Wednesday 18th June
100+
is the number of reports I finally completed at 5.45pm this afternoon, as my back seized up and my contact lenses gently grew into my corneas. Forgive me if this entry is written in teacher speak, but I feel I have triumphed with aplomb and I should now begin to concentrate harder on my written work (vis a vis, Diario).
Amanda Holden, what a bitch!
Strictly speaking I mean Mia Bevan, of course. What an arch bitch! Amanda Holden, who knew? Showed more facets than the Hope Diamond in the latest series of Cutting It. Makes me sorry I spent most of the episodes last series playing Zoo Tycoon or at the Pub Quiz. What a wicked show! She totally steals it. New respect for the laydee but I expect lots of people are saying the same thing. Wow! Tragic Damsel one moment, Woman Scorned the next. Course, everyone else was good but that Sarah Parish is a bit wet for me. Bit harsh I spose - she doesn't write the script.
Stupid Child Quotes
"Miss, is origami a herb?"
"No Eddie, origami is the Japanese art of paper folding."
"No Miss, no! It's a herb! You put it on your pizzas Miss! Italian cooking Miss!"
......
How do you feel you have changed since starting secondary school? (year seven RS exam paper)
I think I have become much naughtier and do a lot less work.
(My comment: "How incisive. I agree.")
......
Did Thomas Becket deserve to die? (year seven history paper)
No, he did not deserve to die. He should just have had is arch-bishopness taken away from him.
......
Describe the differences between primary and secondary source materials. (year eight history paper)
No.
......
Did Bloody Mary deserve this nickname? (year eight history paper)
No, I don't think Bloody Mary deserved her name, because although she killed lots of Protestants, she burned them at the steak (sic), and you don't get much blood when you burn people, so she should be known as Burny Mary instead.
......
What did Chamberlain say when he got off the plane following his meeting with Hitler? (year nine history paper)
"He seems like a perfectly nice chap to me."
(That one actually reduced me to tears of laughter)
"Norris! Can I have your autograph?!"
So, I got my job on the Thursday, and then on Friday I went out and drank to mega excess to celebrate, then stayed the night at Sarah's because I had to be at school the next morning - yes, Saturday morning - for speech day. In a suit. And, wait for it, an academic robe. Having missed graduation, I had never worn one before. It was bloody irritating, thank god I didn't have to accesorise with the hat. Having wolfed down a McDonald's bacon sarnie (yergh) and as much liquid as my protesting body would hold, I arrived on site around 8.30am. Nobody else turned up until 9.15am. I had been well and truly hoaxed.
What followed was as farcical as the speech days I remember from my school days - evidently this is my punishment for using Mother Hand's political views as an excuse to get me out of going. Being a girls' school we always had strong female speakers who had mostly offended Mother Hand by supporting abortion bills at some point in their careers. Her good opinion once lost is lost forever, you might say. Especially when it gets me out of four hours down the Guildhall in school uniform on a Friday night.
However, I was left feeling rather nostalgic for the whole pomp and ceremony of independent schools. First came the church service, with various Old Boys coming back to pump their successors full of motivation and vigour with speeches half the church couldn't hear, "He Who Would Valiant Be" sung with the old English words (I believe the original contains the word "goblin"), folding chairs that felt as though they might collapse any moment and lots of sixth formers chatting at inopportune moments and being heartily dressed down by the Head of Sixth Form afterwards (well it was very distracting, they even chatted through the speeches. And it's not grassing when you're a teacher).
In true independent school style, the perps were banned from the summer ball and in one case expelled, effective after his exams, with a threat about rescinding his university reference. Understandable, given that said perp laughed in the face of authority and questioned what punishments they could threaten him with. But still perhaps slightly over the top. IMHO.
I rushed to the marquee post haste to stave off any thoughts of the hangover (yes, they have arrived in my life, but luckily only consist of being exhausted with a slight headache) which threatened to appear with mountains of shortbread and other assorted posh biscuits.
Suddenly, Norris McWhirter appeared, looking as chipper as the days of Record Breakers. Several of the more enthusiastic staff imposed on him for his autograph, and a group of us had a picture taken with him. "Stand in a horseshoe everyone," said Stewart, self-designated photographer. "What's the biggest horseshoe ever then, Mr McWhirter?"
"I don't know," replied Norris, thoughtfully, "but the biggest horse ever was..."
Ooh, it took me right back to the days I used to wish my Brownie pack would participate in the most children in brown skipping with a 2 metre length of washing line just so we could meet Cheryl Baker and Roy Castle, it really did.
