queripel.org

A letter to the Reverend Margaret Court, evangelical Christian and former tennis player

2012-01-31T21:03:00.000+01:00

Dear Reverend Margaret Court, Pastor of Victory Life Centre, Perth, Australia and record-breaking former pro-tennis player,

I am dropping you a quick line to thank you for the remarks you made recently concerning the sanctity of marriage in your beloved Australia. It's high time that someone of your standing and intelligence stood up for the beleaguered straight people of this world. There just haven't been enough people of late reminding us about the utter horror that will beset us all if we continue to let the gays get married to the ones they love. There are simply not enough people of faith with the guts these days to stand up and be counted as anti-gay and utterly homophobic. Well done to you for leaving no-one in any doubt whatsoever that you are both of these.

In your remarks, you state quite clearly that your beautiful country is suffering from a moral decline. I am very sorry to hear this, but not at all surprised, to be honest. Watching Neighbours in the late 1990s I could see already that the country would soon go to wrack and ruin, what with Toadfish Rebechhi chucking water bombs at Billy Kennedy and Brett Stark refusing to cut the abominable helmet hairstyle he insisted on sporting. I could tell that it was only a matter of time before Australia would fall head over heels down the slippery slope towards complete moral degradation. But, interestingly, I had no idea it would be entirely the fault of the gays! I simply did not imagine that they would become so dangerous.

But dangerous, it would appear, they are - practically lethal, in fact. Teaching Australia's children that people should be allowed to live and let live and be respected and loved for whoever they are (or teaching them that "anything goes", as you so eloquently put it) - this is dangerous stuff! And encouraging your leaders to "lean toward" a situation in which they have equal rights with you - this is clearly something to fear and fear it, I can tell, you do.

I feel so sorry for you that your normal, straight lifestyle is under such threat. How awful it would be for you to live in a country in which all citizens share the same rights, regardless of whether or not they believe in your god. Everybody knows, surely, that the best rights are reserved for those who believe that God made them better than others! You are wise to warn the people of Australia that the marriage of one man to another man or one woman to another woman may well soon cause God to "take his hand off [y]our nation", leaving the lights to go out. I'm sure there are many Australians who go through life imagining God to be caring and kind, so you are right to let them know that it is you and your fellow evangelical Christians who decide who God is caring and kind towards, not Him.

At one point in your remarks, you say that society has taken the easy way out by telling homosexuals that they are normal and deserve the same rights as everyone else. It's not surprising really, I guess, when gays are such an extremely dangerous bunch. Who could be expected to have the courage to stand up to them and remind them that they are inferior when they have the power to destroy life as we know it simply by getting married? If they can cause God to forever remove Australia from the list of places He likes to chill, there's no imagining what else they could do. It is, quite simply, as you wisely point out, "minorities...making it harder for the majority". It didn't used to be anywhere near so difficult to discriminate against a minority, did it? I feel your pain.

Anyways, that's about all I have to say. I hope you enjoyed my letter and that it will spur you on in your quest to rid the world of homosexuals and their Machiavellian schemings to take it over and destroy it for ever (or to get married, as I think they like to call it).

Richard Queripel

P.S. I used to be an evangelical Christian, like yourself, but then I decided my life could be better spent helping people.

P.P.S. I didn't used to be a professional female tennis player. Just in case you were wondering.

Leaked memo to Pope assessing current threats to humanity

2012-01-11T17:27:00.001+01:00

The following document was leaked today. It gives a fascinating insight into the running of the Vatican City and how its most powerful leaders view current world threats.

BRIEFING DOCUMENT

ASSESSMENT OF CURRENT THREATS TO VATICAN CITY &

HUMANITY ITSELF

FAO: Pope Ben and other less important mortals.

Not FAO: Berlusconi.

Assessment of current threats to the safety and security of the Vatican City and humanity itself:

UPRISINGS IN NORTH AFRICA

Over the last year there have been uprisings in several north African countries in which ordinary people have started to fight for democracy, sometimes with bloody and violent results. It is the decision of the Venerable Wise Council of Wise Catholics of the Wisest Holy Order of the Vatican City that these uprisings pose little or no threat to the Vatican City and no threat whatsoever to humanity itself. The people involved in the uprisings are not Catholic. A lot of them belong to one of the other religions (Note to Ben: That's Islam. They're the ones who don't eat pork and believe there's only one God. Not to be confused with the Jews) and, by revolting as they are, are managing only to damage Islam's reputation in the world.

Is there a danger that anti-Islamic sentiment could spread to Christianity?

No. Everyone knows that Christians would never involve themselves in slaughter and bloodshed.

LEVEL OF THREAT TO VATICAN CITY: None (Christians do not get involved in these sorts of things).

LEVEL OF THREAT TO HUMANITY ITSELF: None (except for those human persons who get killed. Note to Ben: Express concern and sorrow about these deaths at all times, but remind everyone that if they'd been Catholics they'd be in Heaven now).

TERRORIST ORGANISATIONS

Despite the death last year of Osama Bin Laden, terrorists continue to exist on our Earth. Last year saw terrorist attacks in Pakistan, Afghanistan and some other places. It is the decision of the Venerable Wise Council of Wise Catholics of the Wisest Holy Order of the Vatican City that these terrorists pose little or no threat to the Vatican City and only a marginal threat to humanity itself. No terrorists will try to blow up the Vatican City, mainly because it's so small they cannot find it. And if they do succeed in finding us, our emergency plan to cover the Welcome to Vatican City. Home of the Pope sign with the one that reads You are now entering San Marino. NOT where the Pope lives, will offer us complete protection (It always worked with Berlusconi).

LEVEL OF THREAT TO VATICAN CITY: None (there are enough Pope Mobiles to evacuate all 12 residents if the worst comes to the worst).

LEVEL OF THREAT TO HUMANITY ITSELF: Low (except for those human persons who get killed. Note to Ben: Express concern and sorrow about these deaths at all times, but remind everyone that, on the whole, the majority of the victims of terrorism are poor and live in countries where people die like this all the time).

ECONOMIC MELTDOWN

The economies of many major countries are on the verge of collapse. There is high unemployment the world over and the Euro is about to fold. It is the decision of the Venerable Wise Council of Wise Catholics of the Wisest Holy Order of the Vatican City that the collapse of the world economy poses little or no threat to the Vatican City and only a marginal threat to humanity itself. Whatever happens to the world economy, the Vatican City will continue to receive its annual donations from the Church's 1.1 billion faithful followers. Or else they will go to Hell (Note to Ben: Tell the Church's 1.1 billion faithful followers they will go to Hell if they don't give us money. Especially the poor ones). There is no need for us to worry about how we will continue to fund Pope Ben's free bus pass and where we will find the money to heat the Papal chambers. If things do deteriorate, we can always rack up the price to enter the Basilica (Note to Ben: The suggestion mooted last week to charge Sunday worshippers for a pew has, ultimately, been rejected as a step too far. The proposal to start re-selling Indulgences is, however, still very much on the table).

LEVEL OF THREAT TO VATICAN CITY: None (It's simply a question of piling on the guilt. And, in this area, we have some expertise).

LEVEL OF THREAT TO HUMANITY ITSELF: Medium (Some economies may collapse, even Italy's. This could cause some hardship for poor people, but would provide an excellent opportunity to remind governments and people that if they had been donating money to the Catholic Church, instead of squandering it on food, education and entertainment, then the world would be a better place, and God would like them more. Note to Ben: Tell people this).

GAY MARRIAGE

Last year, several countries legalised same-sex marriage, or vowed to begin a process of consultation, with the aim of legalising it in the years to come. There are countries in the world (and not just in Crazy People Land. Note to Ben: that's America) in which two men or two women have been able to marry for years! The normally level-headed Scandinavians, for example, have been allowing homos to tie the knot for ages. It never ceases to amaze what these Protestants will get up to when you leave them alone for a few hundred years! It is the decision of the Venerable Wise Council of Wise Catholics of the Wisest Holy Order of the Vatican City that gay marriage poses a GINORMOUS threat to the Vatican City and the greatest threat to humanity itself that the world HAS EVER KNOWN. If gay people are allowed to marry then the world MIGHT AS WELL EXPLODE (which would be kind of good, because we would all get to go to Heaven, but a bit sad too). (Note to Ben: some members of the press may suggest that gay marriage will not lead to the world's demise as it is already allowed in some countries and the world is still here. Ignore them). Once gay people are married, they will want to have children, and even own houses together and have pets and cars. If they do this, there will be none left for the normal people, and that's JUST NOT FAIR. Also, if we allow gay people to marry, then they will start claiming other rights that we enjoy and they, for their own good, do not. We may even start our descent down the slippery slope towards having gays in the Catholic Church. We all know that there are no gays in the Catholic Church (Note to Ben: some members of the press may dispute this. Ignore them), but, if we allow gays to marry, our churches could be overrun.

LEVEL OF THREAT TO VATICAN CITY: VERY EXTREMELY HIGH (Mainly because gays are evil. Period).

LEVEL OF THREAT TO HUMANITY ITSELF: THE GREATEST THREAT HUMANITY HAS EVER KNOWN (All life on Earth will (possibly) end if gays are allowed to marry).

It is the opinion of the Venerable Wise Council of Wise Catholics of the Wisest Holy Order of the Vatican City that we have nothing to fear from the bloody Arab uprisings; terrorists who are willing to destroy buildings and lives (including their own) at the drop of a hat; and the utter collapse of the world economy and the worldwide panic and pandemonium that that would cause. It is, however, our opinion that allowing two people of the same sex who are very much in love to marry is A THREAT TO OUR VERY EXISTENCE. All of the Vatican's efforts in 2012 should be put into countering the growing dangerous trend towards extending equal rights to those who don't deserve them.

Note to Ben: This document is highly secret. To avoid it falling into the wrong hands, please do not use it to write your shopping list or to mop up any of your little accidents again.

On your marks, get set...

2012-01-08T17:17:00.000+01:00

I must rejoin the gym. I must. I've been meaning to do so for months, ever since me and my swim-only membership at a Soho pool decided to go our separate ways. It's been a fun relationship, over the years, but the pool and I are just not working out anymore. He's in the centre of London and I'm miles out in Stratford. He's always free and wanting to swim and I'm always busy and looking for excuses not to see him. It's not the basis for a strong, healthy relationship, and so we've decided to call it a day.

But I'm not sobbing into my warm milk of an evening, because I've found another gym. It's big and a little bit flashy, modern and clean. And, most importantly, it's not going to eat up too much of my hard-earned money. Also, crucially, it's very close to my house so I can go and be gym-like in the morning before work. Well, that's the plan. I have to join first, I guess.

I've never been a huge gym person, or sporty person at all, come to that. My dad was never into football, so my brother and I never developed an interest. I remember playing football willingly (i.e. not during a PE lesson) twice with friends (once in Year 6 and once at university, that's how rarely it occurred), and I quite enjoyed it, although I was pretty useless. During PE lessons at school, of course, I was subjected to the whole gamut of organised sports and, because I was no David-Beckham-in-the-making, I was put on the PE teacher's Can't Play Football, Can't Play Anything list, along with all of the other gay boys, overweight boys and potheads. And it was this experience that put me off sport for many, many years.

Generally, I abhorred PE lessons with the kind of intense hatred that is reserved for genocidal dictators and Jeremy Clarkson. Despite following a broad and varied curriculum, being educated in England, football was, far and away, the predominant sport we ~~were forced to do~~ were taught the delights of. Football lessons followed a set structure. They always involved our hugely overweight PE teacher splitting us into three groups, which, funnily enough, always seemed to comprise the boys who were in the football team; the boys who desperately wanted to be in the football team but weren't; and the boys who would rather have been listening to Judy Garland's Greatest Hits on their Walkmans, eating a deep-fried pie or smoking weed - the aforementioned group of gays, fatties and potboys.

Our PE teacher, clad in 4 or 5 layers of Arran sweater, body warmer, scarf and Donkey jacket, would waddle over to the football team and shout at them, between swigs of something from his Thermos flask, as the chosen ones ran around kicking the football as if it were an extension of their very beings. The wannabe footballers would organise themselves into two teams and get playing fairly quickly, ever hopeful that Mr. Whatever-His-Name-Was would see them performing an amazing trick and promote them to the National School team. My group was pretty much left to its own devices, which suited us just fine. We would meander over to the pitch that was furthest away from the others, stopping along the way to adjust our bootlaces and discuss the previous night's episode of Oprah. When we finally arrived at our chosen spot (suitably far enough away from Sir to ensure that he would never be able to wheeze over to us in the 35 minutes that remained of the lesson), we started to play 'football'. I say 'football' in inverted commas because the game we played did not particularly resemble our country's national sport in any way, shape or form, having very little to do with either feet or balls. Our version of the game involved a lot of standing around doing very little. From time to time one would be required to pass the ball to someone else, but using any body part one wished, usually the hands. It seemed so much easier to hand the ball to someone else rather than put it on the (muddy) ground and attempt to direct it towards someone with one's feet. We didn't generally keep a score, mainly because the ball so rarely crossed the goal line on either side it wasn't worth it. This was my experience of football in almost every lesson. Except for the few dreaded lessons when Sir decided that he should mix us up.

These lessons were the ones I dreaded most. For reasons known only unto himself, in a vague, token nod to differentiation and quality teaching, Mr What's-His-Face would, every now and again, split the teams differently. Nobody liked this. The boys who could actually play hated having to keep the ball away from not only the opposition but also as far away from us non-players as possible, and we hated it because it was an opportunity for ridicule of the highest order. It always became very quickly apparent that the version of the game that we had been happily playing for weeks in the far recesses of the playing fields, was not what Sir was expecting to see. And so I and my fellow 'weaker players' (as he used to call us) were forced to kick the ball (on the rare occasions it came anywhere near us) and not throw it to each other. Boring.

My participation in these lessons followed a very rigid structure. I would begin by standing around as the real players tried to decide where my fellow non-players and I would do least damage: in goal, defence or on the wings. I would wangle it so that I was in defence, as in that position there was less need to be able to kick the ball accurately if you were simply trying to clear it away from your goal area, which suited my somewhat limited kicking skills perfectly. Once the match had started, I had one simple goal, and one simple goal only: stay as far away from the ball as possible. Whatever anyone else on the pitch was doing, my complete and utter aim was to avoid the ball at all costs, even if that meant running in the opposite direction when the ball was heading towards me despite there being no-one else between it and the goal behind me. And this I was very good at. For the majority of my time at school I think most of my fellow pupils thought I was either partially sighted or a little bit 'special' as a result of my fantastic ability to not notice when a football was coming my way.

Football was not the only sport I 'studied'. I was also schooled in the joys of rugby (my very good gay friend and I were, without fail, the only ones who came off the rugby pitch as clean as we went onto it); hockey (I loved hockey but, at my school, if you were not a future Ronaldo you were no good at any sport, even if you were); tennis (I loved tennis. See previous statement about hockey); rounders; cricket; athletics; trampoline (beyond hideous); volleyball; badminton and other forms of torture I have since forgotten. This schooling taught me very little that was positive about myself and sport in general. It took me years and years (several decades) to realise that sport was meant to be fun and that even people like me could do it. When I moved to the States and plucked up the courage to swim in the outdoor pool at the University of Maryland for the very first time, I was actually surprised as I took my first strokes that people weren't sniggering at my technique or shouting unpleasant things. Maybe I wasn't so bad after all. Or, maybe, people just didn't care.

I am not sporty and never will be, but, over the years, I have enjoyed swimming, running and playing badminton with a long-suffering friend who keeps playing with me despite me not having won once. I am very thankful that school did not manage to beat out of me all the desire to be fit and healthy, and it's for that reason that I need to join the gym again. Because I can. And, as Jennifer Aniston always told me, because I'm worth it.

Most importantly, though, as someone who now teaches PE himself (I think we call that one of life's little ironies) I need to keep myself in shape, because no-one's ever heard of an out-of-shape PE teacher. Right?

A letter of condolence to Michele Bachmann

2012-01-04T22:23:00.001+01:00

Dear Mrs Michele Bachmann, ex-candidate for the Republican Party nomination for the Presidency of the United States and current Congresswoman for the state of Minnesota,

I am just dropping you a line to say how sorry I am that you've had to pull out of the race to win your party's nomination for the presidential elections of 2012. After all that hard work you put into ensuring that the women who want abortions, the gays, and the people who can't afford private health care know just how bad they are, it must be galling to have received only 5% of the vote. In your home state. And behind Rick Perry (who, you'll remember, appeared in that gay, Brokeback Mountain-inspired campaign ad with background music by well-known homosexual, Aaron Copland. Disgusting). I must say I was touched (and almost shed a tear) when, in your withdrawal speech earlier today, you thanked so graciously the state of Iowa for its love and support during your short-lived campaign, when I'm sure all you really wanted to do was to get your favourite AR-15 semi-automatic rifle out and teach them all how much God loves them.

It was certainly a strong campaign and you never once wavered from your message, ensuring that the 5% of Iowans who were listening to you knew exactly what you thought about abortion, marriage and healthcare. What a voice of reason you have been amongst a cacophony (that means a harsh, discordant mixture of sounds) (discordant means disagreeable to the ear) of crazy people voices. Who else in America these days is asking questions like this about abortion: "Does that mean that someone's 13-year-old daughter could walk into a sex clinic, have a pregnancy test done, be taken away to the local Planned Parenthood abortion clinic, have their abortion, be back and go home on the school bus? That night mom and dad are none the wiser?" And who else is picking up on the fact that the judicial system of the United States is forcing young children to become gay: "And what a bizarre time we're in, when a judge will say to little children that you can't say the pledge of allegiance, but you must learn that homosexuality is normal and you should try it." You should feel proud that you're asking the important questions and making the important points. Even if only 5% of people are listening to you.

Now, Michele, I don't want you to be disheartened that you didn't succeed in securing your party's nomination, and to start feeling that nobody likes you and that you are constantly making yourself look like an uneducated fool. You need to draw down deep on that faith of yours and remember that God has a plan for you. But I know sometimes it can be hard to hear Him talk and, unless God is going to give you another earthquake as a sign to let you know He's there, it might take you a while to hear what He's saying. So, let me help you out a bit. As someone who used to bend the Almighty's ear quite a bit, I think I have an idea what the plan might be. I suspect it involves you diving back into Congressional politics with a vengeance, voting against all those heinous socialist policies that are designed to extend basic human rights to all citizens of America and shooting lots of pheasants in Sioux City with that favourite combat rifle of yours. Or something like that. Does that seem like a good plan? I'm sure you think it is. You should make sure you tell God so He can organise it (assuming He's among the 5% of people who listen to you, that is).

Well, I'd better leave this letter of condolence for the dying embers of your very short campaign here. Thank you for being a voice in the wilderness, to which you will now, inevitably, have to return. As you said in your resignation speech earlier, you made a "very important contribution"to the race and we can all ponder over many years to come what exactly that was.

Yours,

Richard

P.S. I wrote to your husband, Dr. Marcus Bachmann, a few days ago, but haven't received a reply. Is he OK? Please tell him not to be too upset that he won't get to remodel the White House. And, if he gets low, remind him that, even if the country didn't want him, he'll always be your First Lady.

Baby I was born this way...

2012-01-01T21:00:00.000+01:00

It was in the summer of 2006 that I came out to my family. It was a fairly average summer's day. I came home from a Christian summer camp I'd been helping to lead in beautiful Bakewell, not far from where I was born, and I told my mum that I'd met someone (the exotic French boyfriend) and that I was gay. There were a few tears and the obligatory Are you sure it's not just that you haven't met the right girl?, and then there was acceptance. And love. I had the same from my dad (but without the tears or the question about not having met the right girl). My brother and sister were just as accepting (as I always knew they would be), and so were my aunts and uncle when I told them the following week. I was 27. And I was lucky. Very lucky.

Now, 27 is not old, in the grand scheme of things. Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain and Amy Winehouse all died at 27, and are considered to have died young. At 27, you're young enough to be included in The Times' Young Rich List (not something that has ever been particularly likely for me, it must be said), and you're still 8 years too young to be President of the United States. If all goes well, you've definitely not yet reached the age of more years behind than ahead. You're young. 27 is young. And yet, coming out at 27, I felt kind of old, as if I'd left it all a bit late. My best friend in the Sixth Form had come out to me at 17 and, after coming out myself, I went on to make lots of gay friends who'd been skipping around freely in Gayland since their teens. I kind of wished I'd been able to come out at school and I wondered what fun I'd missed out on, spending all those years in the darkest, furthest recesses of the deepest closet you could imagine. The reasons why I stayed in that closet so long are complicated and are tied up in religion and guilt, guilt and religion and I've gone into them before in some detail (see my It gets better post). Suffice it to say, I didn't really know I was gay until my mid-20s and then there was quite a lot of denial to get through. Several years' worth. Pretty standard stuff for many gay men I should imagine.

When I did come out, almost everyone, to a tee, claimed that they had had no suspicions whatsoever and appeared to be incredibly shocked, not least my great (and still very close) friend who had come out at 17 and who prided himself on his excellent gaydar. Practically the only person who professed to have known was a lady I didn't know that well at all and who I used to sing in a church with every now and again, and who said she'd always suspected "because you wear a ring". Amazed that no-one else had ever picked up on this most obvious of signs, I considered what other signs people had failed to notice over the years: the fact that I had only ever had two girlfriends in my life, neither of whom I had dated for more than a week and neither of whom had ever been introduced to my family; the fact that I spent most of my primary school playtimes playing elastic with the girls, rather than football with the boys; the fact that I desperately wanted to be an actor; the fact that from an early age I knew all the words to several Andrew Lloyd-Webber musicals (which I have long since forgotten, thankfully); and the fact that, at the age of 6, in the self-penned classic Houses and Homes, recently rediscovered in my parents' loft, I wrote the following 'story' about my desire to live in Care Bear Land:

A classic of gay literature, I'm sure you'll agree. Why exactly I lived in a "magic caravan" and quite why there was a time limit of only 22 nights on my relationship with Bedtime Bear, I do not know. But what I do know is that this story was probably a little different from the stories my male compatriots were writing at the time. I suspect Miss Whatever-Her-Name-Was, whose carefully printed "have" and solitary tick at the bottom of the page, are tantalisingly unrevealing, found it quite an interesting read. Maybe, just maybe, she picked up on the signs before anyone else, and 21 years before me.

It was re-reading this story, which I had long since forgotten writing, that got me thinking about coming out at 27 and whether or not it had been obvious before that that I was gay. It also reminded me how different that little 6 year old had felt from everyone around him, and how many other children feel different right now and don't know what to do about it. The world is changing for gay people in many good ways. 2011 saw many advances in the area of gay rights around the world. But it also saw several setbacks (African countries criminalising homosexuality and legal battles around the world to ensure that marriage can only ever apply to a man and a woman, for example), and I wonder how it must feel nowadays to be gay and trapped, by family, religion or culture. Some gay boys and girls are having a very tough time. You only have to look at the statistics for the number of teens committing suicide in the States because they are gay or perceived to be gay to see how difficult life is for some at the moment. And that is heartbreaking.

I didn't come out until I was 27. That was when I was ready. I don't wish it had been earlier or later. It was right for me. I have an amazing family who, practically, did not bat an eyelid at the revelation. I know how lucky I was, and am. As we enter 2012, I know how unlucky some gay boys and girls are. Some have come out and are suffering horrible consequences. Some don't see how they could ever come out in the first place. I wish they didn't have to. I wish that it was just universally accepted that some people are born gay and some are not, and they could live their lives as they wish, without having to announce to the world how they intend to do it. But, sadly, that day is quite a way off. It will not happen in 2012. But it will get closer. Gay marriage will be introduced in some countries, and, in others, homosexuality will be decriminalised. It's slow progress for some, I know, and it may not mean much to a young teenager who is being bullied because he or she is gay, but it's progress all the same.

I wish I could do something directly to help every child who is struggling with their sexuality, and who feels less of a person because of who they are, but I'm not really sure what I can do. At the very least I can make a resolution (along with going to the gym, writing more and keeping in touch with faraway friends) to donate money to the It Gets Better campaign, who have made it their mission to let gay children know that life is worth living. And, as I'm doing that, I can think long and hard about how else I could be of practical help. After all, I'm the boy who wanted to live in Care Bear Land at the age of 6 - if I can't offer advice about what it's like to be a gay child, I don't know who can.

A letter to Dr. Marcus Bachmann, wannabe First Man of the United States

2011-12-21T17:21:00.000+01:00

Dear Dr. Marcus Bachmann, clinical therapist and husband of candidate for the Republican nomination in the 2012 US presidential election, Michele Bachmann,

I was prompted to write this little note of advice upon reading the recent announcement of your plans for life once Michele has been elected the first female president of the United States in 2012.

At that time, when Michele takes the Oath of Office and starts to lead one of the most powerful countries on Earth, you will assume the awesome mantle of 'First Man of the United States', the first First Man ever.

