I’ve been back at work after my epic weekend at Glastonbury. I arrived to the very sad news that the play building at our adventure playground was the victim of an arson attack at the end of last week. The fire’s done a huge amount of damage just weeks before summer playscheme, our busiest time of the year.

Today was all about planning how we’re going to clear up and get things back to normal for the children as quickly as possible. Somewhat unhelpfully my tics have been busy accusing my colleagues of being the arsonist, but it’s still a bit too soon for this to feel funny.

They have been providing some light relief though – I’ve come back from Somerset with a new ticced song. It’s got a folky, lamenting lilt and it first emerged during our long wet set at the top of a hill on Saturday:

“Your mother was a sheepdog, and your father was a bear.
You were a happy surprise.
Your mother nearly died, because of your bear thighs.
Your mother nearly died when you were born.”

I was singing this in the office earlier and my colleague JP laughed and shouted, ‘I’ve just addressed this email to ‘The bear!’

It’s been a sad and difficult day in many ways, and several times I’ve been glad of the humour my tics have brought to otherwise distressing tasks.

So far we’re all bearing up well with, in my case at least, with real bears.