It's sickness time at school, enabling the staff to combine two of their favourite pastimes - bringing in home made cake and symptoms and passing round both with equal enthusiasm.
In fact, there are occasions when the whole place resembles some sort of anti-miracle storytelling event. No sooner is one teacher off her crutches than another gets some instead. The place echos to the sound of slow, portenteous footsteps. Add a couple of wooden legs and we could stage several simultaneous performances of 'Treasure Island,' with me, cast by Sasha, taking a cameo role as the Black Spot of doom.
This morning, reception has embarked on a bit of music and movement. The children jog on the spot, freeze, and proclaim the virtues of regular exercise, while I shuffle from foot to foot in order to create the illusion of frenzied activity.
As the song finishes, Pete puts up his hand. "Miss," he says, "My finger hurts." "Just as well you don't sing with your finger, then," I say, in my least plausible jolly voice which grates so much that I half expect the vibrations to cause a flock of small songbirds to be struck dead in mid air and plummet to earth.
The children ignore my voice and instead brandish limbs at me with the gusto of trainee lepers, accompanied by many gut-wrenching moans whose vigour and clarity outstrips anything they've produced during the rest of the lesson. Some hastily pick at cuts so historic they've been listed by English Heritage to try and wrench off remaining scabs, and hold these out to me as well.
"Miss, my hand," "My tooth," "My leg,"
"MY GOD!" I say, rather more loudly than planned.
There's a sudden silence, possibly caused by the fact that this is the first and only time they've ever heard me say anything that's filled with genuine, raw emotion.
"Right," I say, making the tactical error of assuming that underneath the pain, they've been enjoying leaping round the room. "Anybody feeling really ill had better sit on the bench." Within seconds, the whole class is fighting for a seat and the moans and groans are now mixed with screams of genuine pain as skirmishes break out over the last space.
There's a courtesy knock on the door and - "We take music very seriously," Sasha is, inevitably, saying, and looking backwards as she does it towards the group of prospective parents she's bringing round the school on a guided tour.
This is a mistake.
The parents' expectant looks vanish. Music is clearly not a staging post on the way to Lovely Land - not this morning anyway.
Pete, finger troubles apparently forgotten, jumps on top of Clifford, with the clear intention of squashing him to death - forgetting, of course, that in an expanded state, Clifford will take up more room on the bench.
"And on to the library," Sasha says, smartly executing a 180 degree turn, and disappearing again.
Saturday, 9 February 2008
Wednesday, 6 February 2008
Climatic
The migrating mould has broken all previous records, arriving earlier than ever before and bursting out with vigour in the bathroom where it has forced the grout into ignominous retreat and now delights the entire family with its glorious black moistness as it consolidates its territory round the edge of the bath.
The wall down the side has awoken from its winter hiberation and is moving again, possibly to a more desirable area where property prices are stable. As it sheds its dowdy old bricks, no doubt in the fervent but utterly misguided belief that, thanks to bountiful Mother Nature, new ones will soon grow back, we can only admire its willpower as the garden gate is gradually shaken clear of its frame.
The neighbours, too, are stirring. They aren't usually seen until after dusk, darkness providing cover for their characteristic behaviour - deliveries of anonymous hate mail and cries of, "Who did threw that brick? I'll get you, you little b****** if I see you again."
It's a wonderful world. Let us rejoice in it, using the repertoire of quaint old four letter words that Thomas Hardy so strangely omitted in his classic works. Sometimes I feel that here, strangely, I am closer to nature that he ever was.
I love you all.
The wall down the side has awoken from its winter hiberation and is moving again, possibly to a more desirable area where property prices are stable. As it sheds its dowdy old bricks, no doubt in the fervent but utterly misguided belief that, thanks to bountiful Mother Nature, new ones will soon grow back, we can only admire its willpower as the garden gate is gradually shaken clear of its frame.
