131. Time to stare…
“However you organise the room to start with, you’ll want to change it the minute the kids arrive. At least, that’s how it was for me. It took me half a term before I had things organised the way I should have had them in September.”
I am still grateful to Simon. Unasked for, he helped me sort out my first‑ever classroom, including a lesson in the putting up of backing paper. I chose to cover all my boards in a ghastly, beige-y, custardy, blah sort of colour, I seem to remember. A good back-drop for all that free, independent writing my class would be itching to produce, was the theory. Titter ye not.
130. Fellow passengers to the grave…
“You do realise that the work can be quite heavy? Loading the autoclave, lugging stuff to be sterilised and so on?”
The candidate nodded. “Yes, I don’t mind lifting. I’m stronger than I look.”
Mrs Valley ticked her list of questions and then I weighed in with some routine probing about previous work history. Just like they’d taught me at Personnel Management School. I handed back to Mrs Valley, the Head of Department for the hospital’s Sterilising Unit.
I’d not been in post for long and this was the first time we’d interviewed together. I’d heard that Mrs Valley had the reputation of being as mad as a box of frogs but so far she’d been absolutely charming. I was starting to relax: the hunt for a new assistant in the Sterilising Unit seemed to be going smoothly.
Mrs Valley looked up from her notes and smiled at the candidate. “Just one more question. Are you pregnant?”
129. Daisy, Daisy, put some wellie into it…
I’ve told you before about my Great Uncle Stan. Mind, it was two years ago, and you’ve had a lot on, so let me jog your memory.
Great Uncle Stan kept a fruit and veg barrow on the Northcote Road. During the war, he spent a lot of time at my Nan’s; once managing to sleep right through an air-raid and waking up to find himself covered in glass from the shattered window beside him. He had a glass eye which he used to take out at night and put in a jar besides his bed, terrifying my Ma – a child at the time.
Equally terrifying is my memory of him, sitting in the corner of a mental institution in the 1970s. He shook uncontrollably; had no idea who we were; couldn’t communicate. He has Parkinson’s, the nurses told us.
128. Is this a wedding cake I see before me?
“He’s is going to be studying Macbeth for the literature exam,” Fred’s mum says, as I pack away my highlighters. I’ve started tutoring Fred, who is resitting his English GCSE next month. It’s a learning experience for us both.
The Jelly Chronicles 