As someone who has studied a little of your country's culture and political history, I hope you won't mind me offering you a little advice about how best to conduct yourself in this exalted position. Please don't think me patronising or to be speaking out of turn, as, after all, I am a man and have been first on a number of occasions in my life (first prize in the Nottinghamshire Libraries Young Writer competition - 1994; regularly first in line for lunch at work) and so I consider myself supremely qualified to offer you a few words of wisdom about being a 'First Man'. I do this solely out of love and a desire to prevent you making a total idiot of yourself.

Here starteth the advice:

1. Be the First Man - By which I mean, live the role and do not shrink into the background. Your wife may have become the most important woman on Earth, but don't let that make you feel inadequate. You are a successful therapist within your own right and have only been criticised, ridiculed and shamed a few times by national organisations and the media for running a clinic that offers 'pray the gay away' services to vulnerable homosexual men and women. You have strong opinions, and in your role as First Man you will be in the unique position to be able to disseminate your views to every citizen of your country, arguably, the world. Don't squander this opportunity to let the whole world know what you believe in and to influence it for the better. It'll be a bit like the sidewalk counselling that you and your wife used to offer, out of the kindness of your hearts, to pregnant women entering abortion clinics - but on a grander scale!

2. Champion a cause - Hillary had her healthcare scheme, Eleanor had the civil rights movement, Lady Bird had the beautification of Washington DC, Nancy had her anti-drugs campaign, Rossalyn had the President's Commission on Mental Health and Laura had her child literacy programmes - all fantastically important and worthy projects. You will have the prevention of gay marriage. Perhaps not quite so significant a project as the elimination of mental illness or the dismantling of segregation in the Deep South, but it's something that I know is very close to your heart and that's the main thing. As long as you believe it's important then, as First ~~Lady~~ Man, you have the right, the duty even, to ensure that everyone in your country learns to see things from your point of view. Let me warn you, however, that that won't be easy and that there will be detractors. Some will say the issue of gay marriage is irrelevant, that we should just live and let live, that spending one's entire adult life campaigning against homosexuality is a complete and utter waste of one's time and intellect and makes one appear small, petty-minded, misguided, ignorant and mean...but don't let them get you down. As long as you believe you're right, and you mention God a lot, then everyone else's opinion is invalid and you are allowed to tell them so. Repeatedly. Just remember that Rome wasn't built in a day. The elimination of gay marriage (or the education of "barbarians", as you so delightfully put it) may take a while, but don't lose heart. Remember that, at the very least, this little pet project is giving you something to work on whilst your wife is deciding which oil-rich nation to invade next.

3. Put your stamp on the family home - Mary Todd blew the decorating budget in the 1860s. Jackie remodelled 100 years later. In the '70s Pat, with not much money to spend on paint it would appear, had a bash at the Red, Green and Blue Rooms. And in the '90s, Hillary had a crack at the Oval Office (as did her husband). In order to appeal to the masses and to be seen as the ideal presidential spouse (able to hold down a job and be a homemaker), you too must put your stamp on the presidential house when you move in with Michele in late 2012, early 2013. And I'm thinking sequins and baubles. Not too many. Just enough to cover the six pillars of the South Portico. And the four round the back. And one of those glittering, shimmery signs like they have outside 'Priscilla the Musical' would be quite nice. It could say 'Welcome to the Bachmann's. Beware of the Bitch' (a little play on words there - obviously the sign would be referring to your dog, and not your wife). I wouldn't go for the enormous glittery stiletto if I was you though. You wouldn't want to go OTT. As for inside, I'm seeing a lot of pink flock, a couple of glitter balls and one of those bead curtains that you have between rooms when you're too cheap to have a door - great for drafts and suitably retro. I think these changes (suggested to you here out of the kindness of my heart, without hope of remuneration or adulation) would bring a much-needed sense of fun to the White House and would have the added bonus, perhaps, of revealing a slightly gayer side to your character, thus proving to the homosexual electorate that you are not, as you keep saying, anti-gay, just anti their happiness. You'd need to be careful, however, not to go too far, or you may fuel the rumours that you are, in fact, a closeted gay man, who is desperately fighting against homosexuality in public in order to compensate for his own private feelings of self loathing. (If you ask me, looking at the picture at the beginning of this letter, I don't think you look in the slightest bit gay. At all).

Well, I started by saying this would be a little note but it seems to have run a bit longer than I planned! Please forgive me, but I think the advice I have given is crucial and will make your time in the White House as First Man very profitable (and sparkly).

Just remember always to support your wife in whatever she does. And don't forget your cause. You don't want to go down in history as the first First Person who didn't manage to implement a change in America that improved the lives and happiness of everyone. Perish the thought that you are described in the history books as a small-minded, callous and cruel nobody. That would be awful.

So, good luck for the election. I'm sure Michele will do just fine. She has two strong political attributes that I'm certain will enhance her appeal to the electorate of your country: her firm, and in no way wildly out of proportion, grasp of economics ("The President of the United States will be taking a trip over to India that is expected to cost taxpayers $200 million a day") and her astute eye for detail (likening visiting the Mall of America in Minneapolis to visiting Iraq: "There's a commonality with the Mall of America, in that it's on that proportion. There's marble everywhere. The other thing I remarked about was there is water everywhere.").

Have a Merry Christmas. Just think, this time next year you could be in the White House kitchen, boogying away to 'Last Christmas', hair tied back, pinny on, up to your eyeballs in turkey and trimmings. What more could a ~~girl~~ guy want?

Rich

P.S. If Michele doesn't win, don't cry too much - your eyeliner will run.

Love at first (second-ish) sight...

2011-12-07T17:02:00.001+01:00

I've fallen in love. With a woman. She's got blonde hair. She's powerful. And she's been known to kick ass.

She doesn't know me and I don't really know her, but I kind of nearly met her once.

Her name's Hillary. And she's probably the most powerful woman in the United States, and probably, therefore, the world.

If you haven't guessed already, it's Mrs. Clinton, other half of good old Bill, 42nd President of the USA.

Now, Bill doesn't need to start getting worried, I don't lurve Hillary in that way. She's really not my type. But I have a huge amount of respect for her and hold her in great admiration. I first started loving her when I lived in the States from 1999 to 2000, and Bill was pretty much on his way out of office. She'd had a tough time dealing with his sexual indiscretions, and I always thought she handled it all very graciously.

It was whilst in America that I very nearly met her. I was lucky enough to have a tour of the White House (a private one from one of the chefs - a friend of a friend). It was 3rd July, so the house was closed to all other visitors (in those pre-9/11 days, members of the public could tour a few rooms of the presidential residence if they queued for hours on the sidewalk outside. It's been closed to the public since 2001). The lack of other visitors that day meant that my friend and I were allowed to take down the barriers, snap photos, sit in the chairs and appropriate the odd monikered napkin from one of the many presidential bathrooms (framed in my house ever since). It also meant, however, that the Clinton family itself was not present (we were assured that if the Clintons had been in residence we would have met them, but that's something we'll never know for sure). We were, understandably, a little disappointed that we were not going to be able to meet the most powerful man in the world and his, then, not-too-powerful wife, but the chef-cum-tour guide decided to make up for it by showing us three things. The first was the food that had been prepared for Chelsea Clinton's 4th July party (mildly interesting), the second was the presidential elevator (surprisingly small) and the third was the Clinton's very own cat, Socks (very interesting, but not entirely friendly). Meeting Socks (and having a picture taken with him that, to this day, remains one of the most hideous photos ever snapped of man and beast) was a fantastic moment, as it meant that I had nearly met Hillary Clinton herself. It also meant that I had my 'most interesting fact' for life - you know, the kind of quirky fact you are asked for out of the blue on first dates or when people want to see how interesting you are and you can, without fail, never think of anything to say. Well, after meeting Socks, I knew this was never to happen to me again, as, at the age of 21 I knew I would forever more be able to fall back on the fact that I had once stroked Hillary Clinton's pussy. (Crude, I know, but it's never failed to tick the 'interesting fact' box - not once).

So, as explained, I have nearly met her, well by association (although how much she actually had to do with that cat in the sprawling corridors of the White House I don't really know and being as he appeared to live in the basement, it was probably not much!), but it was cool all the same. But, cool as the near-meeting was, I've realised now, just today, that I'd love to meet her in person. I really would.

Now I'm no celebrity fanatic. I'm really not attracted to famous people. If I find myself in their presence, I try to ignore them or, at the very least, treat them like any other normal person I might meet. I think they have enough people pandering to their egos without me joining in. I don't want to meet Hillary in order to get her to scrawl her name in a tattered autograph book next to Worzel Gummidge (Heanor Victorian Fair, 1985) or Goldie the Dog (Heanor Victorian Fair, 1986), and nor do I want to meet her so I can tell everyone about it (although I would, of course, ad infinitum). No, I want to meet her, right now, so I can say thank you.

What could I possibly want to thank her for? For making sure she'd run the hoover through the house before I popped round in 2000? For deciding to lose the frumpy hair in the mid-90s? Well, yes, I am, obviously, very grateful for both of those things, but I'd like to thank her right now, if she was sitting opposite me in this Soho coffee shop, for standing up so vociferously for gay rights in her speech to the UN in Geneva this week.

If you read it (link above), it's quite a tour-de-force. And I love it. It's what us British would call "very American", by which we mean that it mentions rights and democracy a lot, is extremely positive in tone and is hugely aspirational, attitudes that our political leaders never find it hugely comfortable to express. I know that there will be detractors, even in the gay community, who will say that it's just talk or that it's an obvious attempt at vote-winning from an administration that is not faring too well in the opinion polls the year before a presidential election. But I really don't agree. Out of all of the political parties in America (all two of them), I think the Democrats have slightly less to fear when it comes to the gay vote. I don't predict, considering the Republican party's track record on gay rights and scary plans for the future, that huge swathes of American gays will transfer their vote to the Republicans, however useless they may, or may not, believe Obama to be. No, I don't believe this is a cynical vote-winning exercise. I believe that Hillary, and the administration she represents, believe what she said in her speech, that all human beings are born with innate rights and that the world has to work steadily to eradicate anti-gay legislation, however many years it takes.

My favourite quote from Hillary's speech sums up my own beliefs, and what I believe are the beliefs of a great many decent people in this world:

Like being a woman, like being a racial, religious, tribal, or ethnic minority, being LGBT does not make you less human. And that is why gay rights are human rights, and human rights are gay rights.

I hope we don't have to wait too long before people who share this belief rise to positions of power in the countries that criminalise gays for being who they are. And I hope that the USA will make good its promise to support them when they do.

Good on you Hillary. Feel free to pop around to my flat anytime you like so I can thank you in person. I'll even make sure I hoover. But I don't have any napkins you can steal, I'm afraid.

A message to those who think I'm too different to be allowed to marry...

2011-11-26T14:27:00.001+01:00

I'm the same as you in so, so many ways.
I was created the same way as you and was born - like you.
I was a child and did silly things, and funny things, and naughty things, and things I'd never do again - just like you.
I went to school and learnt (well, some of the time) - like you.
I grew up and started to discover the world, learnt what I liked and what I didn't like and who I was - as did you.
I live on this Earth and wouldn't really want to be anywhere else,
And I'm guessing you wouldn't either.
I eat, I sleep, I laugh and I cry -
Something tells me you do these things too.

We might not have the same colour hair, or eyes,
Or like the same food or have the same talents.
We definitely don't have the same family or share the same worries,
But in many ways we're so, so similar, you and I, it's uncanny.
We've never met, and yet I know I'm like you.
You have dreams and aspirations and so do I.
You have passions and loves - so do I.
There are things that make you sad,
And things that make you so full of joy you can hardly breathe.
And there are things that make you so angry you could scream.
I have these things too.

Even though you're not so sure,
We're really not that different, you and I.
We both have the capacity to do good and to love with all our heart.
And we both have the capacity to be bad and to do evil if we so choose.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that we're both human.
Different in appearance - yes;
With different histories and different futures - most definitely.
But human all the same.

And the best part about being human, for me,
Are the the people I know and the people I love.
You probably feel the same.
Yes, people can annoy me, anger me and sometimes hurt me,
But they also make me happy, care for me and make life worth living.
Without other people, I'd be a sad person,
And very lonely on this big old planet.
I hope you are lucky enough to have lots of friends and loved ones like me.
Maybe you even have that special someone,
Who you've decided to spend the rest of your life with.
I haven't found him yet, but I'm keeping my eyes open.

And when I do find him,
I'll love him as best I can.
And, when the time's right, I'll marry him.
Not because it's something I've dreamed of since childhood,
Not because it's something I have to do,
And definitely not to make a political statement.
I'll marry him simply because I want to.
And it won't matter to me what anyone else in the entire world thinks.
Although it'll sadden me that you'll probably disapprove and may even try to stop me,
Directly or indirectly.

I don't know how involved you are in trying to deny me the same rights you enjoy,
But whether you're high up in government, or washing the dishes at the local deli,
Please try not to forget that we're so, so similar, you and I, it's uncanny.
We both have the capacity to love,
And we neither of us have the right to legislate each other's happiness.

It's time.

A call from the Vatican...

2011-11-17T21:49:00.001+01:00

Hallo? Hallo? Is that Barack? Yes? Yes? Thank goodness. I've been trying to get hold of you for hours but people keep telling me you're tied up in Australia. Oh really? She actually did tie you up? Wow, I knew Julia liked you but that's going a bit far, isn't it? Couldn't she just have looked at you longingly in front of the world's press and then been snapped by a photographer with her hand behind your back making it look as though she had just touched your bum? Oh...I see. Well, now you've sent Hillary in you should be safe. How am I? Oh, nice of you to ask. I'm just up actually. You know what it's like when you press 'snooze' once - dangerous! Not to worry, though - I only missed 4 services this time so they called the agency and got the lookalike in again. He's very good actually. Does me and Elvis, and Lady GaGa at weekends.

Anyway, much as I'd like to chitter chatter, I'm calling about something very serious. Silvio Berlusconi? I said serious my dear. Italy's enormous deficit problems? No. We've got tons of art in the collection we'll flog on eBay if we have to. We've got some of it on already actually. Nobody's noticed it's gone. What have we got on there at the moment? Erm, a Tracey Emin pillowcase, half a Damien Hirst pig and a Rolf Harris. No, no interest as yet. But it's early days. Anyway, I'm not worried about Italy's money troubles. We're a separate sovereign state here, remember? Yes, that's right, starts with a V. No...no...not Vanutu...no, not Venezuela...no, not Virginia...V-A-T...Vatican, that's right. Well done. Anyway, back to me. I'm calling about something devastating. I'm calling about that poster. Have you seen it? Yes, that one with me and the Immac. There's one hanging...sorry? It's not Immac? I'm pretty certain it is. And you're certain it isn't? Well, with all due respect Obie-One, who's the earthly representative of God in this conversation? Exactly. So, I'll thank you kindly not to question me when it comes to the names of religious leaders. Next you'll be trying to tell me that a Jewish priest isn't called a Rabbit! Leave the religion to me sunshine.

Anyway, back to the poster. I hear there's one of you too. Shocking. What I don't understand is why they would do this? I really don't get it. It's almost as if they're trying to make some kind of a point.

What have I done about it? Had it torn down and threatened legal action, of course. What else could I do? I can't have people seeing an image of me kissing a man. It would ruin me. I have absolutely no recollection of the incident but it must have happened that night last month in Egypt on our annual Vatican break when the trainee nuns spiked my shandy. I don't remember there being a photographer around, but you never can tell these days, can you? What? What? Speak up, dear, you're mumbling. It's not a real photo? They did what? Got it in a photo shop? Well, they've got a bloody nerve waltzing into a photo shop and...what? They made it themselves? On a computer? Wait, so it's not real? And I didn't really kiss a man? Oh thank God. You've no idea how much of a weight off my shoulders that is. I was that close to becoming bisexual (celibate of course). Near miss, huh?

Thinking about it, I suppose it is most likely meant as a joke, or perhaps a means of helping people realise the insensitivity of the Church and other religions when it comes to the sight of two men kissing. Let it go? Don't be ridiculous. The Vatican doesn't have a sense of humour.

BEEP! BEEP! YOUR CREDIT ON THE BERLUSCONI BUNGA BUNGA MOBILE NETWORK IS ABOUT TO RUN OUT. END YOUR CALL NOW.

Oops. Got to rush Obie-One. TTFN. Ciao.

A letter to Tony Perkins...

2011-11-10T22:01:00.001+01:00

Dear Mr. Tony Perkins, President of the Family Research Council, Washington DC, USA,

I am writing to you because I have just stumbled, quite accidentally, upon your response to the news that a Senate panel has passed the repeal of the Defence of Marriage Act, which might lead to a situation in which many homosexual couples in certain states of the United States do not have their marriages declared illegal and may even lead to a situation in which same-sex couples end up having the same rights as married straight couples.

I read your response as part of a CNN article, which, sadly, only included a few choice quotes. I'm sure, if I could find it, your full response would be much more detailed and full of interesting, well-researched and entirely balanced facts, like the article you wrote in July of this year about the shocking treatment of Christian counsellors and psychologists in the US who go out of their way to offer 'sexual orientation change efforts' (SOCE) out of the goodness of their hearts, only to receive a bad press from homosexual groups and professional bodies, such as the American Psychological Association. Despite not having your complete response, I was able to glean a lot from the quotes included in the article. I think the one that struck me the most was the following:

"Marriage is not some prize that liberals can award to a small, vocal and already well-off special interest group...Marriage between one man and one woman was created prior to the formation of any governments and is given benefits because it uniquely contributes to a productive society."

I am sure you are proud of your assertion that marriage is not a prize that can simply be dished out willy-nilly to any Tom, Dick or Elton by the people who God has ordained to be in charge of the distribution of rights (such as yourself). As we all know, there are only so many rights to go around and if we start handing them out to everybody, we'll soon run out. How wise it is, therefore, to keep them all for yourself and only give them out sparingly to those you deem to be worthy of them.

It was very clever of you to point out, towards the end of your first sentence, that homosexuals, because they are a small and vocal group of people, do not, in fact, deserve the right to marry. It is a well-known fact that any group that is small and/or vocal is not entitled to any rights whatsoever, let alone rights equal to those of upstanding Bible-believing Christians (such as yourself). Look what happened when they gave women equal rights - they became equal citizens. Shocking.

Most striking in the above quote is your reassertion of the fact that marriage should only be between one man and one woman because all of the marriages in the Bible are between men and women. If God had wanted men to marry men and women to marry women he would have put gay characters in the Bible and they would have married, or, at the very least, had a civil partnership. As it is, however, there are no gay marriages in the Bible so gay marriage must be sinful. It's a simple logic, almost as simple, some might say, as that of a child or a one-celled amoeba without the capacity for reasonable thought (not me, of course), but you stand by it firmly even at the risk of looking like a total idiot. Well done you.

Finally, I would like to thank you for making it clear that marriage between one man and one woman has made society the positive and productive place it is today. If we allowed the gays to marry, goodness knows what kind of dysfunctionality we might end up with - high levels of divorce and sham celebrity marriages solely for the purposes of publicity are but two of the horrors that might occur and which you would never catch straight people getting involved in. Much better to leave the sanctity of marriage to people who know how to do it best (such as yourself, Kim Kardashian and Katie Price).

In conclusion, thank you once again for your robust response to the spectre of equal rights for gays. Should I ever marry the man of my dreams, I'll make sure not to rub it in your face (too much) as I'd hate to think I might, by declaring my love for a fellow human being, offend you.

Yours (but not in that way),

Richard Queripel

P.S. Isn't it ironic that you share the same name as the incredibly handsome Tony Perkins who played the lead role in Psycho and had gay affairs with many leading Hollywood personalities of the 1960s? But don't worry, I know you're not gay.

A letter to Tanzania...

2011-11-05T18:38:00.001+01:00

Dear Mr Bernard Membe, Minister for Foreign Affairs and International Co-operation for the United Republic of Tanzania,

I am writing to you to thank you for your robust response to the suggestion from UK Prime Minister David Cameron that, in future, some of the aid money offered to your beautiful country may come with strings attached, namely an expectation that your government will legalise homosexuality and stop discriminating against lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgendered people.

You suggest that David Cameron's attitude and words are those of a bully. I cannot think of a more apt description for a man who is prepared to offer you millions of pounds of his taxpayers' money (£143.6 million from 2009 to 2010, to be precise) in order to help you build a better future for your country. What a callous and brutal form of bullying this is, and so much more insidious and hurtful than the kind of bullying, both physical and non-physical, that occurs against LGBT people in your country at a local and governmental level. Because, let's face it, the latter only affects people who should know better than to choose to be gay anyway, but Cameron's bullying affects you, personally, and that's simply not on. And as for suggesting that you adopt basic human rights legislation for all the citizens of your beautiful country? Well, who does David Cameron think he is? 35 years of continuous aid giving doesn't give any country the right to expect that their money will actually improve the lives of ordinary Tanzanians. Government limos and and private jets don't grow on trees, and the sooner Cameron realises that the better.

You say that Tanzania is a poor country, which is being targeted and picked on by wealthy Britain. I sympathise greatly with your plight. It must be so hard being in charge of a country with few natural resources that you could use to generate income (except for the gold, diamonds, coal, iron, uranium, nickel, chrome, tin, platinum, coltan, niobium, tanzanite and natural gas); and no breathtakingly beautiful tourist hot-spots that you could exploit to support your economy (except for the highest mountain in Africa, the lush beaches of Zanzibar and the world-famous Serengeti National Park). To have to lower yourself to accept money from such selfish nations as the UK must be extremely galling. I'm sure you have only done so for the last 35 years because you simply had no other choice, but maybe, if you'll permit me to make a little suggestion, it's time to consider asking the Chinese for more help, or some of the oil-rich nations of the Middle East? They don't let pesky little things like gay rights get in their way so I think you'd get on very well.

One final point: you say that Tanzania will not be "directed by the United Kingdom to do things that are against [its] set laws, culture and regulations". What a wise statement, Mr Membe, for everyone knows that once laws and regulations are set in place they cannot be changed. Once something has been deemed to be illegal, it can never become legal. That's the law. So even if you did want to change the laws of your country regarding homosexuality so that all of your LGBT citizens could enjoy a free and equal life, without fear of persecution or imprisonment simply for being who they were born to be, you couldn't. And, as you rightly point out, the legalisation of homosexuality is against the culture of Tanzania. So, therefore, it's a moot point. In 2007 95% of your citizens said that homosexuality should be rejected, so that's fine. We should all accept the opinion of the masses, however bigoted, uneducated and ill-informed they are. Everybody knows it's not the job of a government to try to influence and educate its people in order to improve the lives of its citizens, anyway. What a ridiculous thought! If you were busying yourself with educating your people to accept gays as normal human beings, where would you find the time to count the aid money from the UK, USA, China, Denmark, India, Australia, Ireland, Norway, the Netherlands, the European Union, Canada, Switzerland, Belgium, New Zealand, Germany, Japan, Italy and Saudi Arabia?

So, thank you once again for making your position so clear and for standing up, once and for all, to all those bullying countries around the world who continue to offer your country their money. Long may you continue to receive money without strings, so that you can continue to discriminate wheresoever and against whomsoever you like. After all, you might have the right to lecture gay people and tell them they are wrong and sinful, but no-one (even someone giving you £100 million) has the right to lecture you.

Yours faithfully,

Richard Queripel

P.S. I am gay, so I'll make sure that the portion of my taxes that goes towards the UK's annual aid to your beautiful country is removed forthwith. Perish the thought that you might have to spend money that has come from a gay person.

Catch them when they're young...

2011-08-09T14:56:00.000+01:00

Mrs X: He's so fat, Mr. Queripel.

Mr. Queripel (me): Well, stop him eating so much.

Mrs X: Oh, I don't know how.

So went the parent-teacher discussion between me and Mrs X (not her real name, in case you were wondering) at a parents' evening a few years back. Her son was a bit of an oaf, possibly fat, yes. He was cheeky and very lazy, but he was not a rude, violent thug. Oh, and he was 9. Yep, that's right, he was just 9 years old. And Mrs X did not have a clue in the world how to make him stop eating too much. Not a clue. "He will not listen to me. He never does what I say. How can I make him?" went her plaintive cries. She was almost tearful.

I was sat opposite her, with a student teacher at my side, and, I have to tell you, in all honesty, it was all I could do to not stand up, walk around to her side of the table, slap her across the cheek and scream into her face "MAYBE DON'T COOK SO MUCH BLOODY FOOD! AND DON'T MEET HIM AT THE SCHOOL GATE WITH A MARS BAR EVERY DAY! OH, AND HERE'S A NOVEL ONE, MAYBE JUST TELL HIM NO!" Luckily for my career, I was able to contain myself and I did not physically and verbally abuse her (although it was touch and go for a few seconds). Instead I went into social worker mode and started giving her parenting advice. She lapped it up, as though the notion that she was the adult in the relationship (and, therefore, in charge) had never crossed her mind before. And, most probably, it hadn't.