The neighbours, too, are stirring. They aren't usually seen until after dusk, darkness providing cover for their characteristic behaviour - deliveries of anonymous hate mail and cries of, "Who did threw that brick? I'll get you, you little b****** if I see you again."
It's a wonderful world. Let us rejoice in it, using the repertoire of quaint old four letter words that Thomas Hardy so strangely omitted in his classic works. Sometimes I feel that here, strangely, I am closer to nature that he ever was.
I love you all.
Tuesday, 5 February 2008
Climactic
"Have just heard ad for something called climactic air conditioning for cars. Can it be true?" I text Vicky.
"Suspect word is climatic. But if climactic, get me one," she texts back. "Especially if you get to choose the voice."
"If climactic, could sound like Edward Heath and you wouldn't care."
Later, I'm driving along just imagining how much a good, muscular climactic air conditioning system would bring to the dullest school run - 'Hot, oh, God, hot. No - hotter, hotter, hotter. More. More.....' when I come across a car that appears to have been driven at great speed up a lampost and now rests with its rear wheels on the ground, entire front end elevated and resting on the lampost, like an affectionate pet. The lamp itself is turned towards the car, as though making a tender enquiry about its well-being.
The car looks expensive. Its driver, a man resting his arms on the steering wheel, is staring straight ahead. There is no sign of any other car, urban fox or cat that might have caused the accident. It's as if, maddened by something the lampost said, he has simply done his best to run it down.
"Do you need help?" I ask, winding down the window.
"I'm fine," he says, not looking round. "Can't say the same about the car, unfortunately."
"Oh, well. It happens," I answer, with the first platitude that comes into my head. It makes him turn and look at me for a second, with evident incredulity. It is obvious that not only have I never seen a car up a lamppost before, but nor has anyone else, judging by the small crowd of pointing, happy onlookers that's rapidly gathering to film the event and post it on social websites round the world.
"Just saw car up lamppost," I tell Vicky, when I get home.
"Probably just road testing his climactic air conditioning," says Vicky. "Maybe not such a good buy after all."
"Suspect word is climatic. But if climactic, get me one," she texts back. "Especially if you get to choose the voice."
"If climactic, could sound like Edward Heath and you wouldn't care."
Later, I'm driving along just imagining how much a good, muscular climactic air conditioning system would bring to the dullest school run - 'Hot, oh, God, hot. No - hotter, hotter, hotter. More. More.....' when I come across a car that appears to have been driven at great speed up a lampost and now rests with its rear wheels on the ground, entire front end elevated and resting on the lampost, like an affectionate pet. The lamp itself is turned towards the car, as though making a tender enquiry about its well-being.
The car looks expensive. Its driver, a man resting his arms on the steering wheel, is staring straight ahead. There is no sign of any other car, urban fox or cat that might have caused the accident. It's as if, maddened by something the lampost said, he has simply done his best to run it down.
"Do you need help?" I ask, winding down the window.
"I'm fine," he says, not looking round. "Can't say the same about the car, unfortunately."
"Oh, well. It happens," I answer, with the first platitude that comes into my head. It makes him turn and look at me for a second, with evident incredulity. It is obvious that not only have I never seen a car up a lamppost before, but nor has anyone else, judging by the small crowd of pointing, happy onlookers that's rapidly gathering to film the event and post it on social websites round the world.
"Just saw car up lamppost," I tell Vicky, when I get home.
"Probably just road testing his climactic air conditioning," says Vicky. "Maybe not such a good buy after all."
Monday, 4 February 2008
The joy of sects
"Do you prefer authentic 17th century music or the modern pieces written especially for children?" asks Sasha, next day.
Ten minutes into my recorder lesson, she's entered at a gallop. Appalled by the noise the children are making, she plucks recorders from them as she passes so that by the time she reaches the piano she resembles a demented Interflora employee, bearing what looks like a bunch of deformed, bloomless stems.
“This school is noted for its above average discipline,” she lectures me. “That was absolutely dreadful. I could hear them all the way down the corridor.”
