58. The glory that was Rome was of another day …
Five more sleeps until the wonders of North London supplant those of the Eternal City. I’m already itching to get back and play with my new bungalow but it has to be admitted that there’s some pretty darn impressive stuff here – and that’s not just the number 8 tram.
47. This sporting life
“Now then, jellybabies. In a minute, we are going down to the field to practise for our Sports Day. I want you to take off your jumper or cardy and put it on your chair. Then slip on your PE shoes. Then come and sit back on the carpet. OK?” Heads nod. “So, just to check – we’re not taking off our trousers are we?” A chorus of Nos. “And we’re not taking off our skirts?” No! “Or our summer dresses?” No! “And if you take off your skin, fold it carefully in your shoes, so you don’t lose it.” Howls of laughter. An easy audience – next week, the Glasgow Empire.
46. That which we call a rose…
When we set up our first IT suite, I wrote the name of each computer on its monitor for ease of identification.
So there I’d be in class, leading a rousing chorus of ‘Three Sailors went to Sea’ (easy to strum; no Fs), when a small child would appear at my elbow with the message that Flo wasn’t coming on. I could then reply that Flo tended to have a sticky disk drive and suggest checking that she didn’t have a floppy still in it. Then turn her off, turn her on and she’d roar into life with the full power of her 8 Mb. Simples.
40. Do you promise not to tell…
“You remember this – answer from Never to Always passing through Very Occasionally, Sometimes and Often.”
We’ve done the neurology questionnaire three times now: at the start of the drugs trial, in the middle and now, at the end. Where did that six months go? Dr LaMancha knows me so well that his pencil hovers over my answers before I say them. We whip through the questions. Then there’s that moment when I long for Dr LaMancha to give me a red pen to mark my own paper while he runs through what the answers should have been. It’s a test and I want to know how I’ve done. Perhaps I could be put in a league table with the other Parkie patients.
33. Mixing memory and desire…
“Can it wait, Layla? I need to get this register to the office.”
“But Mrs Jellywoman – we don’t have no chairs!”
I look at Layla over the top of my glasses. “That’s ‘we haven’t got any chairs’, Layla.”
Layla has younger brothers and so is accustomed to explaining things to the simple. She draws upon this skill now. “Well, you’ve got a chair, Mrs Jellywoman. You’re sitting on it. But we don’t have no chairs.”
32. I’m never gonna stop the rain by complainin’
“How do you do, Mehmet?”
“Very well thank you, Mrs Jellywoman.”
“How do you do, Ololade?”
“Very well thank you, Mrs Jellywoman.”
“How do you do, George?”
“My leg hurts.”
17. Slow, slow, quick quick, slow
Compare.
“Look, dragon breath!” Mixed infants circle round me, their breath steaming in the winter air. I roar obligingly and they scamper away.
One little dragon loses her footing and is brought to me, howling, by Katie. We check out the knees and agree that a quick magic rub and the application of a little TLC will be sufficient. We’re just setting off on a turn around the playground when there’s a tug on my coat. Owen is standing behind me with a plastic cup filled with mud.
“Coffee?” he asks. I take the cup and pretend to sip.
“Delicious!”
“That’ll be fifty pounds,” he says. “You can pay by card.” I pick up a leaf and hand it over. “Do you want cash-back with that?” he asks.
16. And you’ve been caught.
“Now, King Rat, you come in when you hear Rat-Trap.” I say. King Rat looks confused.
“You know, by the Boomtown Rats.” King Rat shrugs and shakes his head. Youthfully.
“The Boomtown Rats. As in I Don’t Like Mondays?” Nope.
“Bob Geldof?” I try. Bingo. I can see the mists clearing. King Rat smiles.
“You mean Peaches’ Dad!” he says.
I raise my eyebrows and look at him with withering disbelief.
14. And I’m doing … very well.
“I’ve finished, Mrs Jellywoman.”
I scoot across the ICT room to see Chiyedza’s work. Although she only started using the computers a couple of months ago, she has made a jolly good job of the picture which will end up on the front of her Christmas card. She chose the angel outline; then added colours with the Fill tool. Her cherub has a dashing green dress and is winging its way through a purple sky. Like Chiyedza, it has gorgeous mahogany brown skin.
“That’s beautiful,” I tell her. “Let me show you how to use the Spray tool. You could use it to add tinsel, perhaps, or stars, or snow.”
Job done, I scoot over to help Ezra. His Father Christmas has a yellow face and blue hair, so all good children this year will have their presents delivered by Marge Simpson. That beard is fooling no-one, Marge – don’t flutter your eyelashes at me.
13. The stars in the bright sky
“I’ve made you a present, Mrs Jellywoman. Can I put it under the tree?”
I’ve gone into halo production with a queue of Reception children in enormous white t-shirts, white tights and black plimsolls (the footwear of choice in the angel community) waiting to be beatified, ready for that afternoon’s Nativity play. Owen – already dressed to give the world his Second Innkeeper – has appeared at my elbow holding two toothpaste boxes glued together at right-angles.
“Well, thank you Owen. What is it?” He looks a little disappointed that I’ve had to ask, but patiently answers, “It’s a cross.”
“Of course it is. Silly me.”
“It’s for when you die,” he adds, earnestly. He carefully opens the flap of one of the boxes. “Your body goes in there.”
“How thoughtful,” I laugh. “Yes – of course you can put it under the tree. I promise I won’t use it till Christmas.”
The Jelly Chronicles 