Mrs X left very happy. Every time I saw her after that she was beaming from ear to ear. Every time I saw her son, he was fatter. So much for the parenting advice.

But why am I telling you this story? It's because I firmly believe that poor parenting (or, worse still, no parenting at all) is one of the main causes of the rioting that is sweeping the capital, and elsewhere, at the present time. Now, don't get me wrong, Mrs X and her son are simply an example of a clueless mother being led a merry dance by her bolshy son. He was no rioter. But their case reflects the situation in which we find ourselves in this country today: there are too many parents who are not bringing their children up to respect other people and the law; some through no fault of their own, other than that they find themselves overwhelmed by dire social and economic circumstances and others because, if you'll pardon my French, they don't give a merde.

I know that there are many great, loving parents out there. I was lucky enough to have a pair myself (and still am). These parents instil in their children a sense of right and wrong from a very early age, well before they start school. These parents bring their children up to respect others and to respect the laws of the land. The best ones help their children to see that it's fine if they do not agree with everything that happens in the world or everything that everyone says, and they encourage their children to find ways of expressing these feelings in constructive, life-improving ways. These good parents can be found in all communities, of all faiths, colours and social backgrounds. I hold them in the utmost respect, whether they be the below-the-poverty-line black single mums of the children I taught in Lambeth, south London, who worked so hard to ensure that their young sons were respectful of others and did not fall into the street gangs that surrounded them. Or whether it be the more affluent mums and dads of the children I taught in Belgium, who had the problems and difficulties of expat life to contend with, whilst maintaining a close sense of family and ensuring that their children were well-adjusted, kind citizens. Raising children is not easy. I am aware of this. And I salute anyone who does it well.

Sadly, there are many parents who are not doing it well. Some of them try really hard and yet still fail because their children are lured away by the excitement of the gangs or because they, as parents, are so busy trying to earn money and survive that they cannot keep on top of their kids. Others just couldn't care less. They most likely had parents themselves who couldn't care less and you don't need to be a genius to see how that vicious cycle repeats and repeats. These parents do not care where their children are at night, so calls from police in London last night for parents to make their rioting children come home didn't mean anything to them. Some of them even encourage their children to be antisocial and raise them to believe that the world owes them everything.

I do not wish to sound like I am attacking all parents. I hope I have made it clear that I believe there to be many, many great parents of all faiths, races and nationalities in this country. But, as a teacher of primary-age children, I know that there are way too many parents who are raising children who believe that they deserve respect but do not have to give it; who believe that violence is the way to solve all issues; who believe that if you want something you should be given it immediately without having to wait for it or earn it. There are so many reasons why these parents are going awry. I've mentioned some of them earlier and there are many more societal and economic reasons that politicians and people with a lot more influence than me will have to address. But, fundamentally, it all starts in the home. If children are raised properly when they are very young (and by 'properly' I mean raised to be kind, considerate and respectful), then there is much less chance of them going off the rails when they are older, or, deciding on a whim one night to join in with mindless, cruel acts of violence in a city whose police force is reaching breaking point.

Once a child has started school, it's very difficult to change his or her behaviour. Once a child has become a criminal, it's very difficult for the police, the courts and the prisons to stop him or her being a criminal. We have to catch children when they're young and show them what care, kindness and respect are. I do not know exactly how to do this. I wish I did. And I refuse to berate politicians for it, because nobody really knows the answer, but now is the time to put our heads together and do some communal scratching, because, until we do, the kind of mindless destruction we've seen in this country over the past few days could easily happen again and again.

Birds, bees and bananas...

2011-07-27T15:21:00.000+01:00

There was a strange feeling in the air when I woke up this morning. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but I knew something wasn't right. At first, I thought perhaps last night's dream about flying with Darren Criss over the Olympic Park in a hot air balloon, from which we bungy jumped into the 2012 Aquatic Centre where Tom Daley married us on the 10m diving board hadn't been a dream after all. But one quick glance to the left at the empty space in my bed showed me that, unless we'd fallen out really quickly after the wedding or Darren had badly mistimed his bungy jump, I hadn't really married a stunningly handsome, heterosexual, American singer and TV star the night before and that the morning's feelings of unease must have had a different cause. Gingerly getting out of bed, I shuffled to the bedroom door and opened it slowly, calling out a plaintive "Darren, dearest, is that you in the shower?" (I had to be sure. Imagine how bad it would have looked if I had married him the previous night and then completely ignored him in the morning). But I received no reply and concluded, therefore, that it must have been my flatmate in the shower and not Darren Criss. Putting my feelings of disappointment to one side, I walked into the kitchen.

I polished off the usual bowl of Shreddies and a plate of wholewheat toast, and put on my comfy, lesson-plan-writing socks, all the time aware that something still wasn't right. I settled down at the kitchen table, fired up the laptop and started to engage my brain. And that's when I saw it. It's not the kind of thing you expect to see at that time of the morning, so I blinked and looked again. But it was still there, staring me brazenly in the face. I couldn't quite believe it. I let out something that was a mixture between a shriek and a death rattle. I could feel my heart starting to beat faster and beads of sweat started to form on my forehead. In a panic I reached out to mop my brow with the only thing near: a half-defrosted chicken. Wiping the dripping wet fowl across my face, I attempted to regulate my breathing. And then I reopened my eyes. I think I half-expected it to have disappeared, for it to have been magically erased, but it hadn't. It was still there. Sitting on the table before me, smugly enclosed in a Woolworth A4 plastic wallet, boldly typed in hideous Bradley Hand, were the words most dreaded by primary school teachers up and down the land (well, by me anyway): SEX EDUCATION.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love education and I love...well, anyway. But put the two together and it's a whole different ball game. It's not fun. It's not amusing. And it's usually excruciatingly embarrassing. Hence the reason for my reaction at the kitchen table this morning when I realised that I was going to have to teach it to 11 year olds in October. Oh joy of joys.

Now, despite being about to enter my 10th year of teaching, I have managed to avoid teaching Sex Education since my very first year. And there is a good reason why I have managed to do this, because that one and only experience was so hideously embarrassing it scarred me for life. Imagine, if you will, a young, impressionable me. Fresh-faced, early 20s, stuck so far back in the closet I was on Aslan's Christmas card list, eager to please my new school and my new profession. And now imagine an ageing head teacher, one who never set foot inside a classroom and who considered himself to be 'something of a joker'. It was this head teacher who decided that the impressionable, young, newly-qualified-teacher (me) was the perfect candidate to deliver the sex education lessons to all of the boys in Year 6. All 50 of them. His parting words, between chuckles, when informing me of this decision were "But don't worry, you'll have the local authority nurse in with you as well. She's an absolute hoot." Surprisingly enough, her being an absolute hoot did little to ease my troubled mind about the upcoming lessons.

The day of the first lesson, the boys all trooped into my classroom. They were a lively bunch and the prospect of a lesson on sex had made them even livelier. They were followed by the aforementioned head teacher, who sported an uncharacteristic grin that filled his face from ear to ear. He was followed by the local authority nurse, who, let's not forget, was an "absolute hoot". She carried an ominous-looking black suitcase and had one pink pigtail and one green. What a hoot.

I was relieved to find that Kayley (as she liked to be called) took control of the lesson from the outset and I was able to shrink slowly further and further away from the front of the classroom. Until, that was, she opened up her box of delights and took out a banana. Cue much giggling from the boys and loud guffaws from the head teacher. "Er, Mr. Queery-peel. Could you hold my banana please?" Kayley called out merrily across the classroom. I nearly died on the spot. I considered making a run for it by diving through the open window into the water feature below but I didn't want to scuff my shoes, so I took a deep breath, tried to twist my face into a look that said "I'm naturally always this red" and walked towards her. Upon reaching her, she thrust the yellow fruit into my hand and preceded to describe how it represented the male member. She stopped short of putting a condom on it, but she might as well have asked me to strip to my socks and underpants and perform the Dance of the Seven Veils, I was so embarrassed by this point. My head teacher was bent double on his chair suffering from what could have been a heart attack, but, sadly, was just an attack of the giggles.

The lesson went on in a similar vein, without much more participation from me, which was great, except that I was left holding a banana, which to everyone in the room's mind was now a penis, and I discovered, much to the head teacher's amusement, that, however hard you try, there is no way to hold such an object in a non-suggestive manner. Eventually, I opted for holding it behind my back, which caused the head to almost to wet himself with amusement.

The lesson was to end with a question and answer session, in which the boys asked the most difficult/impossible/embarrassing questions they could. They knew everything anyway (and probably a darn sight more than me) so it was just a good opportunity to make a teacher squirm. Kayley gaily answered their questions about contraception, the mechanics of the reproductive system and just about everything else they could come up with, and I allowed myself to think it was over. Silly me. I'd forgotten how much of an "absolute hoot" Kayley was, for the last question was the eponymous How big should a man's willy be? and, true to form, in hilarious fashion, Kayley turned to me and said chirpily "Oh, well, I should think you're best placed to answer that one, Sir". What a bloody hoot.

Two stretchers were needed that afternoon at school, one to carry me out on after I fainted with embarrassment whilst trying to answer the boy's question in a sensible, adult way without making any reference whatsoever to the banana I was still holding. And one for my head teacher, who was laughing so hard he slipped off his chair and knocked himself out on a table leg.

It was a pretty life-changing event and I vowed from that moment on that I would never allow myself to be embarrassed by teaching the topic again. I then managed to engineer it so that I didn't have to teach it for the best part of the next decade. Perfect solution. But now my time has come again and face it I must. Despite my rather extreme reaction this morning when looking through the bumf for next year, I'm kind of looking forward to it. I'm not the same boy I was ten years ago. I don't embarrass easily. It's just biology, after all. It's all natural. I'm not phased by it. Bananas, on the other hand, are completely unnatural and the work of the devil. They will not be featuring in my lessons.

President Obama's letter announcing the repeal of Don't Ask, Don't Tell...

2011-07-22T16:47:00.001+01:00

Dear Soldiers, Sailors and Airforce Personnel who are currently gay, lesbian or bisexual,

I write to you today to announce the significant news that my administration and I have decided that you are now officially permitted to serve your country in the armed forces and be gay. This, I am sure you will agree, is a bold step forward for the United States and maintains our position as the Number One leader on gay rights activism throughout the world. (I am aware that several minor countries abolished their bans on homosexuals serving in the military a number of years ago, but they are not America and therefore do not count. I cannot even recall their names. Neither can Hillary. And she's in charge of all those foreign bits that do not belong to us).

It has not been an easy process, over the last few years, trying to convince some of my fellow politicians that you serving as openly homosexual would not destroy our ability to wage war in oil-rich nations. It may shock you to know that some of our country's politicians hold bigoted, outdated, even stereotypical views about people like you, and I have had to work hard to convince them that pink combat gear, extra slippery shower soap and rainbow flag face paint is vital equipment that will be well worth the extra expense, if it keeps you happy.

Ever since Congress overturned the law banning military personnel from being openly gay, a little over seven short months ago, I have been working tirelessly to ensure that the armed forces are prepared for the changeover. Your equal-opportunities employer, the Pentagon, has produced information booklets for all of your fellow service personnel, entitled Do Ask, I'll Tell You if You're Cute (a little tongue-in-cheek, I know, but my advisers tell me you guys like that kind of thing). These booklets explain in some detail what it is like to be homosexual, and, in particular, what it is like to be homosexual in the army, navy and air force. There are interviews with at least several gay people, which give a comprehensive overview of what life is like in the homosexual world, and will help non-homosexual soldiers, sailors and airmen/women to sympathize with you and accept you for who you are.

Our compulsory, scenario-based training courses have been running for all service personnel since January and have proved to be extremely useful. I am proud to say that almost all members of the armed forces now know what to do when faced with a homosexual, whether in combat, the barracks or the washroom.

Talking to you man to gay man, man to lesbian, man to bisexual person, I can assure you that today's announcement is a significant step forward in our nation's history, and puts us well ahead of schedule on the timeline towards equality that the Founding Fathers set in motion only 235 short years ago in The Declaration of Independence. We can only hope and pray that in 235 years' time, similar announcements about gay equality will be being made by my successors.

As your Commander in Chief, I am immensely proud to say that, as long as you're not too gay, you are now free to live your working lives openly and freely, without fear of being thrown out of the jobs you love. Good job Team America!

All my love (in a completely non-homosexual way) and God bless,

Obama

A national treasure...

2011-07-15T18:09:00.002+01:00

Now that the school holidays have officially begun, I am following a packed schedule of lesson planning and eating that is keeping me busy from dawn till dusk. It's a very complicated schedule that someone not involved in the teaching profession would probably find very hard to understand, but, suffice it to say, it involves quite a lot of thinking about lesson planning and a lot of eating. It has resulted, so far, in the production of at least three lesson titles and the first few lines of a Microsoft Word table, entitled War Horse: A Unit Plan. It is, I'm sure you can see, a very productive system and one that I can ill afford to step away from even for a minute over the next seven weeks for fear of losing momentum. But, in the interests of my sanity, and the personal edification of my soul, over the holiday period I am forcing myself to step away from the confines of this demanding schedule every now and again to pop into central London. These little excursions into the centre of our nation's capital involve, although not exclusively, the following activities: sipping peppermint tea, reading the paper, reading books, watching people, writing, swimming, going to the theatre, visiting museums, perusing art galleries, being pushed beyond the limits of human endurance by a personal trainer, singing, dancing, relaxing and sleeping. Just one or two little activities to fill in the gaps between thinking about planning lessons and eating.

I like to do one or two (or even three, four or five) of these activities every day just to ensure it's not all work, work, work. You know how it is. You get so bogged down in thinking about planning lessons that, before you know it, you've been at it for a solid 15 minutes without a break, which is simply not healthy. It can be tough to drag oneself away sometimes but it's necessary to maintain that all-important work-life balance. And in that equilibrium work is universally acknowledged to be a lot heavier than life, so it needs a lot of balancing out, hence the excursions away from the desk.

And so, in the interests of balancing these scales of work and life, last Tuesday I made one of my regular trips to the National Theatre to catch a matinee of Emperor and Galilean by Henrik Ibsen. The National Theatre is a wonderful place, horribly concrete and vilely ugly, but incredibly cheap. A bit like Katie Price, with a brain.

Let's just pause to imagine that for a moment. Katie Price with a brain. Finished? Thought so.

Anyway, back to the National. It is indeed a wonderful place. Lots of interesting plays, big star names, free live music. And all incredibly arty and incredibly worthy. It is, in fact, the epitome of London theatrical artiness, or, as I like to call it, wankiness. Every wall is plastered in posters for avant-garde mime troupes who wear nothing but chickens on their heads and loin cloths made out of carrot leaves. (It is, in fact, illegal to put a poster up anywhere in the vicinity of the National if it doesn't have the words avant-garde and mime on it somewhere). Around every corner is an incredibly serious, dungaree-wearing poet, half of his hair in dreadlocks, the other half in a hairnet, performing random lines from his latest work, Capitalism ate my Mother. And there's always an incredibly arty photo exhibition, featuring the pictures of a crazed five year old who appears to have been let loose with a Polaroid camera in an abandoned warehouse/circus/nuclear fallout zone. Like I said, incredibly arty and incredibly worthy.

And so it was, last Tuesday, on one of my rare and brief breaks from thinking about planning lessons, that I approached the National with all of the artiness and worthiness I could muster. I had almost left the house in a leotard and a pair of flip-flops, to fit in with the National's usual crowd, but, being slightly concerned about chafing, opted instead for a light scarf, tied in an I've-just-thrown-this-old-thing-on way that took 17 attempts and 35 minutes to get right. (Just to clarify, I wasn't wearing only a scarf. I was also wearing jeans and a shirt. I might have been mistaken for one of the mime troupe if I'd rocked up draped solely in a relatively see-through scarf and that would never do). I walked up to the top floor and sat outside the Olivier Theatre, waiting for it to open. On my left was the performance poet from downstairs, who, it turned out, also liked to do a bit of random (read crazy as hell) beat-boxing just to himself (and whomsoever was unlucky enough to be sitting next to him). And on my right was an annoyingly young and perky trainee actress, who was rabidly devouring the programme, looking incredibly fetching in her black shiny leotard and gold flip-flops. Just another day at the National.

There were only a few minutes until the performance. I considered buying a programme, but settled instead for looking over the actress's shoulder. I only wanted to see which actors had been in Casualty anyway (answer: most of them). When the doors opened and the ticket-checker ushered us in, I graciously allowed the beat-boxing poet and the actress to enter before me, checking carefully which way they went before craftily heading in the opposite direction. The joy of the matinee, you see, is that you can slip in the back and choose a seat as far away from the crazies as possible. I might like the National for its strangeness and its quirkiness, but I don't want to sit next to it. I prefer to sit alone and soak up the atmosphere. And the crazies seem to be OK with letting me do this. In fact, they never seem to come near me. I'm left in my own little world, free to hum away to myself and fiddle with my scarf. Looking as sane and normal as...as...wait a minute...

It's oh so quiet...

2011-07-13T09:20:00.000+01:00

So, the last day of term has come and gone, the cheers have died down (mine and the children's), the tears have been dried (their parents') and everyone has gone their separate ways. Up and down the land (well, the bits of the land that belong to the parents of the kids in my class anyway), children are wreaking havoc and parents are pulling their hair out in clumps. (Their own hair, that is, not the hair of their children. That starts halfway through the summer holiday when parents realise there is the same amount of time left ahead as has just passed). And me? What am I up to? Tearing my hair out? Trying to pacify unruly children? Nooooo, perish the thought. I am sitting in a coffee shop tapping away serenely on my laptop. There are no children in sight. I can't hear one. I can't even smell one. I am officially 'child-free'. I am in a state of bliss.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love kids. They can be charming, sometimes, even nice. But they can also be naughty, annoying, exasperating, loud, crude, uncouth, pestering, whiney, tiresome, irritating, silly, rude, thoughtless and strange (often all at the same time). And they can be overly boisterous. And wildly inappropriate. I could go on. And so it is with pleasure that I sit here tapping lightly on my teeny-weeny laptop's keys, sipping strawberry daiquiris, the warm sea lapping at my sun-kissed toes, men and women frolicking in the breakers beyond, with no children...anywhere. OK, scrap that. I'm getting carried away. I'm in a café in Soho. There is no beach. There is no frolicking going on. My toes are not being kissed by anyone or anything. But there are no children. Anywhere. That bit's definitely true. And I'm loving it.

You see, I am officially suffering from the malady known as Post End-of-Term Syndrome, or PETS for short, which is characterised by feelings of euphoria, guilt for feeling so euphoric, wide eyes, an aversion to any words that start with sch or end in ool and a sudden allergy to anyone under the age of 11. Sufferers usually experience these symptoms to varying degrees depending upon the severity of the trauma experienced during the final week of term, but most make a full recovery within a few weeks, when many begin to report the onset of symptoms of Pre-Start-of-the-Year Syndrome, or to give it its full Latin title: Aaaaaaaagh-us Not Again-ius.

So this is why, right now, I am keeping as far away from any children as I possibly can. Teachers suffering from PETS have a duty to do so until they have made a full recovery. This is not because PETS is contagious, but rather because teachers suffering from it can be a danger to themselves. They have a tendency to smile with a slight air of satisfaction at families in town when Little Johnny and Johnina throw a tantrum over who's going to wear Mummy's pashmina next or whose turn it is to carry the Shih Tzu. And this 'air of satisfaction' doesn't always go down too well with harried parents, who glare menacingly across Starbucks, with a look that says Laugh it up sweetcheeks, you've got 30 of them in September...and the kid brother's starting school too. And the teacher retaliates with a large smile that says A simple sticker chart reward system would sort those two out. Or a large sack, some heavy stones and a fast-flowing river. And then it can get messy.

You can see why it's best to steer clear of children, and their parents, when suffering from this affliction.

And so this is what I am doing. I am in self-imposed child isolation. It's for the good of society. It's for the good of children and parents everywhere. It's for the good of me. I've got loads to do. Lessons to plan, blogs to write, books to read, coffees to drink. Loads and loads to keep me occupied. I am officially off being-in-the-presence-of-childen duty. Normal service will resume in September. Well, except for spending time with my adorable nephew and nieces. And the beautiful children of my friends. And the sweet little son of my neighbour, who always says hello to me on the stairs. But yes apart from that, I am in child isolation. And glad of it.

It's a bit quiet though. Maybe I'll just pop to Starbucks. I'm sure I just saw two little darlings being dragged in by crazed looking parents carrying a pashmina and ripping a Shih Tzu to shreds. Or was it the other way round? I'd better just check.

An Englishman's home...

2011-07-06T17:04:00.000+01:00

FOR SALE

Price on application

One fine townhouse in the Tudor style, lovingly constructed from two of the finest quality shoeboxes money can buy.

Have you ever wanted to own a part of our nation’s heritage? Have you ever imagined yourself sipping a glass of Dandelion and Burdock of a summer’s evening, proudly surveying the fine craftsmanship of a bygone era? Well, now you have your chance with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to own a fantastic property. The extensive accommodation is spread over two storeys and has been ingeniously designed with no internal walls whatsoever. This has been done to allow the new owner the freedom to organise the interior as he or she sees fit and has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that head architect, Mr. R. Queripel, did not properly think through the construction process before beginning, forgetting that it would be impossible for the builders to push the internal walls through the miniscule windows once the house had been super-glued together. Nothing whatsoever to do with that. At all.

The house has been lavishly painted with several layers of high-quality ready-mix poster paint, so much paint, in fact, that the words Clark’s Shoes hardly show through at all. The roof is firmly affixed to the house with super-strength glue (although the builders can offer no guarantee that it will withstand hurricanes, storms, tempests, high/medium/light winds, breezes or rainfall of any nature). Atop the roof is a brick-effect chimney (the builders would like to point out that this cannot, in fact, be considered a real chimney as there are no internal fire places in the building, nor is there a hole in the roof beneath it, which renders the lighting of fires extremely ill-advisable. But it looks very pretty).

The large beams, so beloved of connoisseurs of the Tudor style, have been extremely carefully PrittSticked to the exterior walls. In order to recreate the higgledy-piggledy nature of Tudor architecture, the builders have spent literally minutes ensuring that the beams are affixed as wonkily as possible. (The builders would like to point out that, being as these pieces of painted cardboard do not actually form any part of the construction of the house and do not support it in any way, they cannot be considered actual beams. But they do look lovely).

Security is of paramount importance in this day and age and this house offers much to ease the worries of the security conscious homebuyer, including partial glazing in some of the windows and a door cut from the side of the actual house itself, which prevents criminals from using that all too common trick of removing the door to gain access to the property. Unless they bring a very strong pair of scissors.

This splendid property is stunning in many ways, not least because of its unique single frontage, having no windows to the sides or rear, which slashes in an instant one’s curtain budget by three quarters. (The builders would like to point out that, being as the property is only partially glazed, and then only with small squares of OHP transparencies, it would be inadvisable to have any curtains at all as they would blow about in the wind quite annoyingly).

This house offers a truly stunning opportunity for someone to own a piece of history. It would suit first time buyers, families, couples, the elderly, those with pets, those without pets, men, women and children, as long as they are no more than 3.5cm tall. The property has not long been on the market and is sure to provoke a lot of interest. Early viewing is essential.

The property must sell by the end of term 12pm Friday or it’s going in the bin.

A letter to the Right Honourable David Cameron, MP...

2011-06-25T11:22:00.003+01:00

~~Dear~~ Mr. David William Donald Cameron, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, First Lord of the Treasury, Minister for the Civil Service and Leader of the Conservative Party,

Dear Dave,

This is just a little note to say thank you for inviting me to the party at your house last Wednesday. It was a real treat, and something I'm sure I won't forget in a long time.

I am a great supporter of gay civil rights (what with being gay and all) and I very much appreciated your speech outlining the many steps towards equality that the previous government had set in motion and which you have very kindly decided not to scrap since taking office. It was lovely to hear that your government is conducting quite a big survey of transgendered people and is thinking about gay marriage equality. It warms the cockles of my heart to think that my right to marry is being 'thought about' by some of the biggest heads in the land.

I must say, and I hope you do not think this rude, but I was a little bit disappointed with the party bags. They weren't actually little plastic bags with pictures of balloons on and they didn't seem to contain any Chupa Chup lollies or party blowers. However, the booklet entitled Working for Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Equality: Moving Forward was a riveting read. For your next party, though, I'd recommend popping down to Asda to take a look at their party supplies aisle. Their shiny hats are very reasonable and I'm sure you could easily find a bit of bunting to spruce up that old portrait of Elizabeth I that you've got over the fireplace. I do not wish to appear ungrateful, however, and I must say how impressed I was with the quality of the aforementioned booklet, given out in lieu of the Fruit Salad chews and modelling balloons. It's really comforting to see that, despite the current economic climate and cuts to public services, the government still recognises the importance of using the finest quality shiny paper and high-grade colour printing in every document it produces. It made reading the booklet on the tube home an absolute treat and made me, I believe, quite the envy of the carriage.