She announces that she has a lute and is not afraid to use it. To try and work out my next move in this musical one-upmanship version of 'Stone, paper, scissors,' I have bought a book in a second hand shop about old musical instruments. It has the grippingly apposite title "Old Musical Instruments," and copious illustrations. The very first one features the Sirens who, it says, "symbolise the forces of destruction unleashed by evil sounds." Not a good time to start acting on those voices in my head, then, and claiming that satanically altered madrigal words made me swap my recorder for a set of kitchen knives.
"Apparently Sasha belongs to some weird sect," I tell Vicky, when I see her later. "One of the other teachers told me."
"So what do they believe in?" asks Vicky.
"Apparently they see evil everywhere."
"So does everyone Bad Lindy's ever met. Proves nothing. And it's practically inevitable with the recorder, I'd have thought."
"It follows the teachings of a woman, who emerged from a submerged continent after 35,000 years to reveal the truth."
"Which is?"
"They believe the human body is evil. And when I think of all that ogling going on at Miss Mermaid, I've got more than a grain of sympathy."
"It took her 35,000 years to come up with that?" says Vicky. "Somebody should have told her to pop down for another few thousand years until she thought up something more interesting."
Ten minutes into my recorder lesson, she's entered at a gallop. Appalled by the noise the children are making, she plucks recorders from them as she passes so that by the time she reaches the piano she resembles a demented Interflora employee, bearing what looks like a bunch of deformed, bloomless stems.
“This school is noted for its above average discipline,” she lectures me. “That was absolutely dreadful. I could hear them all the way down the corridor.”
She announces that she has a lute and is not afraid to use it. To try and work out my next move in this musical one-upmanship version of 'Stone, paper, scissors,' I have bought a book in a second hand shop about old musical instruments. It has the grippingly apposite title "Old Musical Instruments," and copious illustrations. The very first one features the Sirens who, it says, "symbolise the forces of destruction unleashed by evil sounds." Not a good time to start acting on those voices in my head, then, and claiming that satanically altered madrigal words made me swap my recorder for a set of kitchen knives.
"Apparently Sasha belongs to some weird sect," I tell Vicky, when I see her later. "One of the other teachers told me."
"So what do they believe in?" asks Vicky.
"Apparently they see evil everywhere."
"So does everyone Bad Lindy's ever met. Proves nothing. And it's practically inevitable with the recorder, I'd have thought."
"It follows the teachings of a woman, who emerged from a submerged continent after 35,000 years to reveal the truth."
"Which is?"
"They believe the human body is evil. And when I think of all that ogling going on at Miss Mermaid, I've got more than a grain of sympathy."
"It took her 35,000 years to come up with that?" says Vicky. "Somebody should have told her to pop down for another few thousand years until she thought up something more interesting."
Sunday, 3 February 2008
News from the Deep
"The job's killing me," says Francis. His words contrast oddly with his pink, healthy complexion and the cheerful way he speaks them as he cracks open another can of beer.
He shakes his head sadly at the enormous spreadsheet on the screen in front of him, so big that nobody alive has viewed it in its entirety.
Stabbing the tab right button, he sets off on his nightly exercise programme which, as far as I can tell, involves seeing if he can reach the far end before falling asleep.
"What are those figures supposed to tell you?" I ask.
"Nobody knows," he says. "Even the forecasting guru they commissioned it from has forgotten what it's about. But if I can decipher it, I get to judge the Miss Mermaid contest."
"Tell me you've just made that up."
"Yes," he says. "Because I'm a judge anyway."
"Miss Mermaid?"
"Yes? So? It's all linked to Omega 3."
"In which case, why not Miss Fish Head? I could come up with several contenders, starting with Sasha."
"I'll suggest it for next year," says Francis, deadpan. "Meanwhile, I'm a judge because we're the biggest sponsors. Honestly, it's a nightmare."
"Let me get this right," I say, "You have to judge a bunch of gorgeous, pouting, nubile women?"
