Please Monsieur Hollande, don't bring back school on Wednesdays That unlucky president, Monsieur Hollande, has a new idea that is - whisper it - rather good. He believes that homework, specifically homework that requires parental involvement or supervision, is unfair, and particularly unfair against children who are already from challenging backgrounds. Watching my British friends spending all weekend constructing their child's project model of a Viking ship/oilrig/alternative fuel source has often made me incredulous - one, how does watching you faff about with the glitter glue help the child, and two, what about the children whose parents don't give a toss? Don't they have it hard enough without having to applaud little Mabel's perfect 1:30 scale model of Narnia, as completed at 11.30pm the previous evening by her graphic designer dad? Fortunately (or unfortunately - we'll see what they say when they're grown up), my three are at the local takes-no-prisoners, opt-out Catholic school, which means they do homework the old-fashioned way. There is not a lot you can do as a parent when your six year-old is instructed to write out the numbers 1-50 in words in forward and reverse order, except wish them luck and perhaps make them a cake for afterwards, and keep the Kleenex handy (they tend to start weeping just before they get to 40. Try not to crack some kind of metaphor for life at that point, it doesn't really help). Monsieur Hollande wants homework done at school, supervised by teachers. You may think that just sounds like school, and teachers may think "Hang on a second there, Jim Lad," but I can't deny it feels fairer. Particularly for primary school children like mine who have enough going on, due to me being just as ridiculous as every other middle-class parent I know and spending a lot of my time, and their childhood, saying "Okay, time for rugby! Swimming! Have you practised that guitar? I need a thank-you and two birthday cards, including at least three colours, STAT! The president's other plan is to reintroduce Wednesday (or Saturday) morning school, and shorten the school day. This I do not like so well. That clear oasis of Wednesday in the tough French system is an absolute godsend for little ones; there is an ease with which they charge home on Tuesday nights, often with a friend in tow. They get to stay up a little later, sleep in a little longer, then Wednesday is for tearing around sports fields and stuffing their faces at birthday parties (actually, of course, one does not stuff one's face at a French birthday party; there will be a couple of bonbons, a glass of juice and one small piece of good cake served with a fork. And no party bag. Very sensible.) The French school day is long. I drop mine off at 8.15am and see their sticky faces again after 16.30, with many children staying as late as six - but there are proper nap times for the little ones and long lunches for the big, and it means I get a real work day. If they're going to be coming home at three, I suppose I can hurl them out in the garden if the weather is nice, because we are lucky and have a garden. For those without gardens, or on wet days, I can see the children ending up with more screen time and less time playing with their friends in the playground, and that I think would be a terrible shame. French schools' traditional Wednesday off began when the schools went secular: children were allowed the extra time at home for religious study. If Hollande reverses the policy, I may need to make up a religion of my own that precludes them going. More seriously, French schools are notoriously bad at providing creative activities, sport, clubs and societies, because these are usually performed outside of school on Wednesdays. If those Wednesday organisations have to close, what will be left? And the free Wednesday has given many mothers the perfect excuse to insist on working part-time (60 per cent of working British mums say they would do this if they got the chance). French employers don't blink twice at a four-day non-Wednesday week for grown-ups. It feels that we would all lose something. On the other hand, I'm not sure the teachers have agreed to this yet. Given that François famously has some trouble standing up to so many of the women in his life, I cannot imagine him having the gumption to face one of the most terrifying creations life has to offer: the French maîtresse. 'Christmas at the Cupcake Café' by Jenny Colgan is published by Sphere, priced £12.99