One final point on the booklet: it was pleasing to see that, as part of the detailed timeline of action points that your government is setting out to help our country 'move forwards' towards gay equality, you haven't tied yourself down to an end date on your commitment towards civil marriage equality, preferring to leave it as 'ongoing'. It is reflective of your generous nature that you are not attempting to hog all of the limelight on this equality issue and are making sure that there will still be some things left for the governments of our children and our children's children to tackle.

I must say that you have a beautiful home. Who would have thought that it was so big behind that shiny front door of yours? And who would have thought you could manage with only one guest toilet? It was so kind of you to put all of those portraits of former prime ministers on the wall to give your 200 guests something to look at whilst queuing for the lavatory. By the way, the picture of Gordon Brown was a bit wonky, so I straightened it up for you.

I couldn't write to you without commenting on the canapés, which were simply out of this world. It was such a breath of fresh air to see someone forego the usual range of finger food that is traditionally served at such parties, and to opt instead for three bowls of the same dish. And, I'm sure you'll agree, carrot sticks and cocktail sausages are two foodstuffs that simply not enough people think to serve together these days.

Well, I'd better wrap this letter up here as I know you've got lots to be getting on with. I hope you enjoyed your party for gay people. It can be a real bind, I know, when you spend ages organising a party, write all of the invites, lick all of the envelopes, organise the entertainment and then can only stay for 10 minutes. But, don't worry, Dave, I'd like to reassure you that we had a lovely time after you'd left.

So thanks once again and thanks for all you said is being thought about by your government in the area of gay equality. You might like to know I'm thinking of voting Greens next time around.

Much love,

Rich

P.S. It wasn't me who broke the toilet.

The bestest teacher eva...

2011-06-21T21:24:00.001+01:00

So, the time is getting close. The moment is drawing nigh. The time of the year that every primary teacher dreads almost more than any other is rapidly approaching. No, it's not the horror that is report writing (although that is truly horrific). Nor is it the end-of-year disco, with its obligatory sickeningly enthusiastic newly-qualified teacher, high as a kite on tuck-shop Sherbert Dippers, encouraging all the teachers to do a conga "because the kids will think it's cool" (No, they won't). And no, it's not Sports Day, Parents' Evening or even the dreaded Inspection (although these all contain their own special moments of terror). No, the time that is afeared by primary teachers the length and breadth of the land is the day the children bring in their end-of-year "thank you for teaching me present" - otherwise known as one of three things: a) the biggest-piece-of-tat-Mum-could-find-lying-around-the-house-because-she-doesn't-really-like-you-after-you-told-me-off-last-January present; b) the my-mummy-made-me-stay-up-every-night-for-three-weeks-to-knit-this-scarf-'creative-project' present (NB. It's not always a scarf. And it's not always knitted); and c) the sickly-sycophantic-so-sugary-sweet-it'll-rot-your-teeth-at-ninety-paces-BEST-teacher-EVER present (also known as the Clinton-Cards-saw-your-mum-coming-a-mile-off present).

Of these three types of gifts, your common or garden "sickly-sycophantic-so-sugary-sweet-it'll-rot-your-teeth-at-ninety-paces-BEST-teacher-EVER present" is by far the most commonly encountered. It usually resembles a mug, painted in a garish shade of purple, or lime green (or both), adorned with a beautiful, heartfelt sentiment, like You didn't just teach me Maths, you taught me how to fly. This deeply sincere sentiment is sometimes, if you're really lucky, expressed in the form of a poem, usually along the cheerily hilarious lines of:

My teacher is just really ace,
You can see it in his smiling face.
He's crazy, barmy, quite the dude,
Except when he's in a bad mood..Ha! Ha!

Ha. Ha.

This present is always accompanied by a card, equally as garish in colour as the present itself, and which is always, without fail, adorned with a hugely sweeping statement like Congratulations! You've been awarded the prize for being the best teacher in the world EVER since time began, better than the teacher I had last year, and the one before that, and the one before that (even though I gave them all the exact same Clinton Cards mug and card combo you're holding right now) and even better than God, Gandhi and, possibly, Miss Honey from 'Matilda'. This present is best accepted with graciousness, before being transported to the staffroom, and being placed in the cupboard above the sink marked Supply Teachers Please Help Yourself.

Your second most common teacher present is the biggest-piece-of-tat-Mum-could-find-lying-around-the-house-because-she-doesn't-really-like-you-after-you-told-me-off-last-January present, which always comes into school on the last day of term wrapped in a piece of newspaper or an old sock. It usually comes in the form of a small bottle of fluorescent orange aftershave (CK Won), with large Chinese characters on the side, which you eye suspiciously, trying to work out if that really is the Mandarin for 'Side effects include blindness and third degree burns'. This present is best deposited in the bins at the back of school on your way home.

The least common teacher present of all, but perhaps the most interesting, is the my-mummy-made-me-stay-up-every-night-for-three-weeks-to-knit-this-scarf-'creative-project' present, which, as previously noted, is not always knitted, and is not always a scarf. It comes, in fact, in a wide variety of styles, shapes and sizes, from the humble hand-painted wooden spoon set to the almighty hand-embroidered armrest cover, and is always something you never realised you needed. This present is always given by a child named Cecilia or Godwin and is, without fail, accompanied by a card, made by mummy "at her Wednesday decoupage luncheon", inside which there will be a note from "Tash and James" to say "thanks awfully" for "looking after the little sprog", with a joke about school being cheaper than paying the maid to babysit or something like that. Due to its rarity, this present must always be taken home and treasured. Until Great Aunt Bessie's birthday, when you wrap it in the finest paper money can buy, being sure beforehand to spend several minutes carefully adapting the carved/embroidered initials of young Godwin or Cecilia to resemble your own.

This year, as the end of term approaches, I don't actually mind if I receive one of the above presents. It's the thought that counts and all that. If the little kiddy winks think I'm so deserving of a present then let them bring it. Hopefully, however, last week's geography lesson on Rheims and its economic importance as the centre of the Champagne region of France, and this week's PSHE lessons on the importance of fair trade, especially in the cocoa-producing countries of West Africa, will pay off and, in three weeks' time, I'll be swimming in bubbly and chocolate, but, if not, no worries. I don't mind what they bring. Although I am running out of handmade tat for Aunt Bessie, so something from Cecelia would be nice.

It gets better...

2011-06-18T14:05:00.000+01:00

Once upon a time there was a little boy called Richard (or Tricky Dicky as his daddy used to call him). Richard was blonde, blue-eyed and full of energy. Richard was a bit of a goody-two-shoes, so his teachers adored him, whereas his family saw a different side. Not that Richard was rude or horrible, he was sometimes just a moody little so and so, but, then, he was only a little boy, so that was alright. From time to time.

Little Richard was a hard worker and generally did very well. His mummy helped him learn his spellings religiously every week and his daddy once spent a whole evening teaching him how to subtract using Lego when he just couldn't get it. His was a happy life, surrounded by love and laughter.

At Infant school little Richard loved singing in the choir and enjoyed school so much that he didn't feel even mildly embarrassed when the Nit Nurse singled him out as infected in a whole-school hair inspection. Life didn't phase him. School was fun.

Little Richard loved going out at playtime, free milk in hand, to play with his friends. Football really wasn't his bag so he played 'elastic' with the girls. Little Richard wasn't very good at it. The girls were always so much better. But he enjoyed it. No-one said he shouldn't do it. No-one thought it was wrong. Least of all him.

When little Richard became slightly less little and moved up to Junior school, he had "loads" of girlfriends. He wasn't old enough for the kissing kind of girlfriend, and that was fine by him - he just liked talking and playing with them and making them laugh. He had lots of friends who were boys as well, but he seemed to be the boy with the most friends who were girls. He sometimes noticed this and wondered why, but it didn't keep him awake at night. No-one said he shouldn't have lots of friends who were girls. No-one thought it was wrong. Least of all him.

And then little Richard got ever so slightly less little and went to 'big school'. He still loved singing in the choir and was one of only three boys to do so. Sometimes it felt a bit odd being up on stage with only two other boys and 60 girls, but he didn't let that stop him. Football still wasn't for him, so he played the violin and piano, and hung around with a group of boys who also didn't fit in. Richard held onto his carefree, primary-school self for as long as he could, but then the name-calling began, because many children are taught by their parents to fear that which is different, and, within the space of a year, not-so-little-Richard retreated into his shell, leaving the happy-go-lucky child of former years firmly behind. Being forced to speak aloud in class became a living nightmare. Opportunities for mortifying embarrassment waited around every corner. PE lessons became hell on Earth. And people started to say that he shouldn't spend time hanging around with girls. Some people thought it was wrong. But deep inside, far below what anybody else could see, he didn't.

'Big school' finished, although it seemed to have lasted centuries, and not-so-little-Richard went to university. Now a young man, in the prime of his life, the world was his oyster. Except he couldn't see it for the feelings of fear and doubt that clouded his mind. Seminars were like his old school classes, and everyday he would shrink into his seat, hoping beyond hope that he wouldn't have to speak and flush burning-hot-red with embarrassment...again. There were some good days, when he felt like he was meant to be, but, most of the time, the good days were outweighed by the bad. And so young-man-Richard sought solace in one of the things that had given his childhood happiness and light: the church. The Christian Union was full of fun, enthusiastic young people and the huge, student-friendly church, with 3000 members, was modern, lively and energetic. He made friends quickly and was soon involved in Mission Weeks, prayer walks around the university campus and other such events. There were some good days, but still Richard couldn't shake the doubts and the fear. He knew he was different, not quite like his other friends in the CU. He knew he didn't quite fit in. Not that he didn't try. He joined the Worship Team and played the piano and sang regularly in front of the 2000-strong congregation. He recorded an album of worship songs. He went on a mission to France to convert the unbelieving. And yet, he still didn't fit in. And some people knew it. Nobody said anything, but a lot of people thought it was wrong. Richard didn't know what to think anymore.

University finished and Richard became a primary-school teacher. The training was tough. He still doubted himself at every turn, but he loved his job and was good at it. In front of his classes, he was the man he was always meant to be. But outside school, the Church dominated his life. It continued to say it offered a solution to his differences, but it seemed that, however hard he tried, Richard could never pray hard enough, sing loud enough, deny his true self enough, to make that solution a reality. He grew more and more frustrated, and more and more guilty. In a bid to escape, he moved overseas and taught in an exciting school for ex-pats. He loved it, and loved the people at the church where he became Musical Director. But things were still not right. He was beginning to realise who he was meant to be. No-one said it was wrong. No-one said they knew what his difference actually was. But he knew, deep down, that the more he discovered his true identity, the more the Church who had promised so much for so many years, and to which he had devoted his entire life thus far, was turning against him.

And then, just like that, he fell in love. With another man. And, just like that, he realised who he was. He wasn't a man with a problem. He wasn't a failing Christian. He wasn't a weak-willed, nervous nobody. He was the little boy who had happily played 'elastic' with the girls at Infant school. He was the 6 year old who had been over the moon when his daddy taught him how to subtract with Lego. He was the carefree boy who had lived life to the full. He was him.

Richard went on to tell his church who he was. Some people were OK with it, others were not. He didn't really care. He was happy. He returned to England. The love didn't last. The long years of self-loathing had left wounds that needed special help to heal before Richard could truly open up to someone else. Some tough times followed, but Richard got the help he needed and never lost sight of his ultimate goal: to live life as he had once done as a boy, carefree and happy, long before anyone had told him he was wrong simply for being him.

I am Richard. I am lucky to have lots of friends. Many of those friends are gay, like me. Despite what some people say, despite what some people in the Christian Church believe, there is nothing wrong with my friends and there is nothing wrong with me. It took me 27 years to realise this. I hope that for any other Little Richards out there (whatever they might be called) it doesn't take anywhere near so long. And I promise to do all I can for the rest of my life to make sure it doesn't.

When the cheese hits the fan...

2011-06-13T21:04:00.000+01:00

So, on Friday I was faced with a tricky question from one of my 10 year olds. We were writing (Just before I carry on I'll clarify that I'm using the word 'we' in that slightly superior teacher way that means the children were writing and I was doing nothing of the sort. Probably checking the gin stocks in the teacher cupboard or something like that...anyway, back to the story). We were writing persuasive letters to the Headteacher. Some of the little darlings were attempting to persuade him to scrap school uniform, others were making the case for children being paid to attend school. One was filling in my tax return. (You've got to keep the brainy ones on their toes).

Anyway, one little urchin was carefully composing a letter in the style of a child who cannot write very well, attempting to persuade the Head to allow all boys to play football all day every day instead of doing any work. As I stood reading over his shoulder, ignoring the multitudinous malapropisms ("Hairspray is when you gets tackled and you don't punch the other player"), I chuckled with delight at his simple innocence and the charm of youth, when, out of the blue, he turned around and shouted in my face: "Sir, is it better to put 'telling off' or 'bollocking'?"

Well, in an instant the room fell quiet. A poorly stapled (and, to be fair, poorly constructed) tin-foil-and-thick-cardboard-from-Sainsbury's executioner's sword, half-detached from the wall, ready for the beheading of Anne Boleyn later that afternoon, flapped in the breeze. And a dribble of snot slid onto my shoe from the nose of perpetual-cold boy, who's not allowed to go outside unless he's wearing Mummy's hand-knitted full-body sock...and a helmet. I was shocked. Not by the snot. If you've been a primary school teacher for nearly ten years, you've seen/trodden in/been covered in/accidentally swallowed a lot worse. No, I was shocked by the little boy's brazen use of the word 'bollocking'. Call me a prude but in my book that's swearing. And in my classroom we follow my book. So there.

It's not that I haven't heard little darling children swear before. There was the time in Sheffield, very early in my career, when, in my misplaced enthusiasm for inclusive education, I tried in vain to make the rather obese, 11-year-old-with-the-attitude-of-a-2-year-old, Keiran, shimmy up the rope that was dangling from the ceiling of the hall and he muttered something under his breath that I was pretty certain wasn't 'canker'. And there was the time in Lambeth when the Head entered the room and one little 7 year old shouted out "You're a dickbrain"; a situation that, needless to say, I dealt with very severely, telling the boy in no uncertain terms that it was 'dickhead' not 'dickbrain' and giving him a gold star. Well, the Head was a tosser.

No, I've had little kids swear in class before, but it has always been when they knew it was wrong. This instance was different. This little boy didn't know that, in my book at least, 'bollocking' is a swear word and is not to be used by children. At least, not in the classroom.

I've always found swear words quite bizarre. Raised religiously, I never used them until about the age of 27, but I always wondered what made a swear word a swear word. Why, for instance, wasn't 'table' a swear word? Or 'cheese'? Hours of fun would be had over lunch at my ultra-religious grandmother's house pretending that 'table' and 'cheese' were indeed the filthiest of words imaginable and then getting her to use them again and again. Oh what larks! (There wasn't much else to do. She lived in Surrey). My father could stretch to 'blast' in a moment of crisis and my mother 'fiddlesticks', but nothing else was ever heard, not even 'crap', 'fart' or 'bum. They were all words used by naughty children, not aspiring magicians (Or was I in the florist phase then?). Maybe this is why a child not knowing that a swear word is a swear word is so shocking to me. Surely every child knows. Surely every child is raised in a house where the foulest word they hear is also the name used by jovial Irish musicians to describe their violin bow.

Alas, it is not so. Even I know that. Kids are surrounded by foul language. On TV, in films, in computer games, in the street, on the bus, sometimes at home. No wonder they don't know what's acceptable and what isn't. We need to do something about it. Teachers, parents, society. And I think I know how we should do it. De-swear-ise swear words. Use them so much they lose the shock-value. We could use them to rename the days of the week (Monday definitely becomes Shitsday), the months of the year ("And when will you be 5 Little Johnny?" - "3rd of F**k"). It's a genius plan. The more you use the words the less shocking they become. You could even rename your children ("William, your Mum and I have been talking, we think you'd make an excellent Wanker"). It's a foolproof plan. I can see no drawbacks. It's genius. Except...wait a minute...if we de-swear-ise all the traditional swear words...then people will probably still need something to say when they get really annoyed. Oh no! It could be the fatal flaw! The Achille's heel of my fabulous idea!

Oh, cheese off, it's my plan and I'm sticking to it. You bunch of tables.

A yak and a llama walk into a classroom...

2011-01-07T22:07:00.000+01:00

So, it's the end of the first week back. The first long, long...long week back after the joys of the Christmas holidays. The first week back at school in January is always one of the hardest, mainly because it starts with the first day back. On the first day back you drag yourself out of bed, bleary-eyed, at 6.30am, in the pitch black dark. You're blown from pillar to post in miserable new year drizzle, as you battle to force your way onto an over-full train in which the only seat available is next to the carriage nutter/the smelly person/the man sneezing like a foghorn, coughing up his lungs every two minutes (and that's one and the same person). You trudge into school (still in the pitch black), barely mustering the energy to sign in at reception. You slowly climb the stairs to your classroom (which you're convinced the caretakers have moved further away from the main door over Christmas) and tentatively push open the door, secretly hoping that there might have been a flood/fire/earthquake/tsunami/apparition of the Holy Mother during the holidays - anything that might mean you can go home and put off the first day back until tomorrow. But, alas, it is not the case. The door swings open and, instead of being faced with a harried caretaker frantically mopping or a special envoy from the Vatican explaining how the stain on your whiteboard looks exactly like the Holy Mother, you're met with the same scene that you always are. Everything is the same. The classroom's still there. The work you laid out before Christmas is still there. It's still January. It's still black as night outside. You still have to teach.

And then, 'they' arrive. The dreaded, sickening, so-annoying-I-could-bite-my-own-ear-off person. The one who makes your skin crawl, makes you want to run from the room screaming "You're so annoying you make my skin crawl and I could bite my own ear off!" Yes, it's at this point that 'annoying colleague' rocks up in your classroom. By 'annoying', I mean really, really annoying. The last person on earth you need to see at this stage of the day on a cold, wet January morning on the first day back after the joyous Christmas holidays. They start by swanning through the door, immaculately dressed, coiffured and manicured, and then they look you up and down as you stand there, dripping from head to toe, like a bedraggled sock that someone left hanging on a washing line three years ago, a Morrison's bag with a broken handle in one hand, Lidl in the other, and hair that's begging to be put out of its misery.

Then, they speak. "Hello there Mr. Q! Q-ster! Looking good...as always!" are the first words out of their mouths. These words are issued, of course, in the hilariously ironic tone that annoying people like to use when they're being really annoying. Or 'smugly mocking' as the rest of us like to call it.

As you stand there, cleverly pinned in by 'annoying colleague' between two tables, a model of the Leaning Tower of Pisa before it leaned (and before it looked much like a tower to be brutally honest) and the recycling bin, your mind becomes confused to an extent you've never before experienced. Your initial crazed thought is to dump the bags, run to your desk and launch yourself into the bottom drawer in the somewhat vain hope that 'annoying colleague' might not see you. You suddenly realise that the fact that 'annoying colleague' addressed you by name not 8 seconds ago and is now stood less than 2 metres away from you, smiling sickly in your face, is pretty conclusive proof that they have seen you. So, in a flash you abandon the escape plan and opt for a more considered, sensible approach. You scan the vicinity for a weapon.

Despite the fact that you're in a room full of scissors, metal chairs and large wooden heavy things called tables, you grab what to you seems, in a moment of madness, to be the obvious choice of weapon...one of those light metal wristband things that stays rigid like a ruler until you lightly tap it on your wrist and it snaps into a curl around said body part. Great choice. What are you going to do? Tap them to death? No sooner have these murderous tendencies entered your thoughts, however, than your addled brain kicks in and decides it's possibly not a good idea to kill 'annoying colleague' in your classroom simply for being annoying. And now you're left looking like an idiot, holding the metal snappy toy, designed for an 8 year old, desperately looking for a sane way to explain why you just leapt maniacally across a desk to yank it out of a child's tray. You opt for mumbling something under your breath about loving click sounds, which, bizarrely enough, does little to wipe the smug smile off 'annoying colleague's' face. And makes you sound like a twat.

Then, as if time had been frozen still for almost all of eternity, 'annoying colleague' clicks into action again and throws out a light "Good to be back, eh? Not that I got much holiday...was in here most of the time. Except Christmas. Chuckle chuckle!" They do actually say "chuckle chuckle", which, for a split second, has you wondering how long it would take to leap over the table, trap one end of 'annoying colleague's' cashmere scarf in the door and pull on the other end really hard...but then you stop and compose yourself. "Oh? Got lots of work done then?" you reply weakly. "No not much. After I repainted the walls of my classroom, laid a new lino floor throughout the school, knitted each child a pencil case encrusted with shells collected from the Isle of Bute, wrote the plans for every lesson I'll ever teach, made 27 YouTube videos explaining the basics of quantum physics and laminated all of my children's work from last term using my own spit, a PrittStick and an iron I fashioned from melted-down landmines, there really wasn't much time to do anything."

Suddenly the idea of tapping 'annoying colleague' to death with the snappy wrist thing begins to seem like an increasingly good one. But then, once again, your sane side kicks in and you release your vice-like grip on the deadly wrist snapper, letting it drop to the floor. You take a deep breath. Gracefully rearrange the sopping wet strands of hair that have been plastered to your forehead since you arrived. Adopt the kind of 'how naughty' frown that one reserves only for 5 year old boys who've been caught looking up girls' skirts. And look 'annoying colleague' dead in the eyes. "Oh, no, so you really haven't been that busy at all. You know, without wanting to sound rude, I really think you ought to show a little more dedication. This isn't really the kind of job you can be slack in and just roll up to work on the first day back after Christmas having done almost nothing, all moany and depressed."

You watch with warmth in your heart as the smile slips from 'annoying colleague's' face and onto yours. You purposefully gather your classy supermarket bags from the floor. "Anyway, I'd best be getting on." you say. "I've got a yak and a llama to milk for my Maths lesson this morning. I'm doing fractions and percentages in the context of cheese-making around the world. Catch you in the staffroom at break?"

And, suddenly, the first day back doesn't seem so bad. Chuckle, chuckle.

A chocolate a day keeps the parents at bay...

2010-10-28T15:17:00.000+01:00

I sealed the final envelope with trepidation and in a slow, shaky hand wrote the final name from my list on its front. Placing it on the finished pile on my desk, I breathed a long sigh of relief. I reached for the list of names and frantically tore it into shreds, letting them flutter around me onto my chair, the floor and the desk. I had done it. Reaching for the gin cupboard, I realised my heart was racing and I could feel the blood pounding in my head. I steadied myself and breathed. Just take it easy Richard I told myself. You can't expect to rush back to normality after what you've just done. Agreeing with myself, I took a moment. I had, after all, just completed one of the most difficult tasks a primary school teacher ever has to do. I deserved a rest. Possibly even a Maltesers Teaser from the tin of Celebrations that little Johnny had brought in to share for his birthday and that was sat on my desk tantalisingly near. Possibly all of the Maltesers Teasers from the tin of Celebrations that little Johnny had brought in to share for his birthday.

Twenty minutes later, the bell for afternoon registration was seconds from ringing and I picked up the pile of envelopes, hurriedly trying to wipe away the chocolate thumbprints that had somehow appeared all over them, maniacally stuffing empty Malteser Teaser's wrappers in every spare drawer/pocket/orifice I could find, and shrieking frantically at my colleague to bring my class in as I just had to nip to the office. Going the back way, so no-one could see me madly trying to brush melted flecks of chocolate out of my lime green tie, I made it to the office and dumped the letters in the outgoing post tray. There was no going back (on the letters that is, not the classroom, I had to go back there). What was done was done and I just had to sit back and wait for the flack.

You see, what I had done, that most difficult of primary school teacher tasks, was to inform the parents which one of them had been chosen to fill the one and only extra adult place on the class trip the following week. Now, this might not sound like such a big deal, but believe me it really is. Any parent who ticks the box saying that they would be willing to help out on the trip is really saying You'd better pick me or else. They really, really want to be the adult helper. They'll take a day off work, give the dog away, put grandma in a home. Whatever it takes. You do, of course, always get some parents who cannot bear the idea of helping out on a school trip and they firmly tick the box saying they are NOT willing. And circle it. And draw a big arrow in thick black marker pen pointing to the not. And include an extra note explaining how they are really not able to help out. But you always get the fanatics. The ones who really want to help. And it was to those parents that I had just written to tell them that only one of them had made it through the rigorous audition process and would therefore be accompanying me to one of the judge's houses, where they would have to tell me how much they really wanted it and how much it would change their life. Well, kind of. The house in question was actually Benjamin Franklin House in Charing Cross, not a judge's house. And they wouldn't have to tell me how much they wanted to come because if they had received the lucky envelope, that's it, they were in. Sadly, however, that would mean that eight other 'extra adult' wannabes were not. And boy did that not go down very well. There were tears, notes in the homework diary, bribes, proposals of marriage, but, Alas, I declared to them all a little smugly There is space for only one extra adult. Maybe you'll get through next time. And that was that. Or so I thought. Then one mother went to see the Head. The Head saw me. I saw him off. He saw through that. I saw no way out of it and the mother saw herself invited on the trip, as the extra extra adult helper. You win some. You lose some.

