Tuesday 23rd September

I see Sky 1 have yet again excelled themselves...
"LITTLE MONSTERS! Where kids get their OWN back!"

Er....sorry? Get their own back for what? What exactly do bloody kids have to put up with? Oh, boo hoo, they have to go to school and do boring things like learning to read and write and what a cathedral is (yes, there are 13 year olds out there who do not know what a cathedral is). Boo hoo, they have to be in by a certain time so that they don't get abducted and tortured horribly in the woods. What a bloody shame, my heart bleeds....

(Mutter) Get their bloody own back, for goodness' sake. Kids allowed to inflict pain and humiliation on adults. That totally upsets the balance of power, don't they see? Those evil, precocious children are going to enjoy their 15 minutes and then amount to bugger all because it'll all go to their heads and they'll be totally unteachable.

And quite apart from that, when do *I* get my own back?!
I'm not even allowed to make them scrape gum off my desks anymore! (Officially, anyway, but we'll see...) Today, I arrived at 8.30am, had registration, two lessons, a breaktime detention, another lesson and then a lunch duty. I didn't even get a chance to go to the loo between leaving my home at 7.15am and period 4, at 12.50pm. I got evil looks from the dumber blondes in my classes (the ones who stand out because they draw thick black eyeliner all the way around their eyes - you can always spot a teenager from this) and then, after two hours of doing display work to impress their ungrateful parents I had to go to yet another hour long meeting. I didn't get home until 7pm so I MISSED Hollyoaks! This evening I have to make a list of the nine pupils who didn't bother to come to detention at break so I can waste my lunchtime tomorrow keeping them in. Where's MY revenge? Where's my bloody THANKS?!

Coming soon to Sky 1...
"TEACHER TIME! Where ADULTS get their own back! Watch, open mouthed in shock, as groups of children are FORCED to sit for an hour and DO SOME WORK! Gasp in horror as they are TOLD OFF for SWEARING AT EACH OTHER! Cheer in amazement as they all pass at least ONE GCSE!"
It would never be allowed, of course.

Speaking of Hollyoaks, that Becca is a spineless nobody. Anybody who walks into a class and lisps, "Hello, I'm your student teacher Miss Hayton, but you can call me Becca" just deserves to spend every evening in tears as far as I'm concerned. (I do know it's not real but Channel 4's blatant disregard for the realities of student teaching has really got my goat). And why hasn't she been told to put some bloody clothes on yet? And how come she teaches the same set of year 11s ALL day? (And how come Craig Dean was in year 9 last year and is year 11 now, hmm, hmm, HMM?) And how come her lessons only last long enough for her chalk to get filched/her handouts to get hidden/her knickers to get hung on the blackboard, her to have a whinge and the bell to go? Why aren't my lessons that short? Why hasn't she ever been observed? Why do the WHOLE class play her up and not just a few? Why does the naughtiest boy in her class move as soon as he's told to when I have to wheedle and cajole and threaten mine?

Bitter, no, no, not at all...just a little tart, perhaps.

Monday 22nd September

I know, two entries in two days! Don't get used to it, now.

Gather round, little ones, while I tell you a demotivational tale.
Cold, wet and exhausted, six NQTs arrived at the "Welcome to Wiltshire" NQT meeting after school today. They were slightly cheered by steaming mugs of coffee and a plethora of platters of toothsome delicacies, as well as no small amount of free stuff from the representatives of many of the teaching unions. They slumped a bit again at the prospect of the meeting lasting nearly two hours (groan) but then found themselves engrossed in solving a free puzzle from one of the Unions.
Be upstanding, head of secondary education for Wiltshire (or whatever he was). A speech ensued. At this point, he saw fit to read us a short poem. In it, a man had it explained to him that school was like a bucket of water. You put your hands in, then you take them out - and the hole that is left is the impact you have made. You can swill the water around, splash about, whatever, but at the end of the day the bucket will be the same.
The NQTs looked on, astonished. WHAT?! Are we to understand that
a) We have no effect on our schools/pupils at all, and
b) We're in no way indispensable?
Evidently, the head of secondary education reinforced, we were. "Welcome to Wiltshire, NQTs! You'll never make a difference, and none of you are indispensable!"

