Moo loud

"What's different, children?" asks Sasha, who, having run out of underlings to crush, proposals to reject and objectives to fulfil, is re-energising her batteries by sucking the lifeforce out of the rest of us in assembly.

The children look baffled, as well they might, and stare around them in the vain hope, shared, I suspect, by the other teachers, that somewhere around them is a great big speech bubble proclaiming, "Look at me! I'm different!"

No such luck.

"Little boy at the front," says Sasha, gesturing vaguely at the half dozen or so children who amply fulfil the description. Now they look at each other. Then one, braver than the others
, speaks up.

"That mole on your face is a bit bigger," he says, pointing.

There's a sharp intake of breath.

"I'll ignore that," says Sasha. "No. It's something outside."

Perhaps she's persuaded God to turn up to do the prayer at the end.

"It's the sun, sillies," says Sasha, with a smile that seems to include all of us, as well as the pupils. "And do you know what I think? I think it's because all you children have been behaving so well that you've made the weather pleased with you."

I can't help wondering how, on this basis, she'd rate the 10-year drought in parts of Australia. Logically speaking, you'd be praying for Satan and all his hosts of cloven-hoofed friends and relations to drop in for a long visit.

"But it's not always like that, is it, children?" she says. "Last week, there was lots and lots of rain, and I think the teachers must have been very unhappy indeed. So what I've done to make sure your behaviour is wonderful every day is to turn every day into a special day."

She calls up five children and presents each of them with a coloured chart.

"There's Manners Monday, Tidy Tuesday, Well-behaved Wednesday, Thoughtful Thursday and Fab Friday. Now, as it's Tuesday, that means that today we're all going to try our hardest to put everything away whenever we've finished with it."

It's unfortunate that at this moment, her eye alights on the piano, which I tend to treat as a useful alternative desk. Right now, the top houses a miscellany of objects, including three tambourines, a small ball, a cuddly toy, my handbag, cycling helmet and some 'I ate a good lunch' stickers that have been there for months and show every sign of having settled in for life.

"I'm sure teachers will be wanting to sign up to Tidy Tuesday, won't they, Mrs Philistine?"

I dip my head, as if in thoughtful agreement.

The next day, Sasha happens to come in as I'm taking reception through the song I've just written for their summer play, which is themed to farmyard animals.

"'Moo loud, if you're proud, to be a cow,'" is the opening line, repeated fortissimo three times.

"Is that one of yours?" asks Sasha.

"It is," I say. "Bizarrely, it came to me in a flash just as I'd finished clearing up the piano. Tidiness clearly can be inspirational," I beam at her.

She gives me a long, long look and disappears.

Notes home

"'The best way of learning is to make learning a life experience,'" I say to Francis.

"It is?"

"Yes. It says so right here in the booklet from Deborah's school all about how to help with maths, so it must be true."

"So what are we supposed to do?" he asks, with all the enthusiasm of a Burmese general invited to display an 'I love democracy' sticker on his armoured car bumper.

"Take pocket money, for example," I say. "Guess what. It can be 'worked out in relation to saving for a particular item or in relation to change given'"

"What a fun idea," he says. "Can you imagine just how that'll make Deborah's little face light up on Saturday mornings when I perform the ceremonial unlocking of the wallet."

"And we can apparently transform dreary old shopping expeditions by 'searching for packaging in different 3-D shapes (e.g prisms).'"

"I can hardly wait."

"But best of all, there's bills. We've been so selfish, keeping those fun brown envelope moments to ourselves. From now on, what we'll be doing is involving every one in the excitement by 'discussing how they are laid out and calculated, asking children to check them and discuss methods of payment.'"

"Is begging one of the options Deborah's allowed to consider?"

I consult the booklet.

"Sadly, no. They assume that cash, cheque and direct debit will see us right."

"Sending children up Aga flues to remove noxious gas residues? Benefit cake sale?"

"No, again."

To cheer us both up, I show him the next letter, this time from Leo and Beth's school:

"The school now plans to tackle some sex education, covering a variety of sex-related issues including puberty-related topics, menstruation and menarche, conception, contraception, AIDS and safe sex, masturbation, homosexuality and any relevant queries raised by pupils. We will follow a loose pattern of topics."

"How loose?" asks Francis.

"Doesn't say. Elasticated waist, I'd imagine."

"But they really ought to pool their resources," says Francis. "I bet Beth and Leo's school could come up with lots of interesting ideas for 3-D shapes."

"Prisms might be tough," I say. "Perhaps I should call Bad LIndy and ask for ideas."

Sorry, Sweet Irene

I've been a bit pushed and haven't thanked you properly for my awards. And I think there's one from Crazy Cath, too. How useless of me. Please accept my apologies. It's all been a bit busy what with the holidays, sardine issues (did you realise fish could count?) and the cat lying with its back feet along 'QWERTY', its head resting on the printer and its body blocking the monitor and then biting me whenever I attempt to move. It's rough out here. Don't ever forget it.

The hair straightener solution

I'm waiting to collect Beth from sports training. She's late, no doubt because she's trying to straighten her hair: currently her answer to all problems, big and small, and no doubt something that would form a cornerstone of her considered approach to global warming, food shortages and the ethics of bio-crops.