"Yup."
"So, apart from being gorgeous and pouting, what are you judging them on? Their tails?"
"That, and their innner beauty."
"How do you do that? Analyse them for edible oil content?"
"No. I just get to ogle them from a table under the stage."
"I want to come with you," I say.
"OK," he says. "But are you sure you'll be able to walk in the tail outfit without falling over? And you would be ....well, a left field contender for the title."
"Don't be daft," I say. "I'm nominating myself as ogling monitor."
"I'll think about it," he says. "I do hope you're not jealous."
"Jealous? Of a bunch of luscious beauties all trying to get your attention and prepared to do almost anything to gain the title? What makes you think I'd be jealous?"
"That's all right then," says Francis, and carries on with his tabbing.
I go out and turn on my own computer, taking limited consolation from Megadik's latest e-mail assuring me that, "Evenings alone are a thing of the past with your brand new dick," - while being unspecific as just what sort of new brand new friends a middle aged female music teacher with an extra appendage might acquire. Perhaps I should ask the mermaids for tips.
He shakes his head sadly at the enormous spreadsheet on the screen in front of him, so big that nobody alive has viewed it in its entirety.
Stabbing the tab right button, he sets off on his nightly exercise programme which, as far as I can tell, involves seeing if he can reach the far end before falling asleep.
"What are those figures supposed to tell you?" I ask.
"Nobody knows," he says. "Even the forecasting guru they commissioned it from has forgotten what it's about. But if I can decipher it, I get to judge the Miss Mermaid contest."
"Tell me you've just made that up."
"Yes," he says. "Because I'm a judge anyway."
"Miss Mermaid?"
"Yes? So? It's all linked to Omega 3."
"In which case, why not Miss Fish Head? I could come up with several contenders, starting with Sasha."
"I'll suggest it for next year," says Francis, deadpan. "Meanwhile, I'm a judge because we're the biggest sponsors. Honestly, it's a nightmare."
"Let me get this right," I say, "You have to judge a bunch of gorgeous, pouting, nubile women?"
"Yup."
"So, apart from being gorgeous and pouting, what are you judging them on? Their tails?"
"That, and their innner beauty."
"How do you do that? Analyse them for edible oil content?"
"No. I just get to ogle them from a table under the stage."
"I want to come with you," I say.
"OK," he says. "But are you sure you'll be able to walk in the tail outfit without falling over? And you would be ....well, a left field contender for the title."
"Don't be daft," I say. "I'm nominating myself as ogling monitor."
"I'll think about it," he says. "I do hope you're not jealous."
"Jealous? Of a bunch of luscious beauties all trying to get your attention and prepared to do almost anything to gain the title? What makes you think I'd be jealous?"
"That's all right then," says Francis, and carries on with his tabbing.
I go out and turn on my own computer, taking limited consolation from Megadik's latest e-mail assuring me that, "Evenings alone are a thing of the past with your brand new dick," - while being unspecific as just what sort of new brand new friends a middle aged female music teacher with an extra appendage might acquire. Perhaps I should ask the mermaids for tips.
Saturday, 2 February 2008
Awards
Dumdad, in Paris, has very kindly passed on the Excellent Blog Award, originating with a Canadian blogger who says:
'I love being a part of the blogging community and part of all the friendships that I've formed so I wanted to give a blog award for all of you out there that have Excellent Blogs. By accepting this Excellent Blog Award, you have to award it to 10 more people whose blogs you find Excellent Award worthy. You can give it to as many people as you want but please award at least 10.'
I would like to pass it on to the following (as it's at least 10, I plan to add more):
Not wrong, just different; Casdok (Mother of Shrek); Mother at Large; Sweet Irene; The Rotten Correspondent; Crystal Jigsaw; Mutley the Dog; Frog in the field; Potty Mummy; Stay at Home Dad - this a rugged one, SAHD, you'll like it!; To Miss with Love; DJ Kirby; Lady Macleod.