Well, cheers for that. Shall I just hang myself now or would you like me to give you the correct notice period?

I took the plunge last week and joined Fitness First. It seems like quite a lot of money a month, but I figure if I go three times a week it works out cheaper than the leisure centre. Now, when I say "go three times a week" I don't necessarily mean "exercise three times a week" - they have a sauna and a steam room and stuff. They also do Body Combat, a class I attended yesterday morning. I was really crap. I flailed awkwardly at the back, trying to avoid looking at myself in any mirrors, in my Pompey goalie shorts and some ancient baggy t-shirt, while those around me in fashionable fitted clothes with high lycra content bobbed, weaved and punched with the skill of boxers. When we had to gallop forwards punching rapidly, I found myself much further across the room than anybody else in my line (probably because I was picturing a particularly nasty year nine in front of me) and thus found myself stumbling backwards in order to catch up with them. It was practically farcical, and just highlighted to me that my complacency at circuits and step has done me no favours. Quite humbling really, but I suppose I'll improve. The muscles in my back and arms are KILLING me..

Sigh. You know where you are with step, even when the routine does make me dizzy and and I nearly trip over trying to jazz step and kick ball change in the right direction. Onwards and upwards, though. I've signed up for Street Dance classes already, and am seriously considering Swiss Ball Pilates and Kickboxing. I'm aiming for total, comatose exhaustion by half term, by the way.

Ben and I spent a leisurely Saturday evening noshing toffee apple crumble and swigging alcohol on the Waterfront in Bristol this weekend. We swapped war stories all evening, as I guzzled various flavours of Absolut and a rather sweet and cough-syrup-reminiscent liqueur called Chombord. Ben has been in trouble with his head master for swearing! (Sorry Ben..) But it seems that we're both getting on alright, although I am envious of his comfy chairs and history department kitchen. We watched lots of people walk by wearing mini skirts (in some cases, no skirt at all, or so it seemed) and I noted the homeless man on the bridge who busked until he had enough money for a Corona, bought one, downed it in one and then went back to busking. I cracked and smoked nearly half a packet even though I was trying to give up (I'd made it to three weeks by Alison's wedding, but that first week at school coupled with the copious gin at the reception did me in). Then I got on the bus home.

Then something quite amusing happened!
A young man sat on the bus a few rows behind me (right at the back, on the top level), chatting quietly into his mobile phone. The bus being not busy, I nosily tried to listen in, hearing, "Hi, this is Daniel, 25 in bristol, what are you like, can you travel? Come back..."
Naturally I thought at first that I had fallen asleep and was dreaming, or had gone back in time and was back working for the chatlines. But no, the man was really and truly on the lines looking for lurve. It got worse. "29 inch waist, 38 inch chest, 6 inches cut (or uncut, I didn't hear and I wasn't about to check), VERY versatile, where are you based? Come back..."

Well! Of all the buses in all the city, he had to get on the 43A at 11pm on Saturday night. I could barely containt my amusement and couldn't resist giving him a slightly smug smile as I left the bus. Either he was loaded or they've put their rates down though, those lines used to cost a fortune from a mobile.
It did make me a little sad though. Surely that's no way to go about it? Each to their own though, I suppose.

School is alright. I have settled in quite well, everyone is really supportive (with one notable exception but we'll give her the benefit of the doubt). I made the mistake of revealing to my year 11s the other day that I kept a (very well hidden) diary on the web so I'm just waiting for the day when I start to see print outs of my life floating around school. My year 11s can be a bit over-familiar when they choose to be...
JLT: Miss, do you eat beans on toast?
Me: Er, this has nothing to do with your GCSE coursework so...
JLT: No, miss, go on, tell us, do you eat beans on toast?
Me: Erm...sometimes...
JLT: Well, miss, when you've eaten most of the beans miss, and you've only got a few left, do you ever get the urge miss, to flick them?
Me: (I can see it coming - slight panic as I consider my options) No, I never have
JLT: So you've never flicked the bean?
Whole Class: (baited breath)
Me: (can feel myself blushing) I don't really think that's an appropriate question to be asking a member of staff, do you?
Class: Ha! She caught you out! She didn't fall for it!
Me: (inner relief) have you done that to anyone else? Did they fall for it?
EG: EVERYONE does miss...