Two boys, who are about her age, saunter past, deep in conversation:

"Mine knows how much homework I've got but she's still on at me, all the time. 'Get up.' 'You need to need to help.' 'I can't do this on my own.' She just doesn't realise how tired I am after a full day at school."

"Mine does it all. No stopping her. But her timing! She waits until I've finished my homework and I'm watching something really good on TV and then it starts. BZZZZZZZZ...And if it's football, you can guarantee she'll be vacuuming right in front of the screen just when they score the vital goal. I ask her to move but of course she doesn't take any notice."

"Mothers," the boys agree, shaking their heads in disbelief. "Why do they do it to us?"

And at that moment, they have no idea how lucky they are. Because if I had access to rope, a power source and Beth's hair straightener, I can pretty much guarantee that I could really help them change their minds about mothers - permanently.

Notes from the edge

"I don't want to go back to school. I don't like the children, I don't like the teachers. I hate the school lunches."

"So do I."

"But you're the teacher, Mum. You're not allowed to feel like that."

"Oh, yeah? And what are they going to do? Dock five minutes of my playtime for being rude?"

Deborah giggles.

She's back at her school today. Mine starts tomorrow. And, as is usual, the mood is a cross between endless shaggy dog story and mourning for the time I could have spent in places that don't smell of cabbage and echo with screams. And that's only our house. School is 100 times worse.

"I'm just too old to be in a classroom," I whinge, overcome with sadness for myself and the parallel life I know was out there for me once, before thick blue veins started pulsing across my hands and I developed not so much a mono- but multi-brow that heads off down the side of my face in so many directions at once that I'm convinced somebody's given it a dodgy plan of escape that leads straight into my ear.

But the real problem is that, in my customary 'ignore the problem and there's just a chance that some superior being will magic it away' fashion, I haven't yet put together my lesson plans. Admittedly, these are short at the best of times, but even the most unobservant of heads of department can probably tell the difference between four paragraphs of lucidly constructed objectives and a blank piece of paper - though, given a severe enough hangover, it's certainly something capable of foxing me.

I'm waiting to collect Deborah from her first day at school when Cultured Mum's brother greets me. He is also a music teacher, though one who, bizarrely, appears to enjoy what he does. He also has boundless energy, enthusiasm and an encyclopaedic knowledge of techniques and instruments I've never heard of. I feel my heart sink.

"Are you using the Kodaly method?" he asks.

"How reliable is it?" I ask. "With three children already, I don't want to take any chances."

He looks confused. "You know, that marvellous Hungarian system of getting children to sing on their own, limiting the range of notes and encouraging them to listen as they sing. You get the most amazing purity of sound."

"You do? I mean, you do, yes, absolutely. Couldn't agree more. Good old Hungary. I'll certainly be rooting for them come the next Eurovision."

"Anyway," he says. "I'm working through the instruments of the orchestra with mine. It's the Cor Anglais this week, and then a Bass Oboe. If I can get hold of one."

I nod, dumbly. I've come to the reluctant conclusion that being a crap music teacher isn't just a case of playing the wrong chords consistently.

Later on, I ring Cultured Mum and ask her what a Bass Oboe is. "You mean, you don't know?" she says, laughing, and hangs up.

Socialising - the freecycle way

Socially inadequate? Worried that, come springtime, the occasional appearance of the sun might trigger long-buried 'getting together' instincts in friends and relations?

Terrified that they might demand to see you and, even worse, require food, drink, conversation?

Neurotic about the possibility of being forced to lend them valuable DIY equipment or, even worse, being asked to help out?

Your worries are over. Because with Freecycle's bumper crop of seasonal freebies, it's a virtual certainty that you need never be bothered by other people ever again:

Begin by solving communications difficulties at a stroke by trying not to talk to people. This 'top of the range mobile phone battery' is bound to make life easier as it doesn't hold a charge, making silence a round the clock everyday communication option once again.

And if people do get through and ask for DIY help, Freecycle has just the backup you'll need. Choose from the '3 step aluminium ladder - very useful round the house. Bottom rung must not be stood on,' and just watch the faces of elderly or infirm relations as they work this one out for themselves. Then there's what we call procastination in a box - a 'non-working Black and Decker Firestorm drill.' - perfect for those jobs you know you'll never get round to. Even better, why not get both.

And if, despite all your efforts, unwanted guests do turn up at your door, there's only one thing to do. March them out into the garden during a heavy spring shower and sit them under your special, no expense incurred, Teak garden umbrella frame & iron base.' As it's 'sadly missing all its fabric' there's no question that they'll soon get the message.

Enjoy!!!

A friend e-mails

'We are doing well. If it is any consolation to you, another friend, who works in the mental health arena, (a little visual here of a white lab coat, in a coliseum trying to reason with schizophrenic lions) told me that the worst a woman will ever feel is when she is 44 years old; her parents are old and sick, her kids are teenagers and hate her, she has come to the realisation that her success and ambitions are limited (and more than likely over) and her body and hormones are conspiring against her.

So remember - you cannot be held accountable for any of your actions.

That's probably just as well. We move house on May 2nd. I may notify you of our new address/phone number in a few weeks but seeing as you are still sending Christmas cards to the place we left five years ago, it might all be a bit pointless....