The damp grey misery of yesterday is now forgotten as sun illuminates a blue sky artistically arranged with fragmented clouds. Unfortunately this means that I will have to do my stint as a referee.
This is somewhat intimidating as my colleagues have told me that in previous years there have been fisticuffs over some of the decisions of the poor old ref. Well, I hope that they are a little more flexible with someone who has no real idea of the rules apart from the necessity of getting the ball in the back of the net to make some sort of point.
The day is shaping up well to be a thorough horror. As I type this in the staff room there is a sound track emanating from one of the computers of two childish voices singing the winning numbers of El Gordo (The Fat One) the National Lottery for Christmas. Due to circumstances which I find difficult to understand I have ended up with three tickets for this celebration of greed. The most important one was bought in Sort (Luck) in the mountains of deepest darkest Catalonia; one of the others was bought as part of the school purchase of a number, and the third was a mistake. You might think that the numbers of tickets would be a general irrelevance until I tell you that each ticket represents a decimo (a tenth of the actual number) and each one cost €20! I have never spent so much on a lottery but, as I think any reasonable person would agree that it would be insupportable for a group of colleagues to win anything and to find oneself left outside the money. It would make working with them or with their memory if they had left on a tide of Cava and hysteria, totally impossible – so the purchase is a sort of fear acquisition! The third ticket I can’t really explain and therefore I hope it’s a winner. I really, truly, sincerely hope it’s a winner.
The rain has cruelly kept off and therefore the football matches seem to be a real possibility and therefore my ineptitude as a ref. is about to be demonstrated to the world! Ah well, I am sure that it is character building.
The rain held off long enough for me to do both my stints on the ‘pitch’ and then the elements became so inclement that the head of secondary stopped the competition (to much annoyance) and caused yet more chaos in a school that wasn’t prepared for pupils suddenly going back to classrooms.
Ad hoc provisions (or films as they are known) are now being shown to all and sundry. Since this school is not a neighbourhood establishment we cannot send the children forth to their homes; we have to contain them until the normal end time when parents descend in droves and completely clog all approach roads.
I now park as near to the main escape route from school as possible. By the time that I emerge and attempt to get to the motorway, parents have usually assembled into the slow moving snake that judders forward in impulsive strikes as the population of the world makes its way home.
I rely on the fact that I am a teacher in the school to shame parents into letting me out; or rather I rely on the kids in the back informing their parents that I am teacher. Yesterday I got into my car and started up using my indicator to inform the stationary landscape of cars that filled the narrow road that I intended (with their kind acquiescence) to make my way into the metallic train.
As usual the flashing indicator and slow edging out appeared to have achieved its result and a car dutifully held back while the traffic in front went forward a car length. With a cheery wave of the hand I moved out only to have the car that I thought was being courteous suddenly lurch forward using part of the pavement to ensure that it stayed in front of me!
Luckily it was at the end of the day, and so I could afford to laugh at the petty minded vindictiveness and grotesque possessiveness of a single car space that this driver displayed. I thought of the child (whose head was just visible) and the agony of embarrassment that it must be suffering. My laugh was not exactly light as I did consider noting the registration number and . . . doing something; though what did not really form itself into anything definite from the nebulous clouds of gentle hatred. I will just let it remain as a memory to be placed next to so many others in the continuing story of Iberian driving!
The day is dragging itself along with my having unexpected periods of freedom spoilt by trying to keep control of pupils who (together with their teachers) quite patently do not want to be here. As far as I can tell the rest of my day is going to be taken up with looking after (yet again) Year 9 and the assisting with the Invisible Friend distribution of presents in Year 7.
As one of my cold colleagues (physically not emotionally) said while getting damper watching desultory football played by inadequately dressed girls, “I’d rather be at home!”
I think he spoke for us all!
This is somewhat intimidating as my colleagues have told me that in previous years there have been fisticuffs over some of the decisions of the poor old ref. Well, I hope that they are a little more flexible with someone who has no real idea of the rules apart from the necessity of getting the ball in the back of the net to make some sort of point.
The day is shaping up well to be a thorough horror. As I type this in the staff room there is a sound track emanating from one of the computers of two childish voices singing the winning numbers of El Gordo (The Fat One) the National Lottery for Christmas. Due to circumstances which I find difficult to understand I have ended up with three tickets for this celebration of greed. The most important one was bought in Sort (Luck) in the mountains of deepest darkest Catalonia; one of the others was bought as part of the school purchase of a number, and the third was a mistake. You might think that the numbers of tickets would be a general irrelevance until I tell you that each ticket represents a decimo (a tenth of the actual number) and each one cost €20! I have never spent so much on a lottery but, as I think any reasonable person would agree that it would be insupportable for a group of colleagues to win anything and to find oneself left outside the money. It would make working with them or with their memory if they had left on a tide of Cava and hysteria, totally impossible – so the purchase is a sort of fear acquisition! The third ticket I can’t really explain and therefore I hope it’s a winner. I really, truly, sincerely hope it’s a winner.
The rain has cruelly kept off and therefore the football matches seem to be a real possibility and therefore my ineptitude as a ref. is about to be demonstrated to the world! Ah well, I am sure that it is character building.
The rain held off long enough for me to do both my stints on the ‘pitch’ and then the elements became so inclement that the head of secondary stopped the competition (to much annoyance) and caused yet more chaos in a school that wasn’t prepared for pupils suddenly going back to classrooms.
Ad hoc provisions (or films as they are known) are now being shown to all and sundry. Since this school is not a neighbourhood establishment we cannot send the children forth to their homes; we have to contain them until the normal end time when parents descend in droves and completely clog all approach roads.
I now park as near to the main escape route from school as possible. By the time that I emerge and attempt to get to the motorway, parents have usually assembled into the slow moving snake that judders forward in impulsive strikes as the population of the world makes its way home.
I rely on the fact that I am a teacher in the school to shame parents into letting me out; or rather I rely on the kids in the back informing their parents that I am teacher. Yesterday I got into my car and started up using my indicator to inform the stationary landscape of cars that filled the narrow road that I intended (with their kind acquiescence) to make my way into the metallic train.
As usual the flashing indicator and slow edging out appeared to have achieved its result and a car dutifully held back while the traffic in front went forward a car length. With a cheery wave of the hand I moved out only to have the car that I thought was being courteous suddenly lurch forward using part of the pavement to ensure that it stayed in front of me!
Luckily it was at the end of the day, and so I could afford to laugh at the petty minded vindictiveness and grotesque possessiveness of a single car space that this driver displayed. I thought of the child (whose head was just visible) and the agony of embarrassment that it must be suffering. My laugh was not exactly light as I did consider noting the registration number and . . . doing something; though what did not really form itself into anything definite from the nebulous clouds of gentle hatred. I will just let it remain as a memory to be placed next to so many others in the continuing story of Iberian driving!
The day is dragging itself along with my having unexpected periods of freedom spoilt by trying to keep control of pupils who (together with their teachers) quite patently do not want to be here. As far as I can tell the rest of my day is going to be taken up with looking after (yet again) Year 9 and the assisting with the Invisible Friend distribution of presents in Year 7.
As one of my cold colleagues (physically not emotionally) said while getting damper watching desultory football played by inadequately dressed girls, “I’d rather be at home!”
I think he spoke for us all!
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