It's like some sort of initiation. I'm still not 100% sure what flicking the bean means, although it sounds quite obvious - still, I have never heard it before. Then today a year nine asked me what it meant. I told him it wasn't relevant to the lesson and that if he really wanted to know we could discuss it after class. Works every time - he scarpered without another word about it.

I should be writing my rules out now, really. Two of th other NQTs said I had really good systems for rewards and punishments, cos they get a lolly if they're really good and they have to scrape the chewing gum off of my desks if they're bad - it's true, *I* have a very good system for rewards, but sadly none of the kids are fully aware of it because I don't advertise it very well. I've got Star Pupil of the Lesson, Star Pupil of the Week, and coming soon - Cosmic Class (when I can afford that many lollies anyway). Then, if they muck me about they get a name on the board with a tally. Everytime they misbehave, they get a mark, and when they come back for detention (which they have been, as I threaten an afterschool if they're a no show) they have to scrape that many pieces of gum off my desks. Boy, you've never heard teenaged boys whinge so much! "I ain't doin it miss, it's disgustin! I gotta eat my lunch next miss, it's 'orrible" Yes Gavin. That's why you've got the rubber gloves. "They smell miss! They're too big! Awww, MIIIIISSSSSS!" Then do it with your bare hands Gavin, *I* don't mind.
It does help that I usually have a crowd of crowing year nines outside my windows waiting for me to finish up so they can come into my room, drop their smelly lunch all over the place and spray several cans of deoderant around, so as well as the disgusting task of chewing gum scraping they also have to put up with a bit of ritual humiliation. I'm hoping that it will eventually kick in and I'll get better behaved classes.

But I know I'm kidding myself.

Life isn't bad, though. My head is above water, although my lessons aren't the best ever. I have electricity now (it took 10 days to arrive) although I still don't have room keys. I've got a pigeon hole and a filing cabinet, although they've just built a big metal fence leading up my door which now means you have to squeeze past an ultra hazardous skip with a bin surrounded with jagged tarmac sticking out of it. My room gets cleaned every day. In my first week, I was able to write down a nice thing a pupil had said about me every day. I've enthused a disaffected year nine. I've only been called a fat cow once (in my hearing). I get paid on Wednesday. It could be worse.

However...ONLY TWENTY FOUR TEACHING DAYS UNTIL HALF TERM!!!

Sunday 21st September

I am incensed.
As if it wasn't enough that teachers have to pay substantially more for the privilege of holidaying abroad during the school holidays (whereas parents can just remove their kids from school for a couple of weeks in term time, thus avoiding financial ruin), I have noticed, much to my irritation, that ALL the competitions around to win free holidays stipulate that said holidays must be taken outside of school holidays.
So, I have to pay extra, and I haven't even got a chance to win one. I'm a bit gutted at the inequality of this. I feel downright discriminated against, no less. An example - I have been a regular reader of a mag called Zest for seven years now, and every year they do a fitness challenge in conjunction with a variety of gym chains. Now I finally have gainful employment, I signed up to Fitness First last week, and noted the Zest Fitness Challenge posters plastered everywhere. I came home and looked in my mag to find out what you had to do and what you had to win. "Luxury holiday for two to the Sardinian Coast, worth £3,300!!!" it screamed. "Holidays may only be taken in May, June or September, excluding half terms," it whispered in the small print.

Bollocks, that's what I say. It's time somebody had a word with the holiday industry. It's causing a rise in truancy rates, not to mention pissing me off. I think they should just make it illegal for children of 12 and under to leave the country unless they have parents living abroad. That would make holiday sites a lot less crowded, and hopefully things would get cheaper.

Well, when I'm Prime Minister, maybe I'll legislate.

Having not quite finished my account of the summer, I suppose I had better get it over with before I write about anything else that's happened in the past three weeks. This probably means that I'll finish writing about August and then not have time to write about September, and you'll have to read about it in October. It's a sad life when personal writing has to take a back seat to planning lessons for ungrateful year eights and nefarious year nines.

