A rock and a hard place: leaving your kids in substandard care because you can’t afford to do otherwise.

It was a shambles from start to finish. I turned up fifteen minutes early to drop my kids at the local leisure centre. They’re running a holiday play scheme, Kool Krew, and it’s the cheapest option for holiday childcare, when a child minder for the day in London eats up most of my salary. We’ve used the scheme before on odd half days here and there. Largely run by beefy bouncer types who work as personal trainers and gym managers when they’re not playing Daddy Daycare, it’s hardly quality childcare, but how bad can it be?

My youngest is a bit too young, but she’s tall and with her brother, she copes in most situations, so reluctantly, we booked them in, knowing they’d object, but feeling the financial pressure outweighing their protests.

A lot of mums from the school use the facility, and normally there’ll be another face or two Jonah recognises, although for everyone who says the scheme is good value, another will weigh in with a criticism of how their child has been treated there. But the majority of kids that go there are from families who can’t afford anything better, and that, I suspect, snobbiliy, is my main objection.

They lay on a raft of kids’ games and activities, and I’ve watched a few of the sessions – there might be a bouncy castle, or they’ll kick a football about – it’s hardly educational, except, perhaps in the school of hard knocks as the personal trainers give them barks of encouragement in the games, and a take no prisoners approach to discipline When Jonah went as a four year old, he was put on time out for two hours because a member of staff went on duty and forgot about him.

So, it was with a degree of unease that 15 minutes later, there were still no staff to receive my children, and when a dusty meeting room at the back of the centre was opened up, there was nothing laid out or ready. Two spotty oiks turned up, who looked as if the only training they’d received in childcare was on a pram face estate, and as the minutes ticked by, and they didn’t appear to take charge, I started to quiz them about what they were planning to do with the day. There were a few mumbled responses, but nothing was clear. I sent a text to their child minder, pleading for her to come tomorrow.

Eventually they moved to the sports hall, where a few footballs were rolling about and a couple of ping pong tables were set up. I glanced at my watch. I was going to be late.

“Look after your sister”, I said to Jonah, kissing his head. He looked up at me nervously. “I have to go. Be good.”

I mumbled to the oiky youth about Jonah needing things explained to him clearly.

“Which is he?” the boy asked, and I thought better just to leave it. No point earmarking him as a trouble maker from the off.

A jobs worth manager with the face of a wrong’un walked up to me, clearly a pushy parent with an agenda, and said, to avoid me harassing his under qualified staff further, in Little Britain-esque jobs worth tones, “They’ll be fine.”

I doubted it, but scurried off to get my tube nonetheless It’s a beautiful shiny spring day. I hate to think of them in that stale sweaty meeting room eating their lunch, but then, I eat mine at my desk everyday, so I’m sure they’ll survive it. But it’s far from ideal.