag. It’s not just the physical part, although that’s a big chunk of it. It’s the feeling of failure, the stark reminder that time is a cruel, relentless bastard and I’m not twenty anymore, or thirty. Hell, I’m not even thirty-five. I’m just… older. And slower. And way more winded. I used to be able to run for miles, you know? Played a lot of football back in the day. Now, a quick sprint after a runaway frisbee feels like an Olympic event. And then I go home, and it’s a different kind of exhaustion. The constant demands, the endless questions, the sticky little hands. My partner, bless their heart, they’re amazing, but they’re not *here* all day, seeing the small, insidious ways everything changes, the small losses. It feels like a double life sometimes, this person I am at school, this person I am at home, and both of them are utterly knackered. I think we, as humans, we just… keep going, don’t we? Even when the tank is clearly on E. We just keep pushing the little red light out of our minds. I ended up sitting on the bench, pretending to supervise some kids building a very precarious stick fort, while the younger teachers sprinted around with the rest of the class. They looked so… vibrant. Full of life. And I just felt this crushing weight of… everything. The years. The decisions. The sheer, relentless march of time. And the thought that next year, Maya will probably still want to play tag, and I’ll probably be even worse at it. God, I need a pint. Or five. And maybe to just… scream into a pillow for a bit. Before the kids get home.