And so, personnel in place, I began final preparations for the trip. Risk assessments, criminal record checks for all adult helpers (including the extra extra adult helper), packed lunch orders, free school party travel tickets, worksheets, contingency plans in case of foul weather, letters to parents, medical forms. All had to be organised. So a little midnight oil had to be burnt. Many teachers don't organise trips anymore because of the horrendous amount of paperwork involved. They claim it's all too stressful. And, believe me, it certainly can be. But I've found quite a good way of eliminating the stress. It makes the hours of preparation time run by a lot more smoothly and keeps me relaxed and in good spirits at all times. What's my secret? Well, put it this way, if you ever bump into Little Johnny from my class, just be sure to tell him that tins of Celebrations have never had Maltesers, Mars, Bounty, Galaxy or Milky Way chocolates in them. They've only ever contained Snickers and Topic. And then run.

This photograph in no way represents me on an average day in my classroom.

As for a non-average day, well...

Guess who's coming to dinner...

2010-10-26T20:23:00.000+01:00

So, our school is being spruced up. Fresh paint is being slapped on the greasy finger-stained walls, new displays are being stapled to the slightly tatty corridor noticeboards, a current, up-to-date menu is being affixed to the ancient-looking This week's menu board outside the dining hall, replacing the one that's been there since 1973, and teachers and office staff are running around frantically, in an agitated state somewhere between utter despair and complete delirium, otherwise known as 'panic'. It can mean only one thing. Yes, that most dreaded of creatures, feared by teachers the world over, is about to descend on our school. The inspector cometh.

Well, inspectors actually. There'll be three of them and, for their two-day visit, their focus will be on "teaching and learning", so the e-mail from the Head informed us. Quite what else people inspecting a school would focus on other than teaching and learning I don't know, but there you go. As with all things in School Inspector-Land, nothing makes much sense. They are a funny breed school inspectors and, no matter how many you encounter, and believe you me I've met and survived a fair few in my time, you can never hope to work them out nor outwit them. In fact, you mustn't even try. It's simply too dangerous. Trained in the most devious of inspecting techniques by ruthless Department of Education officials in a small hideaway on the inhospitable foothills of the Andes Mountains (to which they are transported blindfolded in the dead of night), school inspectors are a fanatical bunch. Forced to eat nothing but 1980s school dinners for the full 16 years of their training programme (including the skin off the top of the custard), they have to be fluent in all educational jargon and terminology and must be able to recite it in 6 of 19 approved regional accents if they ever hope to pass the course. They are forced to fall asleep at night chanting educational buzzwords like buzzword...and value-added, brain shower and assessment for learning. The only relaxation allowed is a round or two of Guess the Educational Acronym, over a cup of Horlicks, before lights out in their shared dormitory. It's little wonder, then, considering their intense, secretive and harsh training regime, that when a school inspector walks into your classroom, before they've even sat down in the chair you've kindly set aside for them, before they've even looked at the double-sided A4 lesson plan you've spent all of the previous night preparing, before you've even opened your mouth and begun the lesson, they look peed off. Really, really annoyed. Not just mildly ticked off, slightly miffed, a little narked, but downright angry.

The school inspector's anger is, of course, only one of many weapons in their arsenal that they are trained to use to unhinge even the greatest of teachers. Other tactics include: slowly raising a quizzical eyebrow whilst scribbling furiously in a notebook every time the teacher attempts to answer the questions of the annoying-spoiled-brat-with-the-astrophysicist-father-and-who-always-ask-ridiculously-difficult-questions; making a beeline for the child in the room who so obviously has no idea what planet he or she is on, let alone what the subject of the lesson is, and slyly asking them the question So, what are you supposed to be doing? Do you think Mr. Queripel explained it clearly enough?; and catching you in the precious 10 minute break you have before the next observed lesson to ask you questions like Could you elaborate a little on how you track your value-added using AfL and APP and how you tie it in with the DIP, the DAP, the SIP and the SIEF? Yes, school inspectors really are masters of their game. To try and beat them at it is simply ludicrous. Who could ever hope to win against someone who's eaten rock solid upside-down pineapple sponge with green custard every day for 16 years? Impossible.

There is only one way to survive a visit from the school inspectors and I am going to reveal it to you now, but, please, please, do not pass this secret on to anyone else. It would be more than my life is worth if the Department of Education got wind of my revealing things like this. The only way to survive a visit from the school inspectors is to carry on as normal. Shocking, I know, but true. Carrying on doing the job you love and are good at as if no-one is sat there officiously noting down your every move, is the only surefire way to survive. Have confidence in your procedures, your records, your files, your marking, your policies, your displays, your resources, and all will be fine.

Or, failing that, buy a sheep, or six, and get shearing. You'll need a hell of lot of wool if you intend to pull it over the eyes of an Andes-trained school inspector.

Check back to see which survival technique I opt for...

A slight risk of peanuts this evening...

2010-07-21T16:19:00.000+01:00

So, here I am at home sitting on the sofa feeling sorry for myself. You see, the long summer holiday has finally arrived and, like all good teachers, I have preceded to get ill within a few days of being freed from the prison-like confines of school. It is quite common knowledge among teachers that as soon as any holiday arrives, one's defences, which have been at Terror Alert Extremely High all term to prevent those pesky pupils from infecting you with any deadly diseases, suddenly slump to zero, and you catch anything going. Coughs, colds, flu, malaria, ebola. This time round my illness of choice is sinusitis. It's a new one for me and appears to involve one's brain swelling until it starts to pop out of your ears. Or something like that. It's not much fun, but it has had one positive benefit...it has prevented me from going into school. Yes, I'd been planning on going into school quite a lot this week to sort, file, shred, clean, plan and pick up the bottle of Pimms that I left there by mistake, but, no, my body's had other plans. And so, what to do when you're lying on the sofa incapacitated getting increasingly annoyed that your sorties into school will now have to eat even further into your holidays? Plan the class's trips for next year, of course!

Now, as any seasoned teacher will tell you, school trips have to be planned a long time in advance. Most museums, galleries, stately homes, cathedrals, theatres, prisons require you to book at least one, if not two, terms in advance before you visit and so I actually started thinking about where my Year 5 boys would be going next year before the holidays even began. As it stands at the moment, we will be visiting the Benjamin Franklin House, the British Museum, the Wallace Collection, the Museum of London and the Tower of London. Not bad so far, but I still need a few more places we can visit. We're studying the Aztecs in the Autumn term, so a trip to Mexico might fit in quite nicely. Or a trip to Athens in the Spring to tie in with our study of the Olympics? The world's our oyster, although I think we may be settling for the somewhat cheaper Number 23 bus journey through east London to catch a quick glimpse of the new 2012 Olympic stadium, instead of a trip to the Parthenon to recreate our own torch relay back to Ilford. Whatever happens, the hilarious tales of J5's various trips will be written about here, so make sure you check back throughout the year if you want to find out how my little darlings rampage through the illustrious halls and galleries of England's capital.

As for now, however, long before any of these trips actually take place, I have to tackle the never-ending forms known as 'risk assessments'. I'm sure you've heard of them; those forms that you spend hours filling in that ensure that no accidents take place. At all. Ever. The risk of the children slipping when they walk down the street has to be assessed. The risk of them accidentally coming into contact with a peanut has to be assessed. The risk of them brushing past a lady in a museum gallery, getting tangled in her skirt, accidentally dragging her to floor, whereupon she grabs at the nearest artefact and smashes it into a thousand pieces has to be assessed. In short, anything that could go wrong on a school trip has to be thought about in advance, along with all the possible ways in which it could be avoided. Every risk has to be given a number from 1 to 5, 1 being very unlikely to happen and 5 being very likely. The risks also have to be numbered from 1 to 5 in terms of the possible severity of their consequences (1 = death, 5 = bruised pride). Needless to say, this numbering system can get a little confusing, as was revealed by the occasion on which one of my risk assessments was returned to me because I had said that the risk of the children dying before we had even arrived at the museum was 100%.

So, now I have to crack on with assessing the risks of taking my class all over London over the next few months. I must be careful not to forget the potential hazards posed by lampposts, pigeons, nuts of any kind, snow (particularly hazardous in the Summer) and tourists. Looks like I've got my work cut out for me. Luckily enough, my brain is still trying to squeeze out through my ears so it looks like I won't be moving from the sofa any time soon. So now all I need to think about is what other risks could lead to me losing a small child on the way to the British Museum? I'm sure I could think of a few ways...

Bibles will fly...

2010-07-18T23:12:00.001+01:00

So, yesterday I marched in a very important march. I'm not hugely accustomed to marches, I must say. The last major one in which I participated before this was probably the Easter bonnet parade at Heanor Church in 1985, and that was pretty major. There were at least 3 participants, all with two bonnets (except for my friend Sandra, whose reserve hat was disqualified because she had received help from her older sister with the colouring in). There was a panel of judges, an audience of tens of people and even a catwalk (well, church aisle if you must). It was all very Derbyshire's Next Top Model. It was a tense, high stakes occasion. Never before had I faced the possibility of winning a complete set of 8 Jumbo Crayola Colouring Crayons in one go. I had everything to lose. There was a palpable air of tension surrounding the entire affair, a frisson of edginess, an undeniable edge-of-your-seat-something-could-kick-off-any-moment-ness when the participants faced each other down at opposite ends of the church, but as far as I can recall, reflecting as carefully as I can, I don't think anyone threw a Bible at me.

Yesterday, however, someone did. Well, not at me directly, but at the march of which I was a small part. You see, the march in which I was taking part was the 2010 EuroPride march in Warsaw, and the Roman Catholic Church of Poland, determined not to be outdone by the glitz, style and glamour of the amassed gays, decided to take advantage of the occasion to launch its newest product: Flying Bibles. Designed to convert even the most cynical of heathens, the Flying Bible works on the principle of surprise, the principal surprise coming when it hits you in the head. Yes, the Flying Bible is quite literally all about knocking you out with the gospel. Its design is remarkably similar to that of the conventional Bible we've come to know and love over the centuries, except that it comes with a somewhat bulky launching mechanism, currently a small Polish bigot with a strong arm. And the strong-armed bigots were out in force yesterday, mainly at the beginning of the march route but also dotted sporadically along it. Not all of them had been able to get hold of the new Flying Bible, however, and so some reverted to the more traditional conversion methods of eggs and rocks. I must make it clear, however, that I think it was the Neo-Nazis chucking the masonry and poultry around and not the Roman Catholics. I wouldn't want you to think that the Christians had resorted to terroristic acts of violence to get their point across. Not at all.

Marching along in the incredibly hot Warsaw sun yesterday, singing a couple of favourite tunes, tapping my toes to the beat of the music from the disco lorry in front, shielding my ears from the deafening vuvuzuelas, I couldn't help but reflect back on my previous marching experience...the great Easter Bonnet Parade of 1985. And I couldn't help thinking that the two occasions weren't really that different. OK, I wasn't the target of flying Bibles, eggs and rocks back when I rocked the aisle of St. Lawrence's with my funky bonnet, but I was proud. I was definitely, undeniably, unashamedly, very happily proud. Of myself, my hat and my life (all 6 years of it).

And yesterday, surrounded by Polish riot police and people holding signs telling me they didn't like it doggy style and surrounded by good, good friends, young and old(er), tall and short, black and white, British and everything else-ish, gay and straight, I felt like I was 6 all over again - I felt proud. Not the kind of pride that you feel when you finally manage to get the lid off the jar of honey that's been stuck solid for months with only a tiny bit of it ending up on the floor and in your hair, no, a real, deep-seated pride. A pride in who I was, what I was doing and what life can be like. It felt good. Damn good.

I'm not sure whether the Christians or Neo-Nazis felt proud of what they did yesterday. I suspect that many of them did. But I am sure of one thing: my pride will stick with me for life and make me a better person. Their pride will simply make them look ignorant. What did Jesus say? Love your neighbour as yourself. I can safely say that I love the fact that these bigots are passionate about their beliefs, but I'd just like to let them know that I can get pretty passionate too. Whether it be an Easter bonnet parade, a gay pride march or teaching the adults of the future that straight/bi/trans/gay are all OK, I can be incredibly determined. And I don't need to throw anything at anyone to prove it.

142 rehearsal days till Christmas...

2010-07-12T16:53:00.000+01:00

So, school has finally finished for the year. Hurrah! The classrooms are empty, the Last Day has come and gone (read about it here) and I don't need to talk to a child again for well over a month. Joy. Now...it's time to start thinking about Christmas. Oh yes, there are only 165 days left until Christmas and that means that there are only 142 days until the great extravaganza that is the Junior school Christmas production.

Now, when it comes to Junior school productions, one has a range of choices. There is the tried and tested Nativity Play. The merits of the Nativity Play are numerous: everyone knows the story...kind of, every child can have a part (even if they do have to be Stable Hand Number Three or Fallen Angel 4 - "We just don't have enough halos for the whole of Class 6 Mr. Queripel!"). Costumes for the Nativity Play are also easy for parents to make - a tea towel or two and a bit of your Granny's old net curtain and you can pretty much kit out an entire class. That said, there is still scope for Mrs. St. John-Paisley-Smythe to send her little darling to the dress rehearsal in an angel costume woven from real silver thread by six blind nuns in a Portuguese nunnery. Each to their own. The classic Nativity has seen it all. Perhaps the greatest benefit of the humble Nativity Play is that you don't have to fork out for a Performance Licence - as far as I know God hasn't gotten around to copyrighting the Bible yet, and most carols are over 50 years old so you can slap as many as you like in and write whatever script you wish without fear of being hunted night and day across six continents by the mysterious Licence Police.

If the classic Nativity Play is not quite to your taste and I must say it isn't to mine, and nor, I should imagine, is it to the taste of my mainly Muslim and Hindu pupils and their parents, then one can opt for the oh so trendy, look-at-me-I'm-a-hip-down-with-kids-primary-school-teacher-innit Modern Twist on the Nativity Play. The Modern Twist on the Nativity Play usually involves the story of Mary, Joseph and the Baby Jesus being transported to another time and place, usually one with a real social significance. That usually means that the action takes place on a 'gritty' council estate with Ma'ree, a heavily pregnant teenager, abandoned by her no-good boyfriend Joe, knocking on doors for somewhere to stay as she's not supposed to be out after curfew or else her electronic tag will explode. A crochetty old woman with tatoos, who has lived on the estate for 95 years, takes pity on Ma'ree and leads her to an old, abandoned air-raid shelter in the garden, where she proceeds to give birth to Jesus (Spanish pronunciation) surrounded by the old lady's 8 pitbulls and where she is later visited by three kindly social workers each bearing a form for her to fill in to help her claim benefits. I must say, I'm not a big fan of the Modern Twist on the Nativity Play.

If neither type of Nativity Play tickles a forward-planning primary school teacher's fancy, then they are left with only one option...to buy in a production. This may sound like an easy task, but let me disabuse you of that notion very quickly. There are roughly 17 million different Christmas-themed, Junior-age productions in existence. Well, OK, perhaps not 17 million, but there are lots. So many, in fact, that narrowing it down to one is rather difficult. And so it was that I found myself, in the waning hours of the school year a few days back, trawling the internet trying to find a title with no overtly Christian connotation, that inspired me and which did not last for more than an hour...oh, and which had no parts for girls. This, it transpired, was not an easy task. The last time I was in sole charge of a school Christmas production, I was young and naive and opted for an extravagant African-themed play in which two warring tribes were at loggerheads with each other until, miraculously, a special baby was born, which brought them together in peaceful harmony. We had drums, palm trees, monkeys, face paint. Any African cliche you can think of. It was a triumph. I'm thinking that this time round, however, I'm going to have to opt for something different. I figure I might have difficulty persuading one of my boys that he really does want to spend the entire play trussed up in a wrap-around dress with a pillow stuffed up the front and then give birth to a baby live on stage in front of his peers and their parents. I can be a very persuasive teacher, but even I have to admit defeat sometimes.

So, it's back to the drawing board that is called Google to find something that we can dazzle the parents with in December. And dazzle them we will. It will be a long process that will involve a lot of planning and a rigorous audition process ("Can he walk? Yes? He's got the part."), but it will be a lot of fun. I love doing school plays and cannot wait to get started. Just need to get this holiday out of the way first....

The Last Days...

2010-07-08T19:42:00.000+01:00

So, tomorrow is the last day of school. After 12pm tomorrow, I shall be free of the little darlings we call children. Free from their snotty noses, hacking coughs, smelly PE kits and rotting sandwiches at the bottom of their bags. Free from their doodling on my desks, their rocking on chairs and their shouting out instead of waiting politely with their hand up. Free from their kicking each other in the playground. And free from their relentless interrupting of my breaktime with complaints about their kicking of each other in the playground. Yes, the holy grail of teaching, the summer holiday, is tantalisingly close. So close I can almost taste it. Or is that the half-eaten tuna sandwich that some small child managed to smudge on my shirt today? Whatever it is, the fact remains that holidays begin tomorrow at noon. Hurrah.

Before the celebrations can truly begin, however, I have to make it through the few hours officially known as The Last Day. These hours (in my case from about 7.30am to 12pm) are the hours in which primary teachers up and down the country gather their classes around them for fun, joy, farewells and general merriment, Enid Blyton stylee. They are the hours in which work that has been lovingly displayed on the walls all year is taken down and handed out, with all members of the class cooing appreciatively over every piece. The hours in which the children joyfully gather in small groups, playing board games like Cluedo or Scrabble, gently ribbing each other about who can make the most valuable polysyllabic word. They are the hours in which the teacher gathers the children into a circle to present a beautiful, handmade card to the boy who is leaving and going to live on a Peruvian llama farm with his hippy mother and father. They are the hours in which the children spontaneously sing the songs they have learnt during the year, whilst the teacher looks on adoringly, not in the least bit stressed, tired, aggravated or on the verge of collapse. They are the hours of my dreams. And in my dreams they will remain, for The Last Day is rarely so serene. Picture the scene.

A classful of young, hyperactive children who know that in a few hours they'll be back at home playing on their PSP/X-box/Wii, with endless hours of holiday stretching ahead of them, are busy enjoying the last day of term. Little Billy is trying ever so nicely to help Sir clear the walls and is balancing on a pencil pot, on a chair, on a table so he can reach to yank, as hard as he can, the display string that is tied quite tightly to the precariously swinging light. Two of his friends are discovering that, quite clearly, the most effective way to clean pupil trays is to put them on your head like a helmet and then charge full speed into each other...or the wall, being as these helmets have no eye-holes. Little Sally-Jane is sitting alone, quietly putting her DT lessons into good use sewing all of the boys' PE socks together. A few of the darlings are arguing quite vociferously, and perhaps a little violently, over the one PSP that still has working batteries, whilst trampling over Sir's Cluedo and Scrabble games that seem, mysteriously, to have fallen to the floor earlier in the day. And Sir, where is he amidst all of this fun and frivolity? He has adopted one of the three famous 'exhausted and defeated primary teacher' poses: slumped in a chair with small bubbles of foam slowly popping at the corners of his mouth; standing in the centre of the room, turning puce screaming STOP! at the top of his voice; or, hunched over the computer languidly tapping yes yes yes on the supermarket's online gin home-delivery page. Yes, this is the kind of Last Day I recognise best. Busy, loud, exhausting, a little bit scary...and, above all, fun!

Yep, I'm actually looking forward to tomorrow...the Last Day. It will be fun. We'll take stuff off the walls, have a leavers' assembly, play a few games, say some goodbyes and probably eat some chocolate (keep that under your hat - we're a healthy school). And then, they'll go home. And I'll start to clear up, gather my things together, sort, organise and file...oh, wait a minute, no, we're heading straight to the pub. Cleaning up can wait until September.

Teacher-speak...

2010-04-08T14:56:00.000+01:00

So, it might be the Easter holidays but there's still work to be done. Amongst other things, I should be thinking about the reports I'll be writing in a few weeks' time. Rather than actually write the reports, of course, it seemed much more fun to write a post about writing the reports. So, here are some of my choicest teacher report phrases, complete with translations to let you know what they really mean.

1. Bobby has this year made some progress in Maths/Science/English.

Translation: Bobby has this year made no progress in Maths/Science/English.

2. Bobby would benefit from listening to instructions more carefully before beginning a task.

Translation: Bobby doesn't know the meaning of the word 'instruction' or 'listening'.

3. Bobby always ensures that his voice is heard as much as anyone else's.

Translation: Bobby never shuts up and monopolises all class discussions.

4. Bobby is not a natural artist.

Translation: Bobby has no artistic ability whatsoever.

5. Bobby has a quick mind and enjoys sharing his opinions with the class.

Translation: Bobby is a smart alec and nobody likes a smart alec.

6. Bobby finds some aspects of the curriculum difficult.

Translation: Bobby finds all aspects of the curriculum difficult.

7. Bobby participates enthusiastically in the practical aspects of Science lessons.

Translation: Bobby is a maniac in Science lessons and scares the life out of me when handling scientific equipment.

8. Bobby enjoys playing with the younger pupils in the school.

Translation: Bobby acts like a 3 year old.

9. Bobby is a quiet and conscientious worker.

Translation: Bobby who?

10. Bobby has a unique perspective on the world and can often make very perceptive and imaginative comments that can take a class discussion onto an entirely different plane.

Translation: Bobby is weird.

Disclaimer: These are just examples of what some teachers might write. I would never use phrases that meant something else, of course. Ever.

Translation: I use these phrases all the time.

How a King becomes a Queen, Part 2

2010-04-02T14:07:00.000+01:00

So, yesterday was the last day of term and it was all hands on deck to finish the much-hyped-up collage of King Henry VIII. We began this portrait in class a week or so ago and we have been chipping away at it ever since. Well, I've been chipping; the boys have been more assisting a master with his work (which actually means ripping up shreds of paper and trying to build the highest tower possible out of them). To read about the travails of this art project (and the other ways in which my boys have ably assisted in the process), check out this post from a week or two ago.

Small children and long-term art projects (for small read under the age of 11 and for long-term read anything lasting more than about 10 minutes) do not mix particularly well. However exciting and trendy you make the work, however much you wax lyrical about the raptures of watercolours/crayons/pastels/chalks/potatoes/pasta pieces, the majority of children do not have hugely long attention spans. If they can't create a Van Gogh masterpiece out of lentils, pencil shavings and dry twigs in approximately 48 seconds, they really aren't that interested. So, trying to create a collage of Henry VIII over two or three weeks was a big ask and by the end of the process yesterday, their impatience was beginning to show. The final pieces of paper were glued in place by me and one little angel, who has no Playstation 3 and only watches TV at the weekends (therefore longer attention span than the others, you see), whilst the rest of the class 'cleared up'. This involved the customary rolling around on the floor and the creation of more mess than was there in the first place, but at least it meant that me and the boy with the attention span could put the finishing touches to our work of art. And what a work of art it was. Henry looked resplendent in a tunic of fine red football shirts, golden yellow sandy beaches, shiny silver BMWs and bright green alien heads. Very authentic, we all agreed. And now, the all-powerful king lies on my desk, awaiting hanging on the wall when Mr. Queripel finds the time to make a mock gold frame to put him in. And as he lies there, glued to perfection, I think he's proud of how majestic he looks. Although, maybe, just maybe, he misses the magnificent drag queen eyes he once sported but which failed to make it past the boy with the attention span's final rigorous inspection. Interestingly, the bright red lips made it through though...

If Jenny has a nice pear and Bobby a bouncy ball...

2010-03-30T20:13:00.000+01:00

So, today in Maths (or Numeracy as it is now rather grandly known in primary schools) it was time to teach Word Problems. Word Problems involving Multiplication and Division in a Real-Life Context, to be precise. This most wordy of topics comes around in the curriculum again and again and again and again throughout the year and is the bane of my life. It is such a dull topic to teach and one that children of all ages seem to find incredibly difficult. For, mysteriously enough, however well you may have taught them to multiply and divide at the speed of light in their heads/on paper/underwater/whilst dancing an Irish jig in a Monday morning assembly, wrap a multiplication question up in a few words and kids are generally bamboozled.

After minutes of extensive thought and in-depth research, I have come to the conclusion that the reason children find this topic so very difficult is because the word problems they are presented with are rubbish. You see, textbooks and photocopiable teacher books always include three types of quite ridiculous problems.

The first type is the incredibly annoying overly PC word problem. This is an extremely common type of word problem and can be found in any textbook printed after the year 2000.
Example: Hitan, Jacques and his transgendered friend Shirley have £28. They visit a local kosher butcher's shop owned by Hitan's mother's ex-boyfriend, Julio, who has recently received British citizenship and has never been an illegal immigrant. They buy one chicken pie at £3.25, one Quorn pie at £2.29 and one vegan, organic, locally-sourced pie at £12.50. How much money do they have left from the £28 to donate to the local donkey sanctuary?