Trussles The Butchers
The other exciting summer event I had been eagerly anticipating was the Robbia Williams gig at Knebworth which, unless you're not in England or had your head in a big hole for three months, you couldn't have failed to notice was happening. I feel it will be my generation's defining gig, much like Woodstock or the Stones or something. With nearly half a million attending over the three nights and many more catching it live on Channel 4, there must have been a decent percentage of the population that saw it. Well, it was worth it. It was worth sitting in a grassy field for 12 hours and getting sunburn. It was worth being trodden on and elbowed. It was worth being yelled at for treading on people's family heirloom blankets as we struggled out to the toilet. It was worth feeling like crap with a filthy stinking cold and having to walk for two and a half hours to get within a reasonable distance of Stu's house. It was worth 38 quid. It was worth it, even though we were a quarter of the way back and could barely see him in the flesh, and even though my phone battery died and I couldn't text anybody, and even though I had a headache and Kez didn't stop talking for the whole day (love her). It was even worth putting up with Kelly Osborne singing her entire set flat and swearing at some people in the crowd who'd made a "Kelly O YOU SUCK!" banner. "Are you guys for real?" she asked. "Listen, the only thing I suck is your mother's fucking cock. Look at you, all fucking dolled up, I bet you spent fucking hours getting ready, all so that maybe Robbie Williams'll notice you, and he probably thinks you're a fucking cunt anyway. Hehehe!" (I hate that c word but I had to quote her exactly). So no, they didn't get under her skin at all.

As well as the tone deaf daughter of an aging anti-drugs advertisement, we enjoyed the warm up delights of Darkness (leather catsuits, signature song "Get your hands off of my woman (mother fucker)"), Ash (who played "Oh Yeah" which was another thing that made it worth going) and Moby, who did a Black Sabbath cover and wore an Ash t-shirt. The crowd was already swinging by the time Robbie pitched up. He was pretty incredible, especially the punk rock Take That medley at the end. He pulled a girl out of the crowd and danced with her on stage - well....I have to come clean about something now.
That girl, well, it was actually supposed to be me. The organisers stopped me on my way into the park and asked me if I'd mind getting up on the stage and having a dance and a bit of a cuddle with Robbie. I was tempted, obviously, but I had such a stinking cold that I really felt I had to say no. It just wouldn't have been fair on the other fans, if I'd given Robbie my cold and he'd had to cancel some of his future gigs.
Funnily enough, the same thing happened to my friend Michele, who went to the Friday gig. But she didn't have a cold - she just told them sorry, but she was holding out for Gary Barlow.

I'd rather hoped Mark Owen would show up, or maybe even Kylie Minogue for "Kids", but we only got Max Beasley on the piano and Robbie's mum. The dancers were pretty cool though. Robbie mentioned Trussles the Butchers several times; apparently the owner had made the mistake of complaining about the loss of business caused by Robbie's three day sojourn in Knebworth. Robbie said he should have got down there and sold some hot dogs. He would surely have made a killing. As it was, he got free advertising to 125,000 people and the other few million watching on Channel 4. I mean, you couldn't buy publicity like that.

Babycham-fuelled Hens
My oldest friend, Alison, got married last weekend in Cornwall. I went down to see her off in true style at the hen, held at a Chinese restaurant which was quite a lot of fun and also quite a lot of food and wine. Alison, being more of a lightweight than me, had a few glasses of Babycham and became very wobbly before we'd even teetered off into St Ives, all dressed in pink and wrapped in feather boas and covered in glitter. Her sister had got her a musical tiara and veil, and some L plates, while her other bridesmaids kitted her out in wings, garter, willy whistle, wand and a variety of other hen paraphernalia as the meal progressed. They also bought her a Bacardi Breezer laced with Malibu and asked her questions about Andrew and her relationship with him, such as his favourite colour, film, book, their first date...and so on. She was doing very well - except that he lied about several of the correct answers. Poor Alison ended up pretty drunk which meant the evening was cut short before 11pm to minimise the chances of her spewing in her mum's car.

Then, last weekend Mr Z and I sasahyed off down to Newquay for the wedding itself. We left in plenty of time - or so we thought - but I ended up changing into my dress in a Little Chef off the A30 and sneaking quietly into the church just in time for the vows. It was truly lovely to hear - I couldn't see much because I ended up seated behind a very high pew. That'll teach me. Several people mentioned they could see my hat bobbing around though so it was obvious I was there. Mr Z really went for it and wore his suit, but the overall effect was slightly spoiled by the stain on his tie and the rusty stains on his shirt sleeves from when he wore that shirt to clean the barbecue in. We did make a handsome couple though. When Ali gets her wedding pics I shall purchase one to put up here.

