I suppose there are many reasons why a school should be cut off from the telephone and the internet at this time of the year: no staff available; the place empty; nothing happening.
In a private school however there are people there, ever ready to sweep up the chunks of parental income necessary to keep the little ones in the educational style to which they have become accustomed. So cessation of communication takes on an altogether more interesting aspect.
Far be it from me to chortle with ill suppressed satisfaction at possible financial embarrassment for The School That Sacked Me but it obviously shows that Voodoo doesn’t only respond if you make the customary wax model and start sticking in the pins. All I did was tear up a piece of headed notepaper of the place! At least it shows a way forward for all my colleagues dreading the first of September. Just get tearing!
My next meeting with members of the Generalitat is on August the 20th, but gathering the solid factual evidence necessary to make this meeting a success has been difficult. I am sure that the people I need to reach are all on their various holidays, but I thought that Young People were never far from electronic communication and that checking their emails was as sacred a duty as the Islamic injunction to pray five times a day.
I suppose that I should keep on trying to amass the necessary financial details of irregularities to be able to present some sort of dossier for future action. The auguries are good: the almost dead cactus from The School That Sacked Me is now thriving and I no longer have to examine the growth with a magnifying glass to convince myself that there has been a remarkable resurrection. The shrivelled, desiccated apology for organic growth is now a thriving plant, spikes catching the sunlight and its bifurcated form giving a gratifyingly two fingered signal to the world!
The world wore a slightly morose look this morning as the skies were overcast and there was a stiff breeze.
In a private school however there are people there, ever ready to sweep up the chunks of parental income necessary to keep the little ones in the educational style to which they have become accustomed. So cessation of communication takes on an altogether more interesting aspect.
Far be it from me to chortle with ill suppressed satisfaction at possible financial embarrassment for The School That Sacked Me but it obviously shows that Voodoo doesn’t only respond if you make the customary wax model and start sticking in the pins. All I did was tear up a piece of headed notepaper of the place! At least it shows a way forward for all my colleagues dreading the first of September. Just get tearing!
My next meeting with members of the Generalitat is on August the 20th, but gathering the solid factual evidence necessary to make this meeting a success has been difficult. I am sure that the people I need to reach are all on their various holidays, but I thought that Young People were never far from electronic communication and that checking their emails was as sacred a duty as the Islamic injunction to pray five times a day.
I suppose that I should keep on trying to amass the necessary financial details of irregularities to be able to present some sort of dossier for future action. The auguries are good: the almost dead cactus from The School That Sacked Me is now thriving and I no longer have to examine the growth with a magnifying glass to convince myself that there has been a remarkable resurrection. The shrivelled, desiccated apology for organic growth is now a thriving plant, spikes catching the sunlight and its bifurcated form giving a gratifyingly two fingered signal to the world!
The world wore a slightly morose look this morning as the skies were overcast and there was a stiff breeze.
For the Mediterranean the waves were large and forbidding and only a few hardy fools were daring to spurn the injunctions of the yellow flag and venture into the foaming brine. In Castelldefels the sea is very domestic and keeps to its defined limits even in the darker days of winter so even on the least inviting of occasions it is at worst pleasant. Even as I speak the skies are lightening and the patches of blue are growing, I confidently expect the weather to be tempting enough for me to laze next to the sea by the middle of the afternoon – and who knows, we might have another gold to contemplate by then!
I must also return to the short story that I promised to write for my English class. They may never get to see it, but it seems like a promise that I should fulfil. I have the structure of the thing in my mind, but the sheer effort of writing it all out is exhausting even to contemplate let alone execute. I think that I will make it my cultural task of the week to complete the story then I can get down to the things I like. By that I mean deciding on the typeface, getting the illustrations and designing the cover. Some things never change!