The second type of word problem one commonly encounters is the ridiculously out-of-date, verging on the antique word problem.
Examples: Hilda and Edith have seven brand-new spinning tops. Their friend, Derek, has two new gramophone records. If the spinning-tops have a value of 8 shillings each and the gramophone records £3-8-4d, whose possessions are worth the most?

Dave and Dwayne tune in to the Hit Parade on their transistor radio at 7pm every Sunday evening secretly hiding beneath their eiderdown. If the broadcast lasts for 85 minutes, at what time will it end?

The third type of commonly-encountered word problem is the opposite of the ridiculously out-of-date, verging on the antique word problem and is called the so-up-to-date it hurts word problem and is only to be found in the most recent of textbooks.
Example: Kyle's new hybrid electric car (which reduces his annual carbon footprint by 16%) is recalled to the manufacturer to fix a fault with the brakes. Kyle takes it in on 3rd September but a postal strike, followed by a train strike, delays the arrival of the spare parts and the repair is not finished for 36 days. On what day is the repair finally completed?

These are the three most common types of word problem encountered in the British primary classroom. I'm aware there may be other, less common categories but I've never encountered them myself. Perhaps you've heard of them. In fact, I need a few new problems for my next lesson. Any ideas?

I want my tennis ball back...

2010-03-27T16:27:00.000+01:00

So this week we had a visit from the local Road Safety Officer. In 8 years of teaching I have never had a visit from a Road Safety Officer. I didn't think they still existed. In fact, I'm not sure I ever knew they did exist. Road Safety Officer. It's such a poncy title for a crappy job that you so know is always dumped on the newest recruit in the Education Office because no-one else will do it. When I was at primary school, just a few years back, we had visits from rather drab, brown-suited men, who told us sternly to look left, look right and look left again but I'm fairly certain they weren't called Road Safety Officers. More like I'm-still-living-with-my-mummy-and-wish-I-had-a-proper-job Officers. This was the kind of road safety guru I was expecting to walk into school on Thursday. But the officer who walked through my classroom door was slightly different.

She (first difference: woman not a man) floated into the classroom at the end of lunchtime, accompanied by several large boxes and a whiff of custard. She was about 65 and reminded me instantly of Mrs. Gillett, the dinnerlady at Infant school who stole my tennis ball in 1984 and never gave it back. Her distinct similarity to the much-feared and reviled Gobby Gillett was shocking, bringing back a whole host of memories, long ago consigned to the deepest depths of my mind (I loved that tennis ball), but I was able to put them to one side when she spoke; for she had one of those breathy, ethereal, patronising, I'm-talking-to-you-as-though-you're-a-five-year-old kind of voices, nothing like the Demon Dinnerlady's razor-sharp, fingers-scratching-the-blackboard tones. Breathing a sigh of relief that Mrs. G had not actually escaped from her 95 year prison term for stealing young children's tennis balls, moved south, assumed a new identity and reinvented herself as a humble Road Safety Officer in the London borough of Redbridge, I offered the lady a drink and went off to fetch my kiddies from the playground.

On returning to the room, Mrs. RSO was stood inanely at the front of the classroom, grinning from ear to ear, sipping water from the blue beaker I had given her earlier. The title Road Safety 'Officer' was seeming more ludicrous by the minute. My kiddies filed in in silence and sat in gentle anticipation. I assumed the usual pose of a tired teacher grateful for the respite provided by an outside speaker, by slumping in a chair at the back of the class, gin in one hand, trashy magazine in the other. And then, she was off.

Her presentation was nothing if not extraordinary. Adopting the same patronising tone she had used with me, she proceeded to show the boys a range of laminated sheets covered in pictures that were far too small to be seen with the naked eye, and we were regaled with tales of why pedestrian crossings are named after birds and animals. So far so dull. She then moved on to reflective clothing, choosing various boys to model a surprisingly large range of fluorescent jackets, backpacks, arm and legbands, all the while treating the boys as though modelling this clothing was quite the greatest treat of their lives. By this stage, I was practically on the floor, and not just because the teeny-weeny chair I was sitting on was designed for someone 4 feet smaller than me and 20 years younger. I was about to try and cut the torture short when Mrs. RSO pulled the killer trick out of her bag: crash stories. Now, forgive me if I sound a little prudish, but I kind of hold to the opinion that, although young children these days shouldn't be molly-coddled or wrapped in cotton wool, there are certain things they don't need to hear about at all or only in the slightest of detail until they are a little older. Mrs. RSO, it became clear, did not hold to this opinion. For, after the cycle helmet modelling, she launched into a plethora of incredibly detailed and gruesome accounts of recent car crashes in Redbridge and the surrounding area. 'Recent' seemed to encompass any accident within the previous 15 years, so there were lots of tales. The mother who accidentally crushed her baby to death between herself and the dashboard because she wasn't wearing a seat belt was, perhaps, the most distasteful. But none of them were particularly cheery. Mrs. RSO delivered each tale with a strange manner, verging, somewhat bizarrely, on enjoyment. The scarily familiar glint of evil in her pale eyes and the transformation of her voice from breathy to coldly metallic began to make me feel more and more uncomfortable. I had been wrong, so it appeared, Mrs. Gillett had sprung herself from jail and tracked me down to Ilford to mess with my mind. Any minute now she was going to get a tennis ball out - I just knew it.

Now, in a similar situation, I am not sure what you think you would do. Having never before been tracked down by a psychotic, tennis ball stealing dinner lady from my past, I was a bit unsure myself of what action to take. In actual fact, my options were somewhat limited. It was well-known back in 1984 that Mrs. Gillett was practically super-human and could outrun a cheetah and leap 6 foot walls in one bound, so it was unrealistic of me to hope to escape. I was trapped. My only option was to carry on as normal and hope that my position of responsibility as a teacher might save me. And so , I did nothing. Mrs. RSO (aka The Tennis Ball Thief) wrapped up her talk with a particuarly vile tale of what could happen to you if you cross the road between parked cars, and then she handed back to me. Standing slowly, hoping not to draw attention to myself and keeping my eyes from looking directly into hers, I mumbled a thank you in a strange, slightly too high-pitched whine and marched my class promptly out of the room, without looking back. Upon reaching my own classroom, I breathed a deep sigh of relief. I had made it. Mrs. Gillett had been unable to strike twice. She might have nicked my tennis ball 26 years ago, but I had all my personal possessions on me right now and she wasn't getting them. Ever. I, on the other hand, had a lovely new fluorescent arm band that, with any luck, would save me from all manner of gruesome road accidents.

How a King becomes a Queen...

2010-03-20T23:09:00.000+01:00

So, yesterday I attempted to enthuse my class of 9 and 10 year old boys about that most primary-school of activities: collage. Over my 8 years of teaching, I've asked/cajoled/begged countless children to make lanterns from paper and PVA glue, mould clay pots, tie-dye handkerchiefs, weave Native American baskets from art straws and create Aboriginal cave paintings using cotton buds, but I've never done collage. Ever. After yesterday's experience, I know why.

Art lessons in the primary classroom are always an 'experience'. No matter how hard you try, they always involve a large amount of mess, a headache, far too much 'washing up' and, quite often, a pair of trousers glued together/to a table leg/to a small child. Quite why I thought a collage lesson would be any different I do not know. But it was Friday afternoon and I was full of the naive joys of spring (or else, too knackered to know better) and I was determined we were going to make our collage of Henry VIII and it was going to look spectacular. As spectacular, if not more so, than the artwork you see in those annoying primary teacher magazines where some fresh-faced super-teacher has taught her class of 30 rampaging animals to wittle life-size models of Winston Churchill from logs of solid oak, or to make 3000 Roman tiles by hand for a mosaic of Nelson Mandela in the school's nature garden. If Miss Teacher-of-the-Year could do it, so could I. And so I prepared for my collage-extravaganza with a somewhat modest, slightly-larger-than-A3 piece of cartridge paper onto which I drew the outline of the womanizing monarch. Having very few artistic bones in my body, drawing Henry VIII freehand was beyond me, unless my kids didn't mind him looking somewhat like a hippo in stilettos, so I resorted to the old trick of projecting an image of the king onto the paper, around which I drew. The final result looked vaguely like Henry VIII and my boys had no idea it wasn't drawn freehand. Wow, that's sick Mr. Queripel. Did you draw that? My response: Yes...I did. Well, I did draw him. Technically.

So far, you note, the boys have not had an ounce of input into the artwork. I was quite proud of my outline drawing of Henry VIII and was a little reluctant to actually let them at it with PrittStick and ripped up bits of magazines, but, remembering I was actually the adult in the room, I decided they had to have a go. Now, you'd have thought it was simple. The original colour portrait of Henry was on the whiteboard. The various magazines were on the tables. The glue was ready. The (quite fabulous) outline drawing was in the middle of the table. Explanation and demonstration were given. The boys were poised. Off you go! This was when pandemonium broke loose. Within a matter of seconds, there was paper everywhere. More paper, it appeared, than could ever have been contained in the six or so magazines we'd collected. The careful explanation of what size the paper pieces should be must have been delivered by me in Swahili, for we ended up with enormous strips piled to the ceiling or tiny fragments invisible to the naked eye. My idea that the boys could decide as a group who would search for which colour was clearly ridiculous, as they all began feverishly ripping out red for Henry's tunic until someone shouted out another colour and, like lemmings, they all began hunting the new colour down. I sat and watched as my class began to disappear in a haze of paper and listened to them begging to be allowed to rip the heads off their least favourite players in the football magazines and then one of them decided it was time to start sticking. It was at this point that I turned into my mum.

Not that I copied her teaching methods (for she is a teacher) but, rather, I did that thing that all parents do when showing their children how to do something they know they can do much better themselves, I did it myself. I leapt across the table, wrenching the glue from the child's grasp, emitting a strangled "Just let me show you again how we glue the pieces down", and I began to stick the pieces to Henry VIII's tunic. And how marvellous it looked. We all agreed on that. I did, eventually, allow the boys to go crazy with the glue sticks, but I hovered incessantly, carefully reminding the boys how to do it at each and every available opportunity and carefully removing any of their efforts that didn't look quite right.

All the while that sticking was going on, paper was still flying around the room, piling up at my feet and threatening to spill out into the corridors. Luckily I was so engaged in my...our...artwork that I didn't really notice, until it came time to clear up. And then I noticed it. Paper was in the boys' hair, their blazer pockets, my shoes, their noses, just about everywhere you could imagine. And it needed clearing up...fast. As every teacher knows, the best way to do this is in an orderly, production-line fashion. And, as every 9 year old boy knows, the best way to do this is to slide around on the floor under every table in the room, especially those with no mess anywhere near them, grabbing your friends' legs at every available opportunity. In situations like these I find that standing and yelling Which part of 'put the paper in the bin' did you not understand?! works spectacularly badly, but, of course, being a somewhat frazzled teacher on a Friday afternoon, that's exactly what I did, and, eventually, we got the room cleared and off the boys went to R.E., leaving me to admire my...our...artwork. We'd managed to cover Henry VIII's arms and chest and, somewhat bizarrely, his bright red lips and piercing blue eyes, neither of which appear on the original portrait, but which give him a mildly amusing drag-queen air. I stuck the half-finished Queen Henry VIII collage proudly to our Tudor display and stood back to admire our handiwork. Not half bad. A double-page spread in Primary Teacher Magazine could still be mine, if I only tidied up just a few of those pieces of red they'd stuck slightly askew....

Watch this space for the finished artwork sometime next week...

Standing out in the crowd...

2010-03-18T21:20:00.000+01:00

So it's Non-Uniform Day tomorrow at school. Yep, the day when all the normally blue-blazered, grey-trousered ones pass through the school gates dressed in all manner of weird and wonderful 'fashionable' outfits. And that's just the teachers. Yep, it's the day when we all rock up in our outfits which we believe scream 'Hey-I'm-a-young-and-fashionable-teacher-with-my-own-unique-and-crazy-sense-of-style', but which actually say 'I'm-wearing-something-your-dad-would-wear-and-yes-I-probably-am-the-same-age-as-him'. No matter how hard you try, as a teacher you're unlikely to impress the youth of today with your fashion sense and it's for that reason that themed dressing up days are actually preferable to the common-or-garden 'own clothes day', because there really is no place for shame or embarrassment when you're prancing around the playground dressed as a cat/spaceman/cowboy/pirate. And, believe me, I've dressed as all four. My motto for themed days has always been if you're going to draw focus, you may as well do it with style. Sadly tomorrow is not a themed day and so I'm not really allowed to wear the penguin outfit I once wore to a friend's party. Instead, I'm supposed to raid the wardrobe for some normal clothes that shout 'youthful', 'fun', 'energetic' or, failing that, I'm supposed to do what senior management always does and wear normal work clothes but with my tie loosened to the first shirt button. Oooh, crazy. Difficult decision? Nah, show me in the rules where it says soon-to-be-head-teachers don't look good in black and white...

And the Oscar goes to....

2010-03-16T22:32:00.002+01:00

So, last Friday I was sent off to a course on London's gorgeous Southbank. Courses are the Holy Grail of teaching. I'd like to say that's because they offer conscientious teachers an opportunity to meet with like-minded individuals in an atmosphere of learning and sharing, but, actually, in all honesty, it's because they give you a day out of the classroom. Away from the kids. Despite all of the pain of setting work for a supply teacher, who will inevitably not do what you ask and leave you a snotty note complaining that you didn't leave enough work/left too much work or your class was horrible/noisy/depraved/climbing the walls, going on a course is still a bit of a jolly and something to look forward to...or it should be.

This course was rather grandly titled "Beyond Current Horizons" and was run by an organisation called FutureLab. The blurb said that the course had something to do with exporing the future for education beyond 2025. Sounded interesting. I assumed I'd been sent on this course because I'm currently re-writing the school's curriculum to make it more creative and innovative. I was hoping to pinch lots of great ideas. Big mistake.

I rocked up at the trendy 'neighbourhood centre' in Waterloo (what is a neighbourhood centre anyway?) about 20 minutes before it was all due to start to find that the majority of the course attendees were those annoying eager-beaver types, who'd come dressed for a high-level business meeting (me: jeans, t-shirt, trainers - i.e. as far away from school uniform as possible) and had been there since about 6am reading the course material. I swallowed hard (I'd been on courses like this before) and took my seat at a table right at the front. [Top tip: It's always a good idea to look keen by sitting at the front - the teacher often looks to the back first. Trust me. I'm a teacher.] My table seemed friendly enough, until I started humorously moaning about my commute from the east End only to discover that they'd come from Loughborough, deepest darkest Essex and Jersey. Not surprisingly, they'd taken a little longer to get to the venue than I had, even taking into account the extremely annoying signal failure on the Jubilee Line which had held me up for at least 10 minutes.

However, I was somewhat reassured that every one of the 6 people around my table had a different idea of wha the course was about. Clearly I wasn't the only one bamboozled by the trendy title. The slightly less reassuring thing was that, by the end of the course, not one of us had any idea what the course had actually been about. Seriously. Not one of us.

The day was the most bizarre mix of 'thought showering' and 'futures thinking', that seemed to involve asking us what we thought education might be like in the future and then agreeing with whatever we said. That was it. We were given no tips, hints, ideas about what might happen in education in the next 20 years. We just talked about what we thought. Oh, and to make things a zillion times worse, we were being filmed for the organisation's promotional DVD. This involved a very smartly-dressed cameraman bobbing around during the 'rain thought snow showering' sessions (or whatever they were called) and shoving a camera in my face at the moment when I looked least interested/was having a sneezing/yawning fit/was trying to read the Metro under the table/drawing moustaches on the photos in the course booklet. Everytime someone said something they had to use the microphone, even though the room was smaller than the average classroom. To make matters worse it was one of those annoying radio mikes that just didn't do what it said on the tin. It zoned in and out so that every other word you said was amplified to ear-shattering proportions, whilst the other words were almost inaudible. I guess it might make the DVD slightly more interesting to anyone subjected to watching it. They can play 'guess what the boring teacher is saying'. Or maybe they'll just include subtitles.

The worst part of the day was when I was asked to a vox-pop about the day and what I'd been hoping to get out of it and what I was learning. Needless to say I was not overly keen and I made this clear. I then had to endure the patronising attitude of someone who thinks you don't want to do something exposing because you're shy or think you wouldn't be good enough, when in actual fact it's just because you can't be arsed. You know the type: "Oh there's not need to worry. I'll hold your hand through it. Youll be excellent. Shall I let you have a little think beforehand?" Shall I tell you what I'd like to do with your little camera? Of course, being the strong-willed, confident individual that I am I said "Sure, I'll do a vox-pop". (Even when I have absolutely nothing to say, the show-off within takes over). So, I found myself swanning up to the camera with the well-dressed cameraman and the slightly scary hippy 'futures' researcher and, as if outside of my own body I heard myself waffle like the best of politicians. What had I been hoping to get out of the course? Well, I'd really been looking forward to finding out about the future of education beyond current horizons. And what was I learning? I was finding out a lot about the future of education beyond current horizons. The end. Yep, not exactly Shakespeare. Not exactly anything really but, needless to say, slightly scary hippy 'futures' researcher was over the moon and reacted to my 'performance' as though I'd told him I'd just won £45 million on the lottery and was giving it all to him. Easily pleased so they are these 'futures' researchers. I guess they know however bad you've just been there's always something better that could turn up in the future.

And after my Oscar-worthy vox-pop, that was basically that. We waffled some more about the the future. And then it all ended. I slunk off home, thankful that I hadn't flown all the way from Jersey and none the wiser about what education might look like in 2025. I'd learnt absolutely nothing. Except that I probably don't want to teach in Jersey. Oh, and that there's nothing more annoying than a radio mike that can't pick up the radio signal. And all that for the princely sum of £200. Let's just hope that by 2025 education is a tad cheaper...

"I can got to the toilet whenever I want!"..

2009-10-30T18:01:00.000+01:00

I've spent the day in a haunted house. It was old, dark, creaky, cold and eerily quiet. The residents were elusive, ghostly figures who I saw only fleetingly at the top of stairs, flying across doorways or appearing in mirrors behind me. It was full of dark, dusty corners where no-one wants to go and even had a gloomy, damp cellar that could have housed an army of bats/rats/ghouls/goblins/any other scary creature you care to think of. It was a spooky place indeed. Why, you may well ask, was I there?

Well, I work there.

Let me expand on that a little. Surprising though it may be, I am not actually a ghost. Nor am I witch or a werewolf. I am not even related to any. So, why do I work in a haunted house? Well, it's where I teach. Yup, a haunted, old Victorian house. I don't know if it's actually haunted for real but it certainly felt like it today because there were no children around and it seemed, well, spooky. You see half-term holiday doesn't end until Monday so there were no kiddies in today when I went to do some prep for next term. It's always good to go in when the kids aren't there because you can get so much done. But I always find it a little odd. It always feels weird that I can leave the classroom whenever I want (no kids to supervise at all times to ensure they don't stab themselves in the eye with a pair of scissors or decide to dissect the class guinea pig). It's odd being able to listen to any music I want, at any volume (no need to choose soothing music to help children write or Flight of the Bumblebee at clearing-up time). And it's odd not spending the day talking. As teachers we're used to waffling on ad infinitum and to be in school in silence is bizarre. In fact I don't like it so I talk to myself (well, it's better than talking to imaginary children). Needless to say I make rather a bizarre sight on days when the kids aren't in: a dancing, singing 30 year-old man, who's overjoyed that he can go to toilet whenever he wants and talks to himself about it all day. Hmmmmm, odd indeed. Roll on Monday. I need my kiddies back...they've got my sanity.

To lead or not to lead...

2009-10-27T21:25:00.005+01:00

So, I've signed up to do an MEd (a Masters in Educational Leadership to be precise) and now I wish I hadn't.

Well, that's not exactly true, I'm just kind of concerned about how much work it's going to be. Well, actually, having read the first module I think it sounds incredibly dull.

Well, in all honesty, I don't think I want to be a head teacher.

Oh, damn it, I don't think I want to do it...at all!

You see, I kind of love teaching. Yup, miraculous though it may seem, after 7 hard years of primary school teaching, I still enjoy it...a lot and doing an MEd in Educational Leadership seems a bit odd. The first module is all about Leadership Theory and, man alive, I've fallen asleep over the module booklet at least 10 times already. Who cares about whether or not Winston Churchill's leadership skills can be transferred to the leadership of a school? If it was all about Kermit the Frog's leadership skills, I might be a tad more interested. But it's not. Unfortunately.

It all boils down to the age-old question of whether or not head teachers should teach. (I can almost hear you now: "Oh yes, that question's been on my mind for years now"). Well, whether or not you've thought about it before, just think about it now for two seconds. There are two main schools of thought: 1) Head teachers are business managers and shouldn't waste their time teaching and 2) Head teachers are TEACHERS and should have as much interaction with their pupils as possible. I can see the argument for both sides but, as I think you've probably guessed, I am a firm supporter of argument number 2. I've worked for 4 head teachers now and only two of them taught, albeit not very much. The other two were useless when placed in front of a class and one of them readily admitted as much. Of the two who did teach, one was excellent - kind, patient, caring - he knew all of the children in the school's names. I guess if I do rise up the greasy pole, he's the one to emulate. And yet, he was still holed up in his office a lot of the time organising performance management schemes, balancing budgets and hiring and firing, preoccupied with endless other non-teaching related tasks. Did he really enjoy that or did he wish he could have fun in the classroom again?

You see, it all boils down to the fact that kids are fun to be around. OK, they can often be annoying/horrible/rude/lazy/insolent/childish/selfish/fickle/untidy/inappropriate...oops, getting a bit carried away there. But, the fact of the matter is, they can also make me laugh. A lot. I enjoy being in their company. And...they think I'm hilarious. Yes, it's true, 5-11 year olds find me rather amusing and who am I to disabuse them of this notion? It's not like I'm their dad or anything. What better way to spend a day than with a captive audience of young, active minds? Who better to try out all your latent/repressed comedy acting skills on? It makes perfect sense.

So, what shall I do? Do I pursue the MEd and climb slightly reluctantly up that giddy career ladder further away from the kids? Or do I stick at the chalkface and keep teaching a class of primary age kids until I'm allowed to retire at 68?

The decision is postponed until I've been on the first MEd residential weekend at Buckingham University in November. Only then will I be able to see what the other creatures who've signed up to do this course are like. Suauve and sophisticated, high-flying head teachers? Or young, happy primary school teachers with little responsibility but a hefty mortgage? Come back and find out what happens in a few weeks!

Chain Fiction: December 2007 Part Two

2007-12-08T20:51:00.000+01:00

It's back! Greg's posted the beginning of a new story. Read Part One by clicking on the link below. Then come back and read my Part Two. If you fancy adding another section yourself then feel free. Check out the rules and conventions here.

Part One @ Greg's Brain.

Part Two: 408 words.

16 years earlier...

Standing by the edge of the great frozen pond, the tall blonde-haired girl looked wistfully out across the vast expanse. She was wrapped in an over-sized duffle coat, a long multi-coloured scarf and large mittens. Her teeth chattered lightly in the cold air. In the middle of the pond an icy breeze churned loose snowflakes into great swirls of white dust. Apart from her, there was not a soul in sight.

Squinting to shield her eyes from the bright light, she moved closer to the edge of the pond, trying to follow the swirling snow patterns in the distance. They reminded her of the ice dancers she'd watched on TV every Christmas for years, spinning and jumping around, seemingly so carefree and yet so meticulously rehearsed. In a strange way they reminded her of what she had done. Could it only have been an hour ago? So calmly and thoughtlessly, innocently even, and at the same time with such premeditation. Premeditation. She rolled the word around her mouth with her tongue, liking the sound of it but hating the meaning. That was the kind of word the police used, she thought. And judges in the criminal justice system. Is that what she was now? A criminal.

The pond before her seemed suddenly like an abyss and she took a step back from it, frightened of falling. She'd done that too many times before. Her hands began to itch again and she pulled the left one out from the warmth of its mitten and began to scratch. She could feel the familiar panic beginning to rise within her. The itch became more intense and she scratched harder. Wasn't there a character in that Shakespeare play they'd read last year at school who could never get her hands clean enough? Wasn't that character going mad?

Retreating further from the edge of the pond, she forced herself to stop scratching and put the mitten back on. Swallowing gulps of fresh, icy air she began to force the panic back down inside her. Get a grip. No-one could know yet. No-one would ever know. She just needed to walk back up to the house, eat Mom's sweet potato pie and celebrate Christmas as usual and everything would be OK. And, anyway, if things did turn out bad, there was one thing she was sure of: she could always say he'd made her do it. For Jack had. Hadn't he?

Part Three...(by you?)

We had a go at this a few months ago and it was great fun. Check out my effort in that story here.

I started life as a dog...

2007-12-07T19:35:00.000+01:00

Greg of Greg's Brain has tagged me to write Seven Weird & Random Facts About Me. I have a feeling I've done this before, but I'm going to have a go at dredging up seven more from my somewhat Friday-addled brain because Greg tagged me in honour of my recent return to Blogdom, and that's a really kind gesture!

