Sleepy heads huddled beneath the fairy and football doonas, they listen for the morning clues.

Before they hear anything conclusive they can already sense that the air of formality they were dreading has descended.

The soft morning light that crept on cat feet into their messy rooms to nudge them awake was growing irreversibly bolder.

The hazy hues that muffled the surfing posters and shelves of toys and books were giving way to harder edges with each drowsy blink.

There was no turning back.

The holidays were over.

Upstairs, the steam iron gurgled and hissed as it smoothed broad highways through wrinkled maroon schoolwear.

They could hear it from the temporary safety of their caves and like the dragons that had so ensconced the boy in his holiday read, it was a loathsome foe from which there would be no hiding.

He was the first to appear, in the skull-and-crossbones ski pyjamas that are creeping up his ankles and wrists at the same daily rate that the passionfruit vine extends its reach along the fence outside his room.

“I hate that sound,’’ he whines, climbing beneath the vacated covers of our bed and drawing what warmth he can before he is inevitably told to get moving again.

“Here’s your uniform,” I tell him, tossing the gear on his head. I mention that he might want to wear a t-shirt underneath because it looks like being a cool one.

In between hairdryer blasts, his mother says good morning and allocates a job.

“Hey Buddy Boy, if your sister’s awake can you tell her to come up here please so I can do her hair?”

He groans audibly as he walks down the stairs, uniform still balancing on his melon. All that he has just heard is further reinforcement that none of this was make believe.

The scene reminded me of when Steve Martin in the movie The Three Amigos realises that El Guapo’s gang isn’t putting on a show but actually wants to kill him and his men. It made me laugh.

“It’s not funny Dad,’’ he drawls in a tone that hints of forgiveness, given that he knows enough about my imagination to guess that the bullets weren’t being aimed directly at him.

It’s the first sign that the mood is lifting.

They know there will be no cartoons this morning so it’s pointless even asking.

No beach or river either.

No Plaza, paints or crazy plaits.

Farewell to force-em-backs on the front lawn and fun in the fort.

The wagtail they had befriended with ham on the porch rail would be back slumming it with worms.

The model Corsair aeroplane we made together that rainy afternoon, and which now sat drying on the hutch, continued fire at the diminishing sense of freedom with nostalgic salvos of plastic cement to our senses.

There would be no more charging in with dirty feet for impromptu kitchen raids. The drop in the consumption of Milo may have stock market ramifications but I, for one, am not concerned.

The border collie doesn’t look displeased either. While they say it is a smart breed, it’s still “dog smart” they are talking about which has similar self-limiting connotations to “golf cool” and “insightful current affairs” in my book.

This was, after all, the dog which got a bone stuck in its mouth, which is a bit like a cat choking on a mouse.

Still, I think she was clever enough to read the signs that the kids would be off to school that morning, meaning she could get back to her important work of sleeping under the avocado tree all day rather than being hunted for her imaginary antlers or lassoed like a calf.

All of this and more would have to wait for next holidays which were already in the planning as the cereal spoons whirred like hummingbird wings and the back to school routine began buzzing with its own familiar, frantic rhythm.

Dishes stashed. Teeth brushed. Ports packed.

Then they gave me the hurry-up.

“Come on Dad. We’re gunna be late!”