113. And I’d like to thank my hairdresser…
In the sliver of time between waving off the last child for their summer holidays, and coming back for the ‘do’, it occurred to me that I should have prepared a speech.
Last time I left Thrush Woods, I’d given quite a lot of thought to what I was going to say. A neat little speech at the Leavers’ Service in the afternoon. The last eight years have been very special, the school is very special, the staff are very special but I need a new challenge. So long and thanks for all the fish.
112. Living in the Presents Part II
112 Living in the presents Part II.
“One of your tasks,” Miss Bradbury tells me, “is to order retirement gifts. You send the retiree the catalogue three months before their L.D.S. There are different catalogues, depending on their L.O.S. They tell you what they want; you order the gift. Is that clear?”
I try to look intelligent. Twenty-one, and in my first proper graduate job, working for what had been the Civil Service, and then the Post Office, and would shortly become British Telecom. I’m an Executive Officer in a Superannuation section. Pensions, to you and me. I have, under my supervision, two Clerical Officers and a Clerical Assistant. They are all unbelievably old – at least fifty – and I am now their boss. It is important that I appear competent.
111. Living in the Presents.
The presents
Are over-whelming.
Should you have a stick to shake,
I guarantee that the quantity of presents
Would defeat you; and the quality
Would have you running
For the hills.
110. The Prologue
Don’t expect any sense from me: I barely know which way up I am.
Replacing Wordsworth’s poems last night – don’t be overly impressed, we were looking up a crossword clue – I chanced upon my copy of The Waste Land. It made no sense at A-Level – all those disjointed fragments and random voices – hurry up please, it’s time. However, light has now dawned. Clearly Eliot was also in the process of – or poetically anticipating, if you want to be fussy about the chronology – a jolly eventful retirement do. He, too, was clearly having problems putting one thought in front of another.
109. In the morning, when I rise…
It used to be the sight of a dalek-shaped hole in a wobbly set which would send me scuttling behind the sofa. Then came the weeping angels; harmless stone while you’re looking at them, but as soon as you look away…
Weeping Angel Copyright BBC
So don’t blink.
108. London Pride is a flower that’s free…
“I’m taking eleven Poles to London,” I messaged.
“Is that a crossword clue?” replied DearHeart.”Does it involve a cricket team?”
107. Disappointment…
Knowing that it was my birthday;
Continue reading →
106. Not a blog
Mrs Jellywoman is very well-meaning but inclined to get far too easily distracted from the task in hand. For instance, when she should be writing reports; and finalising writing levels; and entering data from reading assessments; and calculating the increase (or otherwise) in points for each child (and points mean prizes); and the average point increase for the class; and planning next week’s literacy; and planning next week’s maths; and planning next week’s ICT; and when she should be doing absolutely nothing else…
105. Tiny acorns…
“We were just wondering if you knew who’d got the job,” I asked Mr Oak, our retiring Headteacher.
The white smoke was billowing from the room above. We were all keen to know who our next boss would be: a Head makes or breaks a school and the staff with it. Were we going to be maked or breaked?
Mr Oak shook his head. “I don’t know. They’ve not asked me for any help at all with the appointment. Not with the job description or the showing round or the interview. I’ve no idea who they’ve appointed. Sorry.” He lowered his head and I crawled out of the office, conscious that my Headteacher was deeply upset, and that I’d just made things worse for him.
104. Oh… sugar!
“Where’s Olivia?” asked her mother. I looked at Olivia’s “going home place”. She wasn’t there; neither were her coat and bag. I was already soaked to the skin from the dash between the coach and the classroom but this was nothing compared to the tsunami of icy panic which now washed over me. Surely we couldn’t have left her at the Butterfly Farm … could we? We’d counted the children incessantly, Miss Sugarsprinkles and I, at every twist and turn during our trip from Hades but had I actually count them after we’d sat on the coach for the journey back? My mind went a blank.
The Jelly Chronicles 