Here are the rules of the Meme:
Link to the person that tagged you and post the rules on your blog.
Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself.
Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

So, let me think...

1. I was born in a veterinary surgery.

2. I have never broken, twisted, strained, pulled, snapped or injured in any way that required hospitalisation any part of my body. I guess there's time yet.

3. It's only just begun to dawn on me that one day people won't call me a young man anymore.

4. The most famous ancestors in my family tree were my 2nd cousin 9 times removed and my 1st cousin 3 times removed. One was High Sheriff of Sussex and one was a magician. I'm resigning myself to the fact that I'm probably never going to beat that.

5. My secret desire is to live in every capital city in the world. So far I've managed Washington, D.C., Brussels and London. Only 190 or so to go.

Make that 189: Bangui doesn't really take my fancy.

6. In my time I have voted in national elections for all three of the major political parties in the UK. Yes, to my immense shame, even the Conservatives. I was young and impressionable.

7. I don't know how to belch. And I'm proud of it.

Well, there you go. At least I tried, eh?!

So, I have to find 7 random people to tag now. Hmmm, not sure I know seven people in Blogdom again yet. Let's see...

1. I tag Akoni at The Chaput Blog because he's a new friend of mine.
2. I tag Ingrid at Boricua in Texas because she's been kind enough to comment on some of my random postings.
3. Coffeecup at The Panic Room has also earned a tag as a result of commenting on my posts. She'll wish she never did now!
4. And sad though it may seem that's the extent of my Blogdom friends right now so I'll have to leave it there!

The Lesser-Spotted Substitute Teacher...

2007-12-05T19:22:00.000+01:00

So, today the class next door had a supply. Miss was sick and the supply agency had had to be called at some unearthly hour of the morning to request a willing victim. You'd have thought this might be a difficult task; finding someone at 7 o'clock in the morning to jump in the shower, grab some breakfast, cross London in rush-hour and arrive at an unknown class ready to teach they-don't-know-what, but it never ceases to amaze me that these agencies always manage to rustle someone up. Someone is the operative word in that sentence, for you can never be quite sure who's going to turn up. Beggars can't be choosers, you know.

All regular teachers know that supply teachers come in three types: the hippy-I've-gone-on-supply-because-the-real-world-of-teaching-is-way-too-stressy-man teacher; the way too keen newly-qualified-I-haven't-got-a-proper-job-yet-but-not-because-I'm-crap teacher; and the I'm-too-strict-for-the-army ultra hard bruiser (sorry...teacher).

The most common of these breeds is the NQT (or Newly Qualified Teacher or in Latin teacherius terrifdius). They are usually young women and can always be recognised by their sprightly eyes, shot through with a hint of red and a large dose of terror. They nearly always dress in sharp trouser suits, with plenty of pockets for small wandering hands to creep into and usually in a light beige, ideal for displaying the smallest of glue/paint/pen/pencil/snot marks. They begin the day with a sickeningly bouncy demeanour, which, at 7.30 in the morning, is enough to make you want to round up the roughest kids you can find and shove them in the class before she gets there. You don't, of course, because you know that that smile's not going to last long. She'll be eaten alive. The newly-qualified-I-haven't-got-a-proper-job-yet-but-not-because-I'm-crap supply teacher is closely related to the hopeless romantic and the eternal optimist.

The hippy supply teacher is a rare breed, preferring, as it does, the freedom of home schooling and experimental teaching, to the restrictive environment of the classroom, but if you're lucky enough to catch sight of one who has been lured/coaxed/forced into school, you're in for a treat. They come in a variety of colours, all worn at the same time, and their hair resembles a bird's nest recently attacked by a fox. Their clothes trail behind them in a feast of tassles, chiffon and organic, breathable cotton and their footwear, if they choose to wear any, is, somewhat inevitably, a sandal. Their voice is as distinctive as they come: a feathery-light, breathy whisper, at a pitch barely audible to human beings, and which they use to justify their less than traditional methods: Yeah, right, like I didn't do that Maths lesson. The kids were just too stressed yeah after taking the register. We just needed a break from all that academic stuff, yeah, for an hour or two. Yeah...right. If you ever meet a hippy-I've-gone-on-supply-because-the-real-world-of-teaching-is-way-too-stressy-man teacher, take a picture. You'll never see the same one twice.

The final type of supply teacher is the most common and it was one of these who walked into the class next door today. They are usually women, although sometimes, to be truthful, it's difficult to tell. This one was definitely female and I could tell she was one of the I'm-too-strict-for-the-army types when I saw her getting the riot gear out of the boot of her car. These supplies usually wear combat trousers and lead-tipped boots and she was no exception, topping off the look with a full-length body shield and a handily accessible pepper spray canister clipped to her all-purpose utility belt. This was admirable forward-planning I thought, but I could only stand back and applaud when she added a Taser to the belt - that's a woman who takes no crap. And if Miss Chalk's handshake was anything to go by (I still have my hand in ice), she certainly meant to take no crap. Unfortunately, she hadn't bargained on the class next door being the class from hell. 6 hours after arriving, several strangled cries and exactly 18 Taser blasts later, she emerged from Next Door like a bullet from a gun and pounded downstairs faster than you could say Territorial Army. She didn't stop to tell me how it had gone, but I'm sure I saw, through my wry smiling eyes, a cracked body shield being thrown into the boot of her car.

My colleague next door was certainly ill enough for one day off school, possibly two. I secretly hope she will be off again tomorrow. Not because I wish her any ill, but if she is sick again, you never know, if I'm really lucky, I might just get to catch a glimpse of a hippy-I've-gone-on-supply-because-the-real-world-of-teaching-is-way-too-stressy-man supply, and, for a closet Supply Spotter, that's an opportunity too good to miss.

Santa's on vacation...

2007-12-04T19:54:00.000+01:00

According to the British Royal Mail, letters to Father Christmas must be sent to the following address:

Father Christmas, Santa’s Grotto, Reindeerland, SAN TA1

The Americans, on the other hand, seem to know something we don't, offering a service whereby parents can write a reply letter from Santa and then have it postmarked The North Pole by a post office in Arkansas.

I ask you, talk about shattering dreams and destroying innocence. What's the point of sending your letter to Reindeerland if he's on holiday in Arkansas? Guess I'll have to send mine off again.

Christmas is coming...

2007-12-03T21:42:00.000+01:00

Kingfisher Class Hoop (read: cheap Christmassy tat - the best there is!).

And the winner is...

2007-12-03T20:54:00.000+01:00

So, the clock has ticked its last, the fat lady has sung, showered, brushed her teeth and gone to bed and the hoops saga has come to an end. Thank goodness.

Don't get me wrong - I love Christmas, just not the horrendous manic build-up to it that is a primary classroom in December. I'm not kidding you - it's hellish. As the final day of term draws ever closer, the classroom makes the transition from serene learning environment through tackiest Santa's grotto imaginable to, finally, explosion in an elf-run tinsel factory and I, in a matter of days (about two to be precise), make the transition from serene educator to the person who planted the bomb in the elf-run tinsel factory. Maybe you can tell - it's always a little bit stressful.

The most joyous part is the Christmas party. I actually love the Christmas party, mainly because the kids love it. They're so easily pleased it's great. Whack on a cheap Christmas hits CD from PoundLand (usually to be found on the Bargain Basement half price shelf), play some outdated parlour games that they wouldn't be seen dead playing in 'real life', throw in a few sausage rolls and sugary cakes/sweets/biscuits/drinks and you'll have 'em eating out of your hand (or from paper plates if you prefer). Honestly - it's that simple. If a chimpanzee could work a CD player and knew how to play Pass the Parcel or Musical Chairs, then even a monkey could do it. Whatever people say about kids these days and the loss of their innocence and youth, my experience is that, wherever you are, inner-city Britain or posh Brussels - the capital of Europe, kids can still make their own fun at the annual Christmas party.

So, I'm looking forward to this year's, especially as it'll mark, very nearly, the end of my time at this school. So, the kids will be happy (they'll be too distracted to be crying over my departure...hmmmm) and I'll be happy. Happy kids, happy teacher - a magical combination. Suddenly, it's starting to feel like Christmas!

Oh, by the way, despite the skullduggery of my fellow teaching professionals, we finished our class hoop and it's hanging as I write in the Lower Hall, a piece of resplendent tat, worthy of any Santa's grotto, or, at least, a PoundLand window display. Check it out above.

Jumping through hoops...

2007-12-02T16:02:00.000+01:00

So, there we are at the top of the stairs - my class (read: rabble), my T.A. and me. The silent high-five has passed between us and the game is afoot. As if in a flash, the plan lurches into motion. My T.A. dives up the stairs, heading for the Resources Room and I, suddenly transformed into some kind of art and craft maniac, slowly open the door from the stairwell to the corridor. I'm about to poke my head around the door to check out the lay of the land when I'm hit by a wave of nerves and I shove a kid out in front of me. He says the way is clear - no-one else is up from the playground yet. "Right kids! Run!" And with that eloquent cry, I herd my children (read: gaggle) into the classroom and slam the door shut behind me, my heart racing and my breath coming in short gasps. Either the adrenalin is kicking in or I really need to cut down on those anti-fit-person pies.

What follows can only be described as pure and simple chaos. Shrieking, running, shouting, excitement coupled with horror...and that's just me. As for the kids, they listen intently as I divulge the genius plan. Some had already noted the T.A.'s unusual absence and seem, if I do say so myself, somewhat impressed by the two-pronged approach. We clear away the handwriting books (who likes handwriting anyway?) and lie low, waiting for the return of the tinsel and card-laden T.A. Time seems to stretch on for hours. Every footstep past the door makes us look up and then, in a flash, the door swings open and in staggers my T.A., bruised, battered and, most distressingly of all, empty-handed. She seems dazed and slightly confused and is babbling in a more than usually incoherent way. I manage to sit her down and she explains, between gasps, that she made it to the Resources Room alright and that she even made it to the Holy Grail - the tinsel and glitter shelf - before she noticed an icy chill in the air. Turning to find the source she caught a glimpse of raven hair fleeing the room and, between the locks, there was definitely a flash of glitter. Her mind racing with who it could have been, she turned back to the shelf to be met by an avalanche of boxes and card, tumbling from all around her, burying her up to her neck. It had taken her several minutes to dislodge herself and then she had come straight back to the classroom.

Pacing the room, there is only one thought on my mind: how are we going to make our hoops now, when the last remaining glitter in the school has just been snatched from our grasp by Miss Black, the evil raven-haired supply teacher from the top floor? Looking at my watch, panic begins to set in. Time remaining: 10 hours. There's nothing for it: we'll have to make our own glitter. I run to my computer and google how to make glitter. 5,310,000 hits stare back at me. Deep inside I know that none of them are going to help me. I feel the elusive title of Best Class Hoops slipping away from me with every second.

Then the epiphany comes: I'm leaving this school in two weeks so I don't give a damn who wins Best Class Hoops. With that my panic, along with my sudden transformation into the James Bond of the primary school art and craft world, come to an abrupt halt. The handwriting books come out once again and order is restored. Let the evil raven-haired supply teacher from the top floor have her glitter. It's no skin off my nose.

Mission: hoops. ABANDONED.
Time remaining: Who cares?

To be continued...check back tomorrow to see what my class eventually produces.

So, this is goodbye then...

2007-12-01T18:40:00.000+01:00

So, ever had to tell your class of 30 seven and eight year olds that, despite having only started as their teacher in September, you would be leaving at Christmas? No? I have. Yesterday, in fact.

You see, I returned from Belgium in July and began teaching at a school in London (which shall remain nameless) where I very soon realised that I was not happy, mainly because...I wasn't very happy. As someone who believes that life's too short to be unhappy, I resigned within just a couple of weeks and got myself a new job at a much better school. Job sorted. Except in the British education system you cannot leave a school until the end of the term (in this case, Christmas), so I had to stick it out for a further three months until I could escape. Now, as Christmas approaches, the time of my departure is getting close and the children have had to be informed.

How do you tell 30 young children who you have spent three long months moulding, forcing and threatening to behave whilst they have exasperated, annoyed and fatigued you, but at the same time amazed, amused and flabbergasted you, that you're leaving them in the lurch with a new teacher after the holidays?

Happy Christmas kids. I'm off! By the way, Santa doesn't exist.

Perhaps not. I opted for the simple, plain-talking approach and told them that after Christmas I had to be somewhere else (anywhere else) and that the most important thing for them to remember was that it wasn't anything to do with them.

I'm not sure what kind of a reaction I expected. Looking around the little faces dotted around the room, I caught sight of one girl who was almost crying. My heart lifted and I could have danced. Not that small children crying is something that normally gives me joy, but it was nice to know they cared. Moving my gaze around I caught sight of another tearful girl, oh, no, she was sneezing. OK, OK, not to worry, she was probably sneezing in shock. Moving on, I caught another child's eye. Was that a tear on his cheek? How sweet! Oh, no, just a pencil smudge. Casting my gaze a little wider, it became apparent that most of the little faces in front of me were not the faces of crushed, tearful young children. On the contrary, one girl was postively beaming (I never liked her that much anyway). Half of them were still fiddling with their pencils/workbooks/noses and those who weren't seemed more interested in the fly buzzing around the ceiling than what I was saying.

Where were the tears? The heartache? The impassioned pleas for me to stay? The wailing?! The gnashing of teeth?! Nowhere to be seen. But then, had I really expected all that? Not for a minute. I've taught primary kids for long enough to know that fickle is their middle name. Yep, every single one of 'em. As fickle as they come. One minute you're the best teacher ever and the next you're a washed-up has-been on the dung heap of My Last Teacher. And it's for that reason that I have no worries about leaving them after so short a period of time. They aren't going to be crying over me until Easter. The only one who's likely to be scarred by all this is me, not them. Kids are resiliant and, let's face it, I'm only their teacher, not their favourite Pop Idol contestant. I'm moving on. They probably already have. Simple as that. That's the joy of working with kids. Always keep you on your toes.

Fully poseable Jesus...

2007-11-30T23:24:00.000+01:00

Available now!

Fully poseable, talking Jesus.

[In the current highly charged religious-toy-naming climate, the producers would like to point out that any resemblance to Jesus of Nazareth is entirely coincidental]

The heat is on...

2007-11-28T20:39:00.000+01:00

So, there I am standing in the staffroom, a somewhat bewildered look on my face and my colleague's word ringing in my ears...I'd love to help but, you know, walls, ears..., when a tinsel-covered elf flashed past the staffroom door. Realising my children were still standing (read: wreaking havoc) in the playground, I leapt through the door, half desperate to get the children (read: devils) into the classroom and half intrigued to find out what a small fantastical Christmas creature covered in tinsel was doing in our school. Disappointingly, the creature turned out not to be a small renegade helper from the Claus fraternity but, rather, Brenda, a teaching assistant from the Infants, and the tinsel, it transpired was in the process of being half-inched from the resources room, in an underhanded attempt to sneak enough down to Year 2 whilst all of the teachers were in the playground. Noting this classic teacher skullduggery, I jumped down the stairs 3 at a time, realising that the making of Christmas hoops was clearly going to require a certain amount of ingenuity on my part.

A quick conflab with my own teaching assistant on the stairs over the heads of my raucous children (read: aliens) and we had a plan: at the top of the stairs we would divide, she taking the other staircase up to the top floor, diving into the resource room, before anyone else had made it up there. Her wish list: green and red card, tin foil, tinsel, PVA glue and glitter. Clearly she wasn't going to be able to transport this amount of stuff surreptitiously down a corridor, so our plan involved a two-pronged approach. On her return I would leave the classroom with a pupil, supposedly on our way to change their reading book. Leaving the child as a guard outisde the resource room with strict instructions to cry hysterically should any other teacher or T.A. approach, thereby detaining them long enough for me to nab the choicest of resources, I would make a clean sweep, stuff the merchandise up my jumper and make my way sharpish back to class. It seemed like the perfect plan and it had to be. Primary teachers are wily, sneaky and, sometimes, clever. When it comes to acquiring and hoarding resources, they can be downright evil. The hoops had to be complete by Thursday and there's only so much glitter a school can hold. The master of the hoops was surely going to be the teacher left holding the glitter and the PVA glue after the smoke had cleared and I knew it.

As I reached the top of the stairs with my T.A. and my children (read: rampaging hoard), a silent high-five passed between us. We knew the battle was afoot and the heat was on. We split into two: T.A. going one way, teacher and class the other.

Mission: hoops.
Time remaining: 11 hours 45 minutes.

To be continued...

I could tell you but then I might have to kill you...

2007-11-27T20:08:00.000+01:00

The deadline for hoops is this Thursday. Make sure they're ready for then!

This was the battle-like cry I heard at staff briefing today, as I sat in the staff room drumming my fingers on my knee, totalling up the days, hours and minutes left until the Christmas holidays. Hoops. The word was bounced around the staffroom a few times - enough to wake me from my dreamland, enough for me to realise I didn't have a clue what on earth the Head was talking about. Hoops? Was this yet another government education initiative - an acronym so beloved of the British Department for Children, Schools and Families? Helping Out Other People in School? Hitting Out at Other People in School? Was it an important form I needed to fill in? A referral for a troubled pupil, involving social workers, ed psychs and other agencies? A piece of information I needed to prepare for the parents of the children in my class? Whatever it was I had to find out quickly. Today was Tuesday and Thursday was fast approaching.

My mind racing with what it was I had, yet again, managed to not do, I rushed to my colleague and pinned her down in the few seconds we had before the bells went and we had to collect the children from the playground. "What are hoops?" I gasped. "Tell me! I need to know now!" In a dramatic voice, preceded by an even more dramatic pause, she looked over her left and then her right shoulder, then leant in a bit closer, causing me to do the same, opened her mouth to speak and then looked back over both shoulders. "They're...Christmas decorations." she whispered.

"Christmas decorations?" I repeated, somewhat redundantly and, apparently, somewhat too loudly.

"Shhhhhhh!" she shusshed me. "These walls have ears."

"Christmas decorations?" I repeated again, even more redundantly but far more quietly.
"Yes, each class takes two P.E. hoops - hence the name - decorates them with tinsel and numerous other things and then hangs a decoration made by each child from them. They're then hung in the main hall until Christmas." She told me this as though she was divulging secrets that could bring down the Pope, all the time looking shiftily over her shoulders, tensing at any sound that could have been the door opening.

"Well, what are we going to get the kids to do then?" The high-pitched cackle that emerged from my colleague's mouth caught me unawares and I jumped like a startled rabbit. "I can't tell you that!" she whispered through clenched teeth. "I wish I could but, you know, walls, ears." And with that, she was gone.

The staffroom suddenly seemed empty and I realised everyone was outside, collecting their children. I hurried out of the room, wrapping myself up warmly in my coat, taking one last glance at the eary walls on my way out. My mission: hoops. Time remaining: 12 hours 19 minutes.

To be continued...

Some like it hot...

2007-11-26T22:24:00.000+01:00

There’s no doubt about it – the world’s warming up. It’s on the news everyday. We can’t escape it. Some of us, of course, have known about it for years. People of my generation will remember, back in the day when a carbon footprint was a nasty stain on the carpet, Janet Ellis solemnly telling us on Blue Peter about the “o-z-o-n-e” layer, demonstrating, with the aid of an inflatable Earth, ice-cubes and some sticky-backed plastic, how by the year 2007, the ice caps would have melted and we’d all be living in stilt houses and travelling to school in boats.

Well, they might have been out by a few years on the stilt houses but it looks like those soothsayers at Blue Peter had it right – the globe is definitely warming up and, if truth be told, I’d really rather it didn’t.

I can think of a million reasons why I’d like things to stay the way they are, not the least of these being that I don’t like buildings on stilts and I can’t sail a boat very well. I know some Brits look on global warming as an opportunity for warmer summers, but I feel they are somewhat missing the point. Rushing for the beach when the hotter weather hits might seem like a great prospect now but I suspect it would be somewhat of an anti-climax when we met the sea rushing the other way to meet us as sea levels rose around the world.

I am no eco-warrior, but it has begun to dawn on me lately that I’ve been hearing about the holey “o-z-o-n-e” layer for quite a while now and yet I don’t seem to be doing anything to fix it. When I first heard about it I thought we actually could fix it, but, nowadays, I know it’ll probably take more than some sticky tape, a toilet roll tube and a pair of your mum’s old tights to do it.

Perhaps I’ll have to do something else. I take plane journeys and contribute to the burning of fossil fuels and a significant part of me doesn’t want to stop doing those things. But maybe, just maybe, one day I’ll have to. And if that doesn’t work? I’ve got a good supply of sticky-backed plastic and egg boxes in the cupboard. I just need Janet Ellis to tell me what to do with them.

The first Pussy of the United States...

2007-06-09T20:39:00.000+02:00

So, Greg at Greg's Brain tagged me to write eight random or interesting facts about myself. I decided quite a few years ago that I would have one random fact that I would keep in my memory for ever and ever so that I would always have something to roll out when people said "What's your most interesting fact?" and so I'll start with that one. That leaves me seven more to think of. I'm not sure I'm interesting enough for seven more...

The Rules
Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

1. When living in America in 2000, I had a private tour of the White House and stroked the First Pussy of the United States.

2. The Pussy belonged to Hillary Clinton. [Not really a separate interesting fact about me, I know, but it sounded more dramatic when I gave it a number all of its own].

3. Hillary had named her Pussy. It was called Socks and was about 9 years old. He wasn't very happy to be in my arms. He was a cat.

4. Also when in America, I once went to a frat party with a bunch of marines and was introduced as Hugh Grant all night. This annoyed me greatly.

5. Leaving the US behind, I recently discovered that I suffer from Oral Allergy Syndrome. I am allergic to raw fruit. This is also somewhat annoying (though not as annoying as being confused for Hugh Grant).

6. Before I came to live in Belgium, I didn't know that Brussels was its capital.

7. I am 50% Channel Islandish.

8. I have a strange habit of subconsciously creating ridges in the fabric of my clothes/bed linen and holding them between my fingers. When I think about it this is a little bit weird.

Well, they were my eight random facts. If reading them was the highlight of your day you'd better go and have a stiff drink.

I gather I'm supposed to tag 8 other people. Being as I don't really know anyone else in the blogosphere, I'm going to have to choose quite randomly. Sorry if you don't like random fact games. There's not much I can do about that.

1. The Real Mother Hen (because she left an amusing comment on my last post).

2. why paisley??? (because we once wrote parts of an interesting story together and I hope to do so again some day).

3. Marilyn's Nonviolent Planet Newspage (I don't think this kind of post would work on her site but I'm running out of people already).

4. Tom's Hideaway (because he told me that the post I'm most proud of was "cool" and he's running for US president).

5. The Things I Like That I Think You Might Like (because I once wrote two of Ben's favourite ever sentences).

6. The View from Here (because Mike is a writer and I want to be one but don't have the patience yet).

7. Little Aussie Cynic Blog (because the author is Australian and I wouldn't mind being Australian but I don't have the beer gut yet...only kidding...).

8. A Baby Boomer's News, Reviews, and Observations (a random blog I chose from BlogCatalog because I really have run out of people and Angela seems friendly. I hope this doesn't qualify as blogarassment).

A true Brit...

2007-05-23T18:10:00.001+02:00

According to the BBC, Lonely Planet has launched a new and updated guide to Great Britain. It is full of the usual fact and fiction about the cities and towns of the UK, praising some as being cool and some as being boring but it also includes a rather crazy description of what British people are like. It describes Britons as being "uninhibited, tolerant, exhibitionist, passionate, aggressive, sentimental, hospitable and friendly". What kind of a person is that?!

A true Brit (according to Lonely Planet): Someone who is passionate about exhibiting themselves in public and is happy to see others doing it, can become violent when questioned as to why exactly they like doing it, loves whiling away the hours reflecting on exhibiting experiences from their past, opens their home to all people of the same persuasion and will talk to anybody about it.

Remind me not to socialise with any Brits when I move back in a month's time.

It's the little things...

2007-05-23T17:09:00.000+02:00

So, being a teacher and it being the end of the academic year (well, nearly), I have been busy these last few weeks beavering away writing reports about the 25 children in my class. I have completed about 14 of them and, bearing in mind that they are about 6 pages long (each), that's quite a good achievement.

This morning I was feeling fairly pleased with myself as I sat at my school computer at 7:30, typing away at my 15th report, until I realised that something was wrong. No, it was not the fact that it was 7:30, although anyone being up and about at that time is fairly wrong in my book. Nor was it the fact that I had managed in my running around haste this morning to put on one stripey brown sock and one black. No, it was far worse.

I was writing my reports on the wrong report template, which meant that every one I had done so far would have to be transferred bit by painstaking bit to the correct template, thereby tripling my workload. This mistake was in no way my own fault. I had found and used the template saved under Reports 2006-2007, which seemed to me a logical place for it to be saved. This, however, was obviously a hilarious joke on the part of Senior Management, as the correct template was saved under 2006-2007 Reports, a subtle, but important difference I hope you can see.