After the church we went on to the reception (at double quick speed to ensure a parking space at the hotel) and then spent most of the rest of the day eating, drinking and attempting to half inch the silverware (that was just me). The blow up sheep that featured at Andrew's stag party made an appearance at the reception in spite of the fact Alison looked like she was having a hernia when this possibility was mentioned; all the fellow hen survivors had a good laugh at the piactures; I had a rowsing jig at the ceiligh (or however you spell it - barn dance) with one of the professional barn dancers - Mr Z, naturally, point blank refused to dance. Alison's ex-boyfriend (what was he DOING THERE?!) got steadily drunker and drunker as Mr Z stalked him for his Clangers t-shirt (which was a one off and had Clangers and soup dragons all over it - Mr Z's other name is Soupdragon).

The evening wore on with more and more dancing and then less and less people until it was just Mr Z and me, and the bridesmaids and their boyfriends, and the disco men. Oh, and a leathery skinned couple at the bar, all over each other. One couldn't fail to notice them. So when a drink appeared at my elbow in the hands of this man, I didn't think anything of it...
Lecherous Lothario: (rubbing my shoulders) Oooo, you don't mind me buying you a drink do you?
Me: (thinks) get your slimey hands off my brand new Monsoon top before you stain it, you greasy oaf
Me: (says) oh er...ha ha...no of course not....
Lexherous Lothario: (begins rubbing my sides) Oooo, I think you're lovely I do
Me: Oh er...right.
LL: if you want another dance, do come and tell me won't you? (smarm) (smarm)
Me: (thinks) Wild horses...
Me: (says) Oh er...well, I'm pretty tired and sweaty [the truth - due to a rather vigourous session of the Macarena, Grease and vintage Whigfield] so I probably won't dance again, but thanks anyway
LL: (smarmy smile) (slithers off)
(15 minutes pass)
LL: (slithers back) (resumes stroking) Have you ever been in love?
Me: Yes, that's my boyfriend you've just been talking to at the bar.
LL: Oh (hastily removes hands). Oh he's great, is Mr Z. We've just been telling him all about us. We're having an AFFAIR! I'm married she'd married...
Me: (thinks) You don't say
LL: I've been married twice, still can't get it right...hang on to him, he's a diamond...
Me: Ha ha, yes, thanks, ha ha (shudder).

As if all that wasn't enough, he then came over and proposed to me on Mr Z's behalf, and then went and started chatting to the disco men, and pointing at me, as though he might have been trying to convince them to propose to me over the mic on Mr Z's behalf. Mr Z was oblivious to this; on discovering the full truth he offered to lamp the guy but he seemed sad enough without a black eye so we just left them mauling each other and went to bed. We later decided he'd either been trying to pick me up for a kinky threesome, or they were swingers. Either way, it was rather a creepy end to an otherwise fantastic day.

We woke the next day to glorious sunshine and clear views across Newquay beach out to sea, and went for a long walk and a quick paddle. We saw Andrew and Alison long enough to wish them all the best and say goodbye; Alison was struggling with her hooped netting - a radiant meringue of a bride she made, it took two of us to get her into the loo everytime she needed to go, but I've never seen her smiling so much or so happy.

That's the third friend of mine to get married this year - between Jewel and her family wedding in June and Izzy getting married in her jeans in August (both old friends from camp) I am just feeling even older than usual (they are both younger than me). I suppose it's about time I should start thinking about my own wedding. I mean, of course I've *thought* about it, I'm a girl. I know exactly what I want. But I should start thinking about getting proposed to, I suppose that's what I mean. I just don't know if I'm ready to give up my name yet. Or if I can afford that honeymoon in the cabin on stilts in the Maldives. Maybe I can win one. Of course, then I'd have to quit my job to go on it, and I wouldn't notice the change of name so much because nobody would be calling me Miss Hand anymore anyway.

I do so love these little full circle entries.