As the rains lash down I contemplate a day which is going to stretch into the dim distance which is misty with the miasma of total boredom.
We are having one of our periodic meetings of interminable discussions about the progress (or lack of it) of the students in our charge. These meetings are supposed to be conducted in Spanish but it doesn’t take long before one member of staff uses Catalan and then everyone seems at home in it. Except me of course.
I suppose that over my career, if I cared to count up the number of hours that I have spent in meetings I would find that I have spent as much as (if not more than) a year in these simulacrums of hell. This is believable if you take the “teaching” week to be 25 hours long and the teaching year to consist of around 40 weeks. That is, after all “only” a thousand hours of meetings – and believe you me it seems a damned sight longer than that. And probably was!
The real question, of course, is what this millennium of meeting actually achieved. And the in the answer to that lies, I suspect, madness!
So, today, my worst working day; the rain descending viciously; the threatening prospect of a deadly dull meeting, and having to get three birthday presents – I am not a happy bunny.
As usual I shall take my relief escape route via a book. I started a rather ropey adventure story last night at home, but the quality of “young person” writing was not sufficient to keep me from my bed. I intend to find something more challenging from the books that I am supposed to read for school and plunge into one of those in an attempt to keep my sanity.
The next few weeks should see the start of the process which heralds the end of term. Gradually one loses classes and our absurd timetable becomes a little more humane.
This “breathing space” is not going to come quickly enough for me to use the time to contemplate what to buy for the crowd of people who, most inconsiderately, have their birthdays bunched at this time of the year.
I have a rough idea of what I want to get but I am also well aware that such foresight can be blasted into nothingness by the availability of what I want not being to hand when I am looking.
I am only confident about one present and the rest will have to rely on momentary inspiration. In Spain I am handicapped by the fact that my knowledge of the shops is not as encyclopaedic as it was at home and the easy reworking of plans is rather more problematical here than there. Still, there is always El Corte Ingles which is my every present help in time of trouble. And I do hope you noticed the pun in there!
It is now the evening. The rains are still lashing down and the drainage system of this country is naturally incapable of coping. One drives through the streets accompanied by picturesque sheets of water. The one advantage of this deluge is that it compensates for the fact that I usually park under pine trees. The same pine trees that are the haunt of gastrically liberated pigeons. Their droppings come with a generous measure of super glue which ensures that the mess adheres to the car with limpet-like strength. Luckily our rain in this part of the world is liberally polluted and so is able to counteract the effects of other parts of the so-called natural world!
The meeting is, at long last, over. It was mind-bendingly tedious and, much as I was in Cardiff, I have become the focus of those wandering eyes in meetings which try and find a visual representation for how they feel. My meeting face is anything but poker-like and, as I was sitting opposite the two heads of secondary section of the school they ought to have found it unnerving to see someone so nakedly and sullenly uninterested in what was going on – as usual in Catalan, so my attempts to follow what was happening were frustrated yet again and added a further level of frustration and despair.
Tomorrow the buying of birthday presents and a play in El Corte Ingles: at least that is something to look forward to! Possibly!
We are having one of our periodic meetings of interminable discussions about the progress (or lack of it) of the students in our charge. These meetings are supposed to be conducted in Spanish but it doesn’t take long before one member of staff uses Catalan and then everyone seems at home in it. Except me of course.
I suppose that over my career, if I cared to count up the number of hours that I have spent in meetings I would find that I have spent as much as (if not more than) a year in these simulacrums of hell. This is believable if you take the “teaching” week to be 25 hours long and the teaching year to consist of around 40 weeks. That is, after all “only” a thousand hours of meetings – and believe you me it seems a damned sight longer than that. And probably was!
The real question, of course, is what this millennium of meeting actually achieved. And the in the answer to that lies, I suspect, madness!
So, today, my worst working day; the rain descending viciously; the threatening prospect of a deadly dull meeting, and having to get three birthday presents – I am not a happy bunny.
As usual I shall take my relief escape route via a book. I started a rather ropey adventure story last night at home, but the quality of “young person” writing was not sufficient to keep me from my bed. I intend to find something more challenging from the books that I am supposed to read for school and plunge into one of those in an attempt to keep my sanity.
The next few weeks should see the start of the process which heralds the end of term. Gradually one loses classes and our absurd timetable becomes a little more humane.
This “breathing space” is not going to come quickly enough for me to use the time to contemplate what to buy for the crowd of people who, most inconsiderately, have their birthdays bunched at this time of the year.
I have a rough idea of what I want to get but I am also well aware that such foresight can be blasted into nothingness by the availability of what I want not being to hand when I am looking.
I am only confident about one present and the rest will have to rely on momentary inspiration. In Spain I am handicapped by the fact that my knowledge of the shops is not as encyclopaedic as it was at home and the easy reworking of plans is rather more problematical here than there. Still, there is always El Corte Ingles which is my every present help in time of trouble. And I do hope you noticed the pun in there!
It is now the evening. The rains are still lashing down and the drainage system of this country is naturally incapable of coping. One drives through the streets accompanied by picturesque sheets of water. The one advantage of this deluge is that it compensates for the fact that I usually park under pine trees. The same pine trees that are the haunt of gastrically liberated pigeons. Their droppings come with a generous measure of super glue which ensures that the mess adheres to the car with limpet-like strength. Luckily our rain in this part of the world is liberally polluted and so is able to counteract the effects of other parts of the so-called natural world!
The meeting is, at long last, over. It was mind-bendingly tedious and, much as I was in Cardiff, I have become the focus of those wandering eyes in meetings which try and find a visual representation for how they feel. My meeting face is anything but poker-like and, as I was sitting opposite the two heads of secondary section of the school they ought to have found it unnerving to see someone so nakedly and sullenly uninterested in what was going on – as usual in Catalan, so my attempts to follow what was happening were frustrated yet again and added a further level of frustration and despair.
Tomorrow the buying of birthday presents and a play in El Corte Ingles: at least that is something to look forward to! Possibly!
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