Our sojourn on the beach was defiant rather than enjoyable as the wind has picked up again and the clouds irritatingly and uselessly got in the way of the sunshine. I have told god on a number of occasions that I have no problems with the Pyrenees being regularly deluged by torrential down pouring of rain of biblical proportions allowing all reservoirs to be filled, but that moisture in Castelldefels should be restricted to the water pipes. I suppose that my basic mistake is being reasonable with a being which has allowed a perfectly appropriately designated ‘Marathon’ bar to be renamed ‘Snickers’ – a type of smutty chuckle! He sometimes seems to go out of his way to collect opprobrium.
Having stopped wearing contact lenses some time ago I wear glasses on the beach, but in a wind with breaking waves the surface of the lens soon gets covered in a mixture of sand carried in the air and droplets of salt water. This extra filter gives everything a rather sepia-like appearance. Wiping the lenses would grind the sand into the glass so I have to store them for tender washing later.
I therefore see the beach through eyes unassisted by glasses or lenses. It is sometimes a more interesting experience than the hard edged reality. Those surrealistic multi outlined ghosts shimmering along the amalgam of beach and sea; the arrangement of the crashing waves and coloured wrinkles of the ripples in the sea look to my unassisted eyes more than ever like a Nolde watercolour. Pretentious artistic twaddle aside, I’d rather have perfect eyesight!
The Nadal match has just finished and he made hard weather of it by losing a set and seeming to struggle with the conditions in which the match was being played. Both players looked comfortable and there were certainly more unforced errors on Nadal’s part than I am used to seeing.
The television production was the worst that I have ever seen for a world class tennis match. The use of replay seemed to be beyond the technical capabilities of the television director and was the cause of much frustration as some of the shots demanded to be seen again.
The stadium too looked less than ideal. The design for it appeared to have been taken from a folded piece of paper with a diamond shape cut out of it.
I must also return to the short story that I promised to write for my English class. They may never get to see it, but it seems like a promise that I should fulfil. I have the structure of the thing in my mind, but the sheer effort of writing it all out is exhausting even to contemplate let alone execute. I think that I will make it my cultural task of the week to complete the story then I can get down to the things I like. By that I mean deciding on the typeface, getting the illustrations and designing the cover. Some things never change!
Our sojourn on the beach was defiant rather than enjoyable as the wind has picked up again and the clouds irritatingly and uselessly got in the way of the sunshine. I have told god on a number of occasions that I have no problems with the Pyrenees being regularly deluged by torrential down pouring of rain of biblical proportions allowing all reservoirs to be filled, but that moisture in Castelldefels should be restricted to the water pipes. I suppose that my basic mistake is being reasonable with a being which has allowed a perfectly appropriately designated ‘Marathon’ bar to be renamed ‘Snickers’ – a type of smutty chuckle! He sometimes seems to go out of his way to collect opprobrium.
Having stopped wearing contact lenses some time ago I wear glasses on the beach, but in a wind with breaking waves the surface of the lens soon gets covered in a mixture of sand carried in the air and droplets of salt water. This extra filter gives everything a rather sepia-like appearance. Wiping the lenses would grind the sand into the glass so I have to store them for tender washing later.
I therefore see the beach through eyes unassisted by glasses or lenses. It is sometimes a more interesting experience than the hard edged reality. Those surrealistic multi outlined ghosts shimmering along the amalgam of beach and sea; the arrangement of the crashing waves and coloured wrinkles of the ripples in the sea look to my unassisted eyes more than ever like a Nolde watercolour. Pretentious artistic twaddle aside, I’d rather have perfect eyesight!
The Nadal match has just finished and he made hard weather of it by losing a set and seeming to struggle with the conditions in which the match was being played. Both players looked comfortable and there were certainly more unforced errors on Nadal’s part than I am used to seeing.
The television production was the worst that I have ever seen for a world class tennis match. The use of replay seemed to be beyond the technical capabilities of the television director and was the cause of much frustration as some of the shots demanded to be seen again.
The stadium too looked less than ideal. The design for it appeared to have been taken from a folded piece of paper with a diamond shape cut out of it.
The paper was then unfolded and the resulting template taken as an architectural plan by the builder! Watch and see!
Meanwhile, where are our other golds?
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