After that the prizes were given out, an endless succession of pupils trooping across the stage to collect Harry Potter and the Philopodopodist's Stone or the Beginner's Guide to Yogalates or whatever other tomes of wisdom they had chosen from the local bookshop. The Head spoke, making several references to the sweepstake running on the length of his speech which made the crowd of parents and offspring laugh and made the teachers squirm, especially those who had initiated it. I was way off at 18 minutes 30 seconds - the final count came in at just under 25. Then we had Norris, but sadly the exhaustion had begun to kick in so I wasn't concentrating terribly hard.
Then it was back to the marquee for more fantastic edible treats. Unfortunately I had to shelter from the rain near the buffet table full of delicate shrimp dim sum and petit fours. Stuffed, I decided it was time to be off. "You look tired," said Katrina, "it's been a really long week for you, hasn't it?"
"Yes," I agreed, "that interview on Thursday really took it out of me." She nodded sympathetically. "But I think it was all the drink I had last night that's really done me in."
Child Protection Issues? WHAT Child Protection Issues?!
Tuesday of half term saw the trusty few - being the more diligent of the girls and the boys that follow them around because they fancy them, oh, and me, arriving early at Bath Spa to get a good parking space in preparation for Child Protection training. Enter Social Worker from Wales. Without focus material. Handouts. Or any up-to-date knowledge.
"What do YOU want to get out of today?" he asked for the thirteenth time. "Come on, I'm not doing the thinking for you!" "Well, I'd like to know how the role of the form tutor applies to protecting children from abuse," piped up the one girl who'd obviously had her Weetabix that morning.
"What's a form tutor?" he responded. "Do they have them in all schools?"
And then we realised, we were in for a long morning.
(But we got some damn fine doodling done).
Big Hot Stinking Black Metropolis
I had occasion to visit London over half term. Managed to pick the two hottest days of the year up to that point to go on and so spent some very uncomfortable and sweaty time there, revisiting old haunts, getting drunk with Ellen and hanging around ULU waiting for Sibling Hand to turn up. It was fun, granted. Jen and I managed to get a good natter in and I landed a room opposite the Union for a bargainous 20 quid - was supposed to be a dorm room but no-one else showed up so I had the place to myself. Which was just as well because I found it necessary to sleep naked, such was the heat of the city.
When I got home, washed my hair and saw the water running brown down the plug hole, I wondered how I managed to live there for so long without noticing how grubby and stuffy it is. I went straight into the back garden, got the paddling pool out that Emilia and I bought, filled it up and lounged in the garden recovering for the rest of the weekend.
Indeed, I was so distressed about the matter that Mother Z felt she had to offer soothing words. "Nevermind," she trilled, "you're home now, safe."
For a moment I felt like I was in Back To The Future, or at the very least a bad B-movie horror.
London also led to a meeting with the infamous Zeni, from Liverpool. He plays a lot of Avalon, like Jen used to (and sometimes still does), and doesn't drink very often. We made a very cheerful party between the four of us (Bernie was also present to begin with) although I think he found himself rather all at sea when Jen and I got onto our fourth pints and began the obligatory sex and old scary shagging stories talk. Bless. Initiation completed now though, Zeni. Now you've just got to meet Kez and the trio is completed.
91 degrees in about 75 hours
My lover and I are flying to Crete on Saturday. It's 91 degrees there today. Ha ha! I am taking lots of sun tan lotion, two bikinis (The Diet is still stuck in a rut but I am addicted to the feeling of swimming in a bikini now and can never go back, so watch out Greeks, get your really dark sunnies out, I'm coming to a beach near you) and The Lord Of The Rings. And of course Mr Z to rub the lotion into my back and beat back any marauding cockroaches. Although he tells me that when he went to Skiathos with his ex-girlfriend, he woke up to see three roaches crawling on her face and never did anything about it. But then she was an uptight bitch who used to take her twin sister on dates with her and flirt heavily with Mr Z's mates. Luckily I don't have a twin and any mates Mr Z has I just slap.
So expect a dearth of entries in the next fortnight. Although, if I write again within a week of returning it will still be less sporadic than my offerings over the past few months. So sorry, I was off being Superteach.
Oh this year I am off to sunny Greece....sing VEEEEEVA MOUSSAKA....
Mr Z gets tough
On hearing a boy at his school fart audibly in a corridor this week, Mr Z forced said boy to come back, stand in the corridor and sniff hard until the smell had dissipated.