Now, I am a very calm and collected person most of the time. It usually takes a lot to make me angry. I have been sworn at by children in my class (in the UK, I hasten to add, not in my nice Belgian school), been sworn at by the parents of children in my class, had my car broken into outside my house 3 times (that was in Belgium), had my car stolen from outside my house and been mugged in the street twice and through it all my sang froid has remained intact. Rain or shine, good times or bad, I can usually remain fairly positive and see things clearly and lucidly.

I did say usually, didn't I? I don't know whether it was the early hour, the fact that I hate writing reports, or what, but discovering this morning that I had typed all of my reports into the wrong template was enough to send me over the edge and turn me into a writhing mass of anger. I was seething, fuming, boiling with rage. Spitting anger welled up within me at the injustice of it and I could have thrown the computer at the wall. I wanted to cry, scream, shout, grab the nearest chair/table/small child and shake it until I ran out of energy. I was mad! Being a calm person and thoroughly British, of course, I showed none of this anger, fixed a smile to my face and went and had a cup of tea.

Dancing Biscuit Number 12...

2007-05-21T18:44:00.000+02:00

So today we began rehearsals for the end-of-term production. Being musical and drama-minded I love doing plays. I've been in a few myself and I sing a lot. I enjoy this greatly. This does not normally involve any children. The end-of-year production does. Lots of them. Nearly 100 to be precise.

That's 100 eager little children for whom we need to find a part (preferably speaking or Mummy and Daddy will not be happy), teach numerous songs to, find costumes for, encourage/tell/threaten to speak louder, teach to dance and give actions to. No mean feat I can tell you.

The allocating of parts for these kind of productions is always something of an amusement. No matter how hard you try, it is very difficult, nigh on impossible, to find a substantial speaking role for 100 children. Someone will, inevitably, have to play Third Flower from the Left or Wounded Soldier 15 or Dancing Biscuit Number 12 Right in the Background Because She Can't Dance and We've Run Out of Room on the Stage (Not to Mention Patience). Breaking the sad news to the I'm-going-to-stage-school prima donnas that, yes, they are going to be playing a mute slug can sometimes be difficult...but not often. The slug is a choice role, you tell them. A really interesting challenge. Imagine trying to find your motivation in Scene Two when you slide gracefully across the stage pursued by a worm with a saltpot. What fun it will be! With that kind of build-up, the tears don't usually last long.

And so it was today as we began rehearsing our Victorian music hall production and I had to take one of my little darlings aside and explain that their key role would be manhandling the cardboard cut-out elephant across the tightrope (non-speaking and unseen - the role that is, not the tightrope). Luckily the promise that they could make as many elephant noises as they wanted when crossing the stage was enough to put an enormous smile on their faces. No tears. A good day.

Teacher-speak...

2007-05-18T14:59:00.000+02:00

I rose this morning tired. This is the second day of my holiday from school and the second day I have been writing reports for my class. 13 done. That leaves 12 to go.

Rather than revel alone in the joy that is report writing, I thought I might share with you some of my choicest teachers' report phrases, complete with translations. Here are my top ten:

1. Bobby has this year made some progress in Maths/Science/English.

Translation: Bobby has this year made no progress in Maths/Science/English.

2. Bobby would benefit from listening to instructions more carefully before beginning a task.

Translation: Bobby doesn't know the meaning of the word 'instruction' or 'listening'.

3. Bobby always ensures that his voice is heard as much as anyone else's.

Translation: Bobby never shuts up and monopolises all class discussions.

4. Bobby is not a natural artist.

Translation: Bobby has no artistic ability whatsoever.

5. Bobby has a quick mind and enjoys sharing his opinions with the class.

Translation: Bobby is a smart alec and nobody likes a smart alec.

6. Bobby finds some aspects of the curriculum difficult.

Translation: Bobby finds all aspects of the curriculum difficult.

7. Bobby participates enthusiastically in the practical aspects of Science lessons.

Translation: Bobby is a maniac in Science lessons and scares the life out of me when handling scientific equipment.

8. Bobby enjoys playing with the younger pupils in the school.

Translation: Bobby acts like a 3 year old.

9. Bobby is a quiet and conscientious worker.

Translation: Bobby who?

10. Bobby has a unique perspective on the world and can often make very perceptive and imaginative comments that can take a class discussion onto an entirely different plane.

Translation: Bobby is weird.

Disclaimer: These are just examples of what some teachers might write. I would never use phrases that meant something else, of course. Ever.

Translation: I use these phrases all the time.

The definition of boredom...

2007-05-17T16:36:00.000+02:00

I have two days holiday from school. Fantastic.

I have to write 25 six page reports for the children in my class during these two days. Not so fantastic.

I have been writing them all day and only managed to do 5. They are beginning to drive me insane. I have become so bored that I have started taking parts of them and pasting them into BabelFish to see what this free, online translation service would make of them. Here's an example of a report I wrote in English, translated into French and then back into English (the name, of course, does not refer to a real person).

Jane is a young delicious injury and an absolute pleasure to teach. It always has a merry smile and a pleasant word for of the same adults and children at the school and this merry disposal gained his/her much friends in the class. Jane has impeccable ways and is always very useful and polished. It works well in any group which it is put inside and always takes part with enthusiasm in the lessons. Jane has the very good qualifications of organization, which it puts at correct use while having to produce work with a deadline. The work of Jane is always accomplished per hour and is always of a very high level. I could not have asked Jane to function harder than it has this year. It should be very proud effort which it put in its education this year. I completely had pleasure to teach Jane and do not have any doubt that it will continue for exceler at its next school and over there. Jane made good during one year fantastic and better of the chance in the future.

I don't know about you but I think it has a certain ring to it.

Chain Fiction One, Part 3

2007-05-16T17:44:00.000+02:00

I came across a cool writing experiment at Greg's Writing Blog . It's called Chain Fiction and involves Greg writing the opening to a short story and then anyone in the world continuing it in sections on their own blogs. Links from section to section mean that people can follow the story wherever it goes on the web. Just so happens he posted the introduction to a story yesterday, so I thought I'd have a go. I've written a Part Three, so to read the beginning of the story you need to follow the two links below before reading my effort.

Part 1 @ Greg's Writing Blog
Part 2 @ why-paisley

Part 3 (492 words)

11:51

Dave Fisher had never before had such a lucid perspective on life. Never before had he been in such a strange position, though. And, despite his terrifying predicament, he was surprised to find that, initially, he wasn’t scared. All he could think about was what had led him to end up here.

Ever since he’d met Cleo he’d known she was the one. She’d bumped into him at a friend’s party and hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him all night. Must have been five months ago now, although it felt like yesterday. He’d never thought it would be so easy to meet someone so perfect. An accidental bump. A chance encounter and that was it. Everything was in place.

He’d known she was right straight away as they’d left the party and taken a walk through the park. It hadn’t taken long to convince her he was right either. A few lies here and there and she’d become putty in his hands. Could a plan ever have worked so perfectly before?

Well, until this precise moment, that was. Until the two shadowy figures who’d been trailing him for the last three weeks had approached him in the hotel lobby, pressed a gun into his back and forced him up the stairs to the roof. Until the two shadowy figures with the gun had beat him around the head with it, demanding that he hand over the key. Until the two shadowy figures with the gun that they’d used to beat him around the head had kicked him to the floor, grabbed a leg each, dragged him to the roof’s edge and hung him over it. On reflection, perhaps, there were plans that had turned out better.

The lucidity brought on by the initial shock of hanging over the edge of the roof disappeared rapidly as blood from Dave’s legs rushed to his head. Panic set in. Although muffled by the thumping blood in his ears, Dave could still hear the men demanding the key. As if he would have been stupid enough to carry it with him! OK, he’d told Cleo he’d have it but she had to think that. The two thugs didn’t. He spun his arms around wildly, trying to find something, anything, to grab onto, but there was nothing. Blood throbbed behind his eyes. His mouth was dry and he was struggling to breathe. Panic turned to terror when he opened his mouth to shout and nothing came out. The grip on his legs loosened.

Suddenly, everything seemed to go quiet. No more muffled shouts from above. No more voices rising from the street. All he could hear was a car pulling into the hotel car park below. Looking down he saw a battered, blue Honda, a blonde woman at the wheel. Cleo. She was here and on time, of course. Suddenly the tightness in his chest vanished. He could breathe again. He was falling.

Part 4 @ why-paisley

Nothing like feathering your own nest...

2007-05-15T19:58:00.000+02:00

Announcement in an 1890s Directory for Worthing, UK.

No wonder you never see any ostriches there.

Farewell cool pool...

2007-05-14T18:29:00.000+02:00

So, today, after school, I set off as usual to my gym, which is about 10 minutes' drive from my house in the centre of Brussels, and about 25 minutes from school. I joined back in March 2006 and have only used the gym three times. Yep, you heard right, three times. I pay just over 100 Euros a month for the privilege of using this gym, so, to date, those three gym visits have cost me about 500 Euros each. Pretty steep for a bit of lumbering on the running machine and for riding a bike that didn't even go anywhere (and my headphones didn't work!). Have no fear, however, as there is also a swimming pool at my gym and this I do use on a much more regular basis. On average twice a week, although I always aim for three times. The pool is a delight (it should be for the price I pay), with underwater lighting, poolside sunloungers (the pool and the loungers are inside, but it's a nice thought) and jacuzzi. It is usually fairly warm and, if you time it right, it can be fairly empty.

When I joined my Brussels gym I was overjoyed to be able to say that long gone was the local, municipal pool I used to swim at in Hillsborough, Sheffield in the UK as a newly-trained and, therefore, fairly poverty-stricken, teacher. Gone was the manic shoving to find a place to swim in the 5 or 6 metre wide strip of pool that did not have curvy, yes-you-are-really-swimming-in-the-Caribbean edges. Gone was the manic battling to keep swimming in a straight line when the wave machine came on every 15 minutes. And gone was the hurried diving to bottom of the pool every 15 seconds when children from my class caught sight of me. Brussels was cool. Sheffield was not. I was a member of an exclusive gym (even if I only used the pool).

Well, as I get ready to leave Brussels in July, I'm going to have to say goodbye to my friendly, cozy, cool pool. For someone who didn't grasp the whole swimming lark until much later than he should have done, it's been surprising how well I've stuck at it. As soon as I arrive in London I shall be searching for another place to swim. Somewhere cool, friendly, cosy and a little bit luxurious would be excellent. But with the cost of living in London being about 7 trillion times higher than in Brussels, I'm not sure I'll be able to afford another Aspria. Does anyone know if you're still allowed to swim in the Thames?

God bless the Maltese!

2007-05-13T14:38:00.000+02:00

So, last night I went to a friend's house here in Belgium for a Eurovision party. Everyone was assigned a country from which to bring a dish and I was given Italy. Somewhat disappointed as I was upon discovering that my assigned country was not actually in the Eurovision Song Contest this year(!), I opted for the easy option and bought pizzas from the supermarket as my contribution. Alsatian pizzas made in Brussels, they may have been, but they looked Italian.

On arriving at the friend's house I bought two tickets for the sweepstake and managed to pick out Bulgaria and Finland. I wasn't holding my breath about romping away with the prize money. As the familiar strains of the Eurpoean Broadcasting Union (what else do they do except put on Eurovision?!) drifted down from the upstairs living room, we all decamped up there to watch the contest projected onto one of the walls.

The Eurovision Song Contest for those who don't know is an annual contest in which countries from across Europe enter one song, culminating in a continent-wide phone vote to decide on a winner. It started as some grand let's-bring-Europe-together idea back in 1956 and it is now an annual joke. Well, in Britain at least. In typical British fashion we deride the contest every year and laugh at our European neighbours, whilst secretly wishing we could win it again. The last time we did was in 1997 and it doesn't look like we ever will again. If there was ever a good indicator of how the rest of Europe views us, it was this. Last year the UK received no points whatsoever. None. Nada. Diddly squat. This year the Irish gave us 7 points (probably all of the ex-pat Brits over there voting for the motherland) and Malta (I've always loved the Maltese) gave us the maximum 12 points. Apart from that, we received no points from anyone else. That's 40 other countries who didn't see fit to award us anything.

These countries did see it fit, however, to award points to their closest friends and neighbours. Therefore, we saw Belarus, Armenia and Estonia give 12 points to Russia; Cyprus (as ever) give 12 points to Greece and Bosnia-Herzegovina, FYR Macedonia and Croatia all give maximum points to Serbia, who went on to win the contest with their bizarre but well-sung (by a female Harry Potter impersonator) song. I never cease to be amazed by how these votes turn out. Do people in these countries genuinely think that their neighbour's song is the best? (You cannot vote for your own country). Is it really, like some people argue, that people from similar regions like similar kinds of music and therefore will always vote for each other? I don't know. But what I do know is that it is not fair. Britain has no friends in Europe (apart from dear old Malta), so if we're all going to be voting for our best buddies then we won't ever win again and that's not fair. I know that most of the time the UK arrogantly sits aloof from Europe and only dips her toe in when she feels like it, but that's no reason not to play with us on the playground. We're nice people too. Well, some of us.

So, it'll all be in Belgrade next year and I'll be back in the UK and in a position to influence the UK's votes. For all my talk of unfair voting on political and friendship lines, I know who I'll be voting for. My douze points will be going to Malta, of course. Well, we friends have got to stick together.

A real British dilemma...

2007-05-11T18:35:00.000+02:00

So, there I was today, 7.20am, standing in the rain, ageing digital camera in hand, taking photos of my car as it stood cooling down in the school carpark. As you can see from the background vehicles in one of these said photos opposite, getting to school at the unearthly hour of 7.20am does not, surprisingly, guarantee that you will be alone on the campus, and I attracted a few strange glances from fellow teachers as I stood in the middle of the road snapping away. As my senior school colleagues walked past I could hear their muttered mumblings of "Oh, it's Richard. It's OK - he's a primary teacher" accompanied by pitying waves and never mind eyes. Inclined to strange and often curious behaviour though primary school teachers are, my early morning photography actually had nothing to do with school. I was photographing the car because I have to sell it. I return to the UK in less than two months and I need to get rid of it. Quick. The photo will help me do just that.

You see, at my school there is a board, an ordinary-looking, rather humble board attached to the wall by main reception. It is not really walked past and is never on the must see list of anyone visiting the school, and yet it is the hub of some major activity. Advertising Board (as I like to think of it) is perenially festooned with flyers, posters, photos and messages of all descriptions, advertising everything from dog waxing services to bonsai trimming, with cars for sale coming somewhere inbetween. This is where I will be marketing my car - the 2001 Renault Twingo that has pootled me around to school, to the gym, to the UK and to Germany for the last two years. It is here that it will find its new owner...or so I hope. A few days ago, aware that time was beginning to run short I made a surreptitious reconnoitre of Advertising Board to check out the compeitition. Not the cars on the offer, you understand, but the posters. Never before have I seen such an array of advertising techniques on one simple board. There were posters with mulitple pictures, posters with multiple photos and clipart, posters with the little tear-off tags at the bottom, posters in multiple languages, A3 posters (!), laminated posters (in case of rain?), posters on coloured paper...just about everything you coulod imagine and more besides. Needless to say, this began to trouble me somewhat as it began to dawn on me that unless I produced a poster with a 3D pop-up model of my car complete with moving parts and working headlights on it, making my car stand out might prove to be harder than I had initially thought. Anarchical sabotage options began to float through my brain like momentary wisps of smoke. I could sneak in in the middle of the night and take down every other poster, leaving just mine sitting proudly smack bang in the middle, or I could paper Advertising Board with my poster so many times that it covered every other advert, but these were perhaps too risky. There was nothing for it, I would have to take a drastic step: I went and had a cup of tea. I am British after all.

By the time I was slurping the dregs of tea from the bottom of my cup, everything had come back into perspective. I would make a simple poster on plain, white A4 poster with one simple picture and no clipart or 3D moving model. I would stick it unobtrusively in a small space on Advertising Board and sit back and wait for the offers to come flooding in. Not for me this ostentatious multi-photo, multi-coloured, multi-dimensional postering. I would stick with the plain and simple. Well, I am British after all. (And if the poster doesn't do the trick? I'll set up a stand with leaflets, a megaphone, a virtual internet tour of the interior and free lollies. That'll get 'em).

How to tell you're getting old...

2007-05-10T16:58:00.000+02:00

So, today at school we were doing trials for our whole school Sports Day, which takes place in a few week's time. I love my class but, change them into P.E. kit, take them outside, give them any of the following: baton, ball (football/tennis ball/rounders ball/softball/cricket ball/ volleyball/netball/ basketball/ rugby ball and so on), bat or racquet (of any description), long jump pit, high jump bar, hurdle or any other piece of sports equipment you can think of and they become crazed animals. As if never before let out of Inside, they explore Outside, wide-eyed and free, running, leaping, tumbling, falling, trotting, skipping, hopping, sprinting, bounding, tripping. Nothing in their path escapes their attention. All benches/goal posts/ cones/peers have to be climbed/jumped/leapfrogged (Only adults walk politely around such obstacles). As 4R charges to its assigned area, their happy-go-lucky/ stressed/ frazzled/ cheery/weary teacher (delete as appropriate, depending on time of day) follows on behind, knowing full well that in most schools in the UK he would have to have had them in regimented lines by now, hurriedly working out what this lesson is actually going to consist of.

And so it was today as we traipsed out to the big field to practise our 100m sprints. The children were really excited by the prospect of being made to hurtle down a 100m track several times over the next 30 minutes (part of their charm) and soon we were practising away. I don't know at what point exactly I started to get as carried away as them or why I let it happen, but happen it did and 5 minutes from the end of the lesson, carried away in the enthusiasm of the moment, my mind screaming "I'm 8 years old again!", I found myself lining up with my three fastest boys ready to run. The problem was that, despite much evidence to the contrary, I am not, in fact, 8 years old. Actually, I am 28 years old and haven't run 100m for, well, a few years. Not that this stopped me. Oh no. I was a cool teacher. Cool teachers run with their children. I was going to run. Ready, steady, go! We were off and I, dressed in normal (not running) trainers, thick tracksuit bottoms, two t-shirts and a coat began to find it difficult very quickly. I am not a panicky person, but, let me tell you, the sight of three 8 year old boys keeping up at your side when you, a 6'4", fit and active man, are running full pelt is enough to panic anyone. It became evident very quickly to me that I might actually lose this race and, what's worse, not just lose it but come last! Rapidly realising that I was not, in fact, 8 anymore, I had to step up to my absolute maximum and just, only just, managed to cross the line before my boys. Reputation intact. No face lost. Gasping for breath I may have been, sweat starting to drip attractively through my hair, but I had won. I was a cool teacher. I was in no fit state to enjoy my victory and the comments of "Are you alright Richard? You've gone really red" followed 5 minutes later by "I think you've got redder" dampened somewhat my satisifaction.

In all seriousness, as is always the case with children of this age, they were impressed and they loved the fact that I'd run with them, which gives a tired teacher great satisifaction at the end of a long day, but what sticks is that I nearly lost...so, so nearly! I swim 50 lengths three times a week and eat healthily- I am no couch potato but I am 20 years older than the children I teach. Sometime the day will come when I cannot beat them, however fast I run. If I'm completely honest, that scares me a bit. I'm not scared of getting older, just the changes that come with it. Luckily, at 28, I think I have a bit of time left before they can beat me. But, in true teacher fashion, I have a plan for when the inevitable starts to occur: as I get older, I could always move down and teach younger children. A 48 year old should be able to beat a 4 year old at 100m, shouldn't they?

Flat on your face...

2007-05-09T21:03:00.000+02:00

Les couldn't believe someone had pulled the plug out again.

(My grandad, Leslie Horace Naldrett, on Worthing beach between the wars. Check out that swimsuit!)

Any dream won't do...

2007-05-09T20:18:00.000+02:00

So, I work at the British School of Brussels in Belgium, a great place to work, great kids and great staff. On Monday just gone we filmed our junior choir singing some music from Joseph and his Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat with me accompanying them on the piano. It was for the BBC's competition to find a choir to sing in the finale of their Any Dream Will Do search-for-a-West-End-Joseph programme. The kids were really excited and their performance was great. The lady in charge of the choir had it all uploaded to the website and we began to wait with baited breath to see if we would be rated highly enough by the public to go through to the next round. That's when it all went a bit wrong.

The lady in charge received an e-mail last night stating that the BBC was terribly sorry but our video (which had been on the website for several hours already) had been withdrawn as we were not a UK-based school. This despite the fact that nowhere in the rules for the competition does it state that only UK schools are allowed to enter. How cheeky!

Here in Belgium we get BBC1 and BBC2 (as well as BBC World) as part of normal cable packages. Perhaps the BBC ought to stop showing its channels around the world if it's not prepared to accept all-comers to its competitions. But, then, hey, they probably make a tidy sum out of it so I guess that's not likely.

Drinks by the Rhine

2007-05-08T12:37:00.000+02:00

Spent the weekend just gone in Bonn, Germany chilling out with American Jen.

Here we are sipping cocktails by the Rhine underneath a spreading oak in the late afternoon sunshine.

I loved Bonn for its graceful, elegant buildings and wide-open spaces, and (probably mainly because of this) because it is the first place I have ever visited in Germany. I know, I know, if I've lived in Belgium for 3 years I should have visited Germany before now but I never have...simple as that. So, I was really excited about going as it's another country I can tick off the 'visited' list. I certainly want to go back as I have a sneaking suspicion that there might be more to Germany than Bonn, what with it being a fairly large country and all. Although, I'll need to brush up on my Year 8 and 9 German a little first maybe (Ich koche, I've discovered, doesn't really get you very far. Similarly, Ich habe ein schlange is spectacularly useless, unless you do actually happen to own a snake). I fancy checking out Berlin and seeing a bit of the country where my great-great-grandfather was born, but that will need to wait until another day. Ach, so much to see and so little time in which to see it...

Too much to remember...

2007-05-03T21:50:00.000+02:00

Becky had that nagging feeling she'd forgotten something again.

Was it the oven? The headlights? Her trousers?

(My big sis just a few years ago)

La Belgique, je t'aime...

2007-05-02T18:46:00.000+02:00

So, as I prepare to sort through my stuff in preparation for leaving Belgium for good in July, my thoughts are turning to what I'm going to miss about this crazy country and, in particular, its capital: Brussels.

It certainly won't be the endless bureaucracy (6 visits to my local commune building, countless passport photographs with me each time, just in order to register my presence in the country...as an EU citizen), the moules (mussels - yuck!) or the lack of post on a Saturday. But there are many wonderful things about this oft-maligned country that I am going to miss.

Brussels is a vibrant, lively city bursting at the seams with culture and history. With a population roughly the same size as that of Birmingham in the UK, it is a small pocket-sized capital city, easy to get around and simple to make sense of. It has some fantastic, breathtaking architecture (just look at some of the buildings on the Grand Place above) and has a really young, forward-thinking atmosphere. I shall certainly miss being able to walk out of my house, practically fall into the metro and arrive at the Grand Place within minutes (Metro journey: £1. Equivalent journey in London: £4). I shall miss sitting in the sun sipping gorgeously tasty Belgian beer surrounded by the strains of every language you could ever imagine (Price of the beer: £2. Equivalent price in London: £4). I shall miss falling out of bed into Pain Quotidien (a great bakery chain) of a Saturday and Sunday and munching lazily on croissants, pains au chocolat, petites brioches, quiches, tartes au chocolat etc. etc. I shall miss forcing my French on bemused Belgian waiters/shopkeepers/attendants/police officers/beggars who are not used to English people expressing themselves fluently in a foreign language and who would much rather practise their English on me! And finally, I'll miss the cheapness of Brussels (had you guessed?). London prices will be a big shock.

All in all, I will miss lots of things about Belgium (many more than I can mention here) but the time is right for my move. London is calling and I'm responding!

Countdown and challenges

2007-05-01T20:48:00.000+02:00

So, only two months to go until I move to London and leave Belgium behind forever. I can't believe that I've lived here for nearly three years. I came as a young, enthusiastic teacher and leave as slightly older but still (hopefully) enthusiastic teacher, ready to take up the challenge of teaching in inner-city London. Am I really ready?!

A huge amount of change is on the way: new school, new flat to share with my partner, new city, new friends (as well as some treasured old ones!)..etc, etc. All of that change and I still have a million and one things to do in Belgium to wrap my time up here, not to mention writing reports for school and doing all of those other final term things.

It should be enough to drive me mad and it probably would do if I kept dwelling on it but I've always been fairly level-headed and I feel quite chilled about everything I have to do. That said, there are challenges ahead and I am going to have to meet them head on.

I started today (1st May is a public holiday in Belgium) by making a start on my reports. That was fairly exhausting so I spent the rest of the afternoon chilling. Well, I've always said I work to live, not the other way round. Speaking of which, I hear the Belgian beer calling...