84. Know what I mean, jellybean?
Even at four, Terry is built like a Great Dane who works out. So when, on his first day at school, he barges into wee Jack, there’s no question of who will be sent flying. Terry stands in front of me, sheepishly.
“Terry,” I say, gravely. “You knocked over Jack and he’s hurt.” Jack howls to underline the point.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I’m sure you didn’t. You know that it is wrong to hurt people on purpose, don’t you?”
Terry nods. “It was an accident,” comes the gruff reply.
“Well, even if you didn’t mean to, Jack is still hurt. See how upset he is.” Jack is currently working towards a nomination for Best Actor in a Playground Incident. Terry himself now looks on the point of tears; the classic gentle giant. “Now, what do you think would make him feel better?” I ask.
Terry’s face brightens. “Flowers?” he suggests.
83. Pretty Polly…
“It’s my mum’s anniversary today,” Violet yells above the playground buzz.
“That’s lovely, Violet.”
“She’s been married eight years. I wasn’t even born then!” There’s a gasp of amazement from the giggle of girls around her, which swiftly moves into a conversation about frocks worn at various parents’ weddings.
82. It’s because…
I’m not in love, so don’t forget it…
We lasted four days in the job, Snopake and I, and then she fainted and we chucked it in. The boss said that it was just as well; we were too slow anyway. We’d have been quicker if we hadn’t worn gloves, he said. But then, we would have been constantly pricked by thorns as we counted out a dozen roses, wrapped them in cellophane, counted out a dozen roses, wrapped them in cellophane, counted out… The thorns penetrated the gloves anyway, but luckily our hands were anesthetised with cold. The roses needed to be refrigerated, so we were too. Even 10cc – always on the radio that summer – didn’t make it bearable. He settled up; we stepped gratefully into the sunshine. July 1975.
81. A horse isn’t a flower, Sidney.
I thought that she was in the outdoor area working with Miss Sugarsprinkles. Miss Sugarsprinkles thought she was in the classroom, working with me. So, we instituted a search. Not in the toilets. Not in the Welfare Room. Not in the Office.
At last I found her; huddled in the corner of the small resources room: headphones in ears, gum in mouth, mobile in hand.
She shrugged. “Those f*cking kids are doing me ‘ead in.”
“Then perhaps,” I suggested, “a career in education is not for you. I’ll ring your tutor.”
80. Something sensational to read on the train.
Jan 1st Had party at home. Went to Grandad’s.
Jan 2nd LittleSis lost piece of spirograph. No. 42 ring. Made bed. Payed Coal Bill. Went to Town.
Jan 3rd Found ring 42. Lost magnet pencil of International Spy.
London at the height of the Swinging Sixties. Still whistling World Cup Willie, we hunker down for the winter before the Summer of Love. It’s all there in the heady entries of my 1967 Letts School-girls Diary; unearthed this morning from the loft as we haul up yet more of YoungLochinvar’s goods and chattels.
79. More Reasons to be Cheerful…
– I woke up to find that InfantPhenomenon had not after all thrown over BikingLad in order to marry Gordon Brown and
– I spent a coupl
e of hours in the sunshine playing with my garden whilst listening to podcasts of In Our Time – (I’m partial to a bit of Melvyn) and
– I now know very slightly more than nothing about Classical Humanism (it was Roman) and the Medici family (they were Italian) and
– I’ve made a small impact on the jungle we inherited but still lots to get my teeth into and
– I wore my new fingerless gloves what Ma made me for Christmas and
– drank coffee from my new thermal mug what Secret Santa gave me and
– ate a toastie from the toastie-maker what Mrs Castle gave me and
– I’ve got a rather good detective novel on the
go and
– Ma wasn’t too traumatised by receiving fourteen garden gnomes for her birthday and
– Pa said at least it would be someone to talk to and
– we’ve managed to rearrange the bungalow to squeeze in Young Lochinvar and Ms Tintin while they look for alternative digs – preferably somewhere that doesn’t give you an electric shock when you turn on the light and
– there’s still a week of the Christmas holiday left and – Oh joy unconfined! Verily rejoice! –
– there’s a whole year before we have to do any more Christmas shopping.
Mind you, the 99p shop is already selling Creme Eggs.
78. Tales of the Riverbank
“We don’t want the Reception children to think that we are saying the F-Word,” Oliver tells me earnestly. “So when we get to the word ‘fox’, we’re going to say it like this…FOOOX. Very clearly.”
“Good thinking, Oliver. I’m quite sure that, um – Ylvis – would be horrified if anyone thought he was swearing. Off you go, then.”
77. Does my bum look big in this?
This week I received a photo of my brain. I’m thinking of sending it as a Christmas card. It’s the result of the six thousand quid scan I had a couple of weeks ago and so is the most expensive photo I’ll ever have taken.
As I understand it – which I don’t really – the yellowish bits are the proteins that have gone bonkers because of the Parkinson’s. Looks like we’ve got it cornered.
76. The shape of things to come
For Mrs Karma and Mrs Auld-Syne
Partners in Planning Par excellence
I
am a
blogger
without any
ideas for a blog
Other things I don’t
have include:
written cards; bought presents;
baubles (taken to
work as a prop for teaching
division); plans for the Christmas
dinner we’re cooking in
just
nine
days’
time.
75. But me no buts…
Secondary school bus conversation of the day:
Girl: does he know I like him?
Boy: everybody knows.
Girl: but does he know?
Boy: everybody knows.
Girl: but does HE know?
Now, by Leibniz’s laws from logical papers 1690, she already knows her answer. Her question is obsolete.
Facebook post from the InfantPhenomenon.
The Jelly Chronicles 