"That's it lad, sniff it up! Filter that air," he cackle.
That's my baby.
Monday 16th June
100+
is the number of reports I have to write between now and Thursday. I also have to wax lyrical on a career development profile, agree Key Stage Three levels for 8 different classes and do all my usual lesson planning. Thus, in spite of the fact I haven't written for a month, you're getting a whistle stop keyword entry this time.
Sick, wrong and possibly illegal
Vanilla flavoured Monster Munch, anyone? They even have the salty aftertaste you have come to expect from Monster Munch, whilst also tasting like the bastard son of a vanilla coke and a scented candle. Don't even think about buying them. Make a stand!
Have you been working out?
This is a picture of me. Let's call it, "Miss Hand, by Josh, 8MF". Note the football player shoulders, the Hitler moustache, the enormous mole and the socks carefully embroidered with the legend "I love Muffs". Josh displayed no wit at all by saying, after he'd been sent to the back of the room to revise in silence, "I'm drawing a picture of you now Miss, oooo Miss, you're not going to like it Miss." When I confiscated it, he at first tried to eat it, and then pinched it back out of my bag when my back was turned. Luckily I retrieved it, so now you all know what I really look like. I was over the moon - I'm not fat! "Friendly" comments ranged from "I hope you gave him a merit for effort" to "If you leave out the dodgy moustache it's not a bad drawing for a 13 year old" (ta very much, Jen, bestest mate) to the above mentioned "Wow Sal, you look great, have you been working out?"
Well Boosted
I have, in fact, been working out. I have been going to circuits now since January and have started to suspect I have muscles. I know this because I feel them in places I wasn't even aware I had, let alone had muscles in. I can also see them, choking under the layers of fat. My chest is discernably firmer (is this too much information?) and my arms have some definition. Nobody is more shocked about this than I am. Then tonight a woman in my circuits group struck up a panting conversation during a rest break...
Woman: Why do we do this to ourselves, eh?
Me: I dunno (gasp pant)
Woman: It's got to be worth it somewhere hasn't it?
Me: Yeah, one day I'll look in the mirror and have the body of...erm...er...a very fit person (all oxygen diverted to lungs, you see, none left for powering the brain)
Woman: Well, you can see the difference on you. I've been coming for about 12 weeks now and I can see the change in your body shape
Me: Blimey! Thanks! (Immediately start thinking that I just look thinner because, as my confidence has grown, I have ventured to class in cut off vest tops and cropped leggings, which are clingier)
I should take the compliment though, really. I never realised anybody noticed me. Well boosted!
Knackerlated
It's a new word. I have just made it up to describe how I felt after 8 hours of interview at the school I started this whole PGCE at - the one with Kid A whose ambition was to be a suicide bomber. They advertised a job and I was nearly sick just filling in the form. Then I didn't hear anything for a week and I nearly cried myself to sleep every night for 3 days wondering what was wrong with me (common among my coursemates, I'm not a total freak, we're all just very highly strung and worried about the job situation). Then they rang and offered me an interview. Then I didn't sleep properly for the three days leading up to it, alternating sleeplessness with nightmares that I was Stalin's illegitimate daughter and he was trying to assassinate me (that's just me. I am a total freak after all). Then I went to the interview and it was horrible because I was up against good friend Elaine and she really wanted it too. Then the interview went on through half an hour of teaching, two half hour mini interviews, an ultra-long school tour, a thrashingly frustrating lunch during which they decided who would be formally interviewed that afternoon (all three of us were), a 45 minute panel interview (during which I made jokes - bad form - and told them all about my Diario and the bloke who found me whilst looking for cycling holidays to Cuba), and finally an hour's wait while they made their decision. Their decision was me. I was elated, yet exhausted. Hence knackerlated. Felt awful for Elaine. But felt worse when I drove away from school and realised that, yes, I had actually kissed the headmaster when he offered me the job.
Well, start as you mean to go on.
He said, "I was afraid NOT to offer you the job, I didn't know what you'd do to me."
The head of department said, "You could give as good as you get, I know you'll put a lot back into the department."
(This is shameless preening, I don't blame you for skipping it).
Other panellists said, "You were far and away the best candidate, there was never any doubt."
To which I mentally responded, "You would say that, it can't have been that clear cut since you deliberated for an hour."
I've got a job! Yey! And it's at a fabby school! Yey! And it's far enough away to warrant buying a new car! Double yey!