Brian Viner: 'Jacob leaves an enduring legacy, in the form of the annual Great Egg Race'

Home And Away

Our youngest child, 10-year-old Jacob, is soon to embark on his valedictory term at the little village primary school, before secondary education beckons in the heaving metropolis, comparatively speaking, of Hereford.

Jacob goes to the school that we looked at for all three children when we moved from north London seven years ago, but decided against because it was so titchy and rural, and we reckoned it might represent too much of a culture shock after the resoundingly urban vibe of Hornsey High Street.

Four years later we did move him there, however, and he has flourished. Moreover, he and his mum are leaving an enduring legacy, in the thrilling form of the annual Great Egg Race, which had been a fixture at St Mary's school in Hornsey and which Jane duly suggested to the headteacher here. We hope that even when Jacob has children of his own, it will still thrive as a tradition, for it combines science, art and design with healthy competition and, of course, Easter.

The idea is that the children bring in vehicles designed to carry a hard-boiled egg, which are then set off, one by one and with a rousing countdown, from the top of a ramp. There are prizes for the vehicle which travels furthest, the most inventive vehicle, and the best-decorated egg.

Before the inaugural race three Easters ago, Jane wasn't sure whether pupils and their parents had quite understood the concept, and half-expected Jacob's to be the only entry, so she was hugely chuffed to arrive at school on the day of the race to find practically every child clutching a vehicle, including one little boy whose car was an egg carton, with Ginger Nuts for wheels. It didn't make it very far across the floor of the school hall, but it was pragmatic in other ways; the little boy watched the rest of the race while munching his wheels.

As always with such projects, some of the parents embrace it with enthusiasm verging on fervour. One dad always sends his kids in with fantastic papier-maché creations, with tin cans as wheels. Another made a devil for his son, with red felt flames, and an angel for his daughter, with white felt wings.

But the older children are similarly inventive. In this year's race, a week ago today, one boy entered a shoebox with 14 toy cars taped to the bottom, while another had his egg suspended – none too securely, it has to be said – in a travelling Meccano tower.

The only code of the highway is that vehicles cannot be motorised. Otherwise, anything goes. At St Mary's there was a strict disqualification rule if the egg fell out, but that's uncompromising London drivers for you; we're more relaxed in Herefordshire.

Jacob's vehicle was a toy tractor which he and Jane filled with fluffy yellow chicks. Naturally it was called "The Chick Magnet", and it won the furthest-travelled prize, which exposed Jane, the official starter, to an accusation from one disaffected child of surreptitious pushing. Another child accused her of sabotaging his entry by pushing the egg onto his rear axle.

She is innocent on both counts, of course, indeed it is a considerable source of embarrassment to her that "The Chick Magnet" won, but we're still waiting for a call from the Federation Internationale de l'Automobile, once they've dealt with Lewis Hamilton.

We don't often descend into gender-related cliché in our house, but on Sunday, while I took the two boys to Everton v Wigan Athletic, Jane took our 15-year-old daughter Eleanor on a shopping trip to London. I remarked on this gender divide to my son Joe shortly before kick-off, and he suggested that we should redress the balance by getting our nails done after the match, while Eleanor and Jane should have a pee against a wall somewhere in the West End. Anyway, it was a successful day all round: Everton won 4-0, and Eleanor found the perfect dress for what she and her friends insist on calling "the school prom".

The only member of the family with reservations was Jane, who reported that shopping for clothes with a gorgeous teenage daughter is fraught with self-esteem issues for a 46-year-old woman. Emerging from the changing-room at the same time was a thoroughly disheartening experience, she said. Apparently, "we'll get that for you, but I don't think I'll bother" became the mantra of the afternoon.