Dumdad, who is currently celebrating a major lottery win - check it out and bid for your share now - has also awarded me a chic Parisian award which I think adds that touch of continental sophistication I've been searching for for so long. Thank you, Dumdad.
'I love being a part of the blogging community and part of all the friendships that I've formed so I wanted to give a blog award for all of you out there that have Excellent Blogs. By accepting this Excellent Blog Award, you have to award it to 10 more people whose blogs you find Excellent Award worthy. You can give it to as many people as you want but please award at least 10.'
I would like to pass it on to the following (as it's at least 10, I plan to add more):
Not wrong, just different; Casdok (Mother of Shrek); Mother at Large; Sweet Irene; The Rotten Correspondent; Crystal Jigsaw; Mutley the Dog; Frog in the field; Potty Mummy; Stay at Home Dad - this a rugged one, SAHD, you'll like it!; To Miss with Love; DJ Kirby; Lady Macleod.
Dumdad, who is currently celebrating a major lottery win - check it out and bid for your share now - has also awarded me a chic Parisian award which I think adds that touch of continental sophistication I've been searching for for so long. Thank you, Dumdad.
Friday, 1 February 2008
Blowing it
It's playtime and I'm just about to call in the children for choir practice. My plastic trousers are sizzling on the radiator like a left-field hors d'oeuvre in a low-budget cookery programme with a brace of shoulder pads, resembling refugees from an experimental sanitary towel factory, keeping them company.
Outside the hall, the children are, as usual, peering putting their heads round the door like tiny spies. Either they're struggling with the metaphysics of self, context and reality or else Sasha has bugged their healthy eating snacks with little cameras and is paying per second of compromising footage.
I text Bad Lindy, Vicky and Francis to update them on my morning so far:
"Think may have blown shoulder pads gambit."
"What about mixed presentation platter of oily fish? Known international friendship symbol," suggests Francis, whose brain has clearly performed a successful separation exercise from the rest of his body and is now living underwater and suffering from pressure sickness.
"Stupid c***," texts Bad Lindy, with the characteristic depth of sympathy and fellow feeling that's made her such a strong contender in the 'Confidante of the year' awards. "Try blowing the f****** recorder instead. It's the only language she understands."
As I pick up the special non-trip rubber casing into which the overhead projector lead must be inserted, thanks to new health and safety regulations, retching slightly as I encounter its own protective coating of old jelly and bits of second hand sausage, making it to tactile sensation what strychnine is to tea at the Ritz, Conrad appears.
"Miss," he says, "I don't really want to come to choir." I wink at him. "Conrad," I say,"I'll let you into a little secret. I don't want to, either. But if you don't let on, nor will I."
Outside the hall, the children are, as usual, peering putting their heads round the door like tiny spies. Either they're struggling with the metaphysics of self, context and reality or else Sasha has bugged their healthy eating snacks with little cameras and is paying per second of compromising footage.
I text Bad Lindy, Vicky and Francis to update them on my morning so far:
"Think may have blown shoulder pads gambit."
"What about mixed presentation platter of oily fish? Known international friendship symbol," suggests Francis, whose brain has clearly performed a successful separation exercise from the rest of his body and is now living underwater and suffering from pressure sickness.
"Stupid c***," texts Bad Lindy, with the characteristic depth of sympathy and fellow feeling that's made her such a strong contender in the 'Confidante of the year' awards. "Try blowing the f****** recorder instead. It's the only language she understands."
As I pick up the special non-trip rubber casing into which the overhead projector lead must be inserted, thanks to new health and safety regulations, retching slightly as I encounter its own protective coating of old jelly and bits of second hand sausage, making it to tactile sensation what strychnine is to tea at the Ritz, Conrad appears.
"Miss," he says, "I don't really want to come to choir." I wink at him. "Conrad," I say,"I'll let you into a little secret. I don't want to, either. But if you don't let on, nor will I."
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