Everyone back, wide-eyed and bushytailed. Everyone in their new uniform - boring dull grey anonymous suit from Marks and Spencer, Next or soft Scandinavian Somewhere for the lady. Holyrood returns next week and Westminster was called back early.
The referendum campaign trail started up again on Wednesday with Alex Salmond and Michael Moore continuing were they left off, beginning with playground pelters and square-gos. Both are sharp and ready to go. Moore has that look of a modern studies teacher who finds it all so effortless yet still can't believe, despite how good he is, that he's been passed over yet again, for a deputy head job. Salmond has had his eye brows dyed and has his mad squared-off eye-brow thing going on, part Groucho brow part Hitler/Chaplin moustache.
There are tears from those scared to go back to school. The school bully Bill Walker has been up all night polishing his brogues to kick shiners all over new school satchels. Walker said he won't quit despite calls from 80-plus MSPs…the thing is, who is going to tell him? Only one thing for it, time to draw lots to see who gets the crash helmet and has to go into his office to tell him.
Bill Walker strikes me as the type who'd knock yer milk. You know the type, steals the dinner tickets off the new kids and goes into the staff room to help himself.
I know some people who would demand a vote for a military strike if anyone touched their milk in the communal fridge. I always get around the fraught and awkward diplomacy of milk in a shared fridge by not putting my name on the carton but having false documentation that confirms my name is, Wiseman, Robert Wiseman.
The complexity of the situation on the ground continues, the playground that is. By morning playtime Salmond and Moore are at it again, taking the referendum debate to the my dad is bigger than your dad stage. Give it time, though. Soon it will escalate to my uncle's in the SAS and mine's James Bond level.
By lunchtime, the playground has emptied and it's not even raining - Bill Walker has appeared demanding to play kiss, cuddle or torture.
Things calm down in the afternoon when your favourite science teacher, Dr Alice Roberts, presenter of Inside Science on Radio 4, discusses sniffer dogs that are trained to go in to war zones. Given the right rewards they sniff out explosive devices. Having watched the Westminster debate in detail on Thursday, I think it would be better to let the dogs rule the country and have sniffer politicians. Let the cabinet take on the danger by sniffing out poison gas and bombs for some dog biscuits while your own F16s bomb your tail. Thankfully, just at that mental image the bell rings and it's home time.
To football and sacrificing sheep. Here's a question for next years' referendum paper: should an independent Scotland decree that the Scotland team are allowed to sacrifice a TV chef before a game? I'd start with Jamie Oliver, then it would be Gordon Ramsay. Once they were finished we could move on to the Masterchef critics, starting with Charles Campion (the chap who looks like Peter Griffin from Family Guy), who we might need to hire a crane to slaughter. After them I'd go on to TV politics presenters - Sky's Adam Boulton, come on down.
As has been well documented this week, it is 50 years since Martin Luther King Jr. made his legendary I Have a Dream speech at Washington. He had a way with words (he also had a way with the birds but we shouldn't really mention that). His rhetoric and tone were both rousing and inspirational. His words still resonate through the ages. He would speak of the architects of our republic and the bank of justice, about now being the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. About now being the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children. About an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. About the whirlwinds of revolt and about being able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. About being able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood.
Holyrood's political rhetoric is slightly more colloquial. It's all about knocking your pan in, chickens coming home to roost, barging your way to the front of the queue, scaring the pants off the Scottish people, the economy getting a big boost, talk being cheap, going a bit far, and at the end of the day, somebody is waiting till the cows come home.
Following the Westminster debate on Syria, someone emailed Radio 5 Live to say Ed Miliband's opposition to David Cameron's case for military action was just playing politics. What does he think he's playing? KerPlunk? That's like going up to a footballer in a crucial Champions League game and saying to the centre-half: you're just playing football.
On Wednesday, I was feeling nauseas as Cameron tweeted about going to war. On Thursday morning his political ambition burned brightly - this would be his career-defining moment, something to highlight on the lucrative American university speech circuit. That evening he lost; there wouldn't be any military intervention and suddenly he looked a powerless, diminished figure on the international stage. While watching the debate, I was convinced there was something different about Cameron. Maybe he'd put on the weight? Then I got it, with the speed of events and the rush back to parliament, he'd forgot to dye his hair. Vanity, vanity, all is vanity.