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More things that make me happy

I sometimes come across as a grouchy old sod. Sorry - I'm not that way all the time. Anyway, I decided another happy post would be better than a ranty post.

Things that make me happy

• The smell of mown grass;
• A good night's sleep;
• Learning something new;
• An ice cream on a sunny day;
• A cold glass of cider on a sunny day;
• Having time to sit and read;
• A long walk;
• My wife's cooking;
• My wife's cheesecake;
• My wife;
• Youngsters in school 'getting it' when they have struggled;
• Fresh sheets;
• The shower being as hot when I finish as when I started;
• Ireland beating England in Rugby;
• Dandering round a hardware or electronic shop, just looking;
• Being told 'well done' and the person meaning it;
• Knowing I've done a good job even if no-one makes a point of mentioning it;
• Winning a tight game of Badminton in a tie-break;
• Laughing with nephews/neices;
• The Dentist saying I need nothing done, after a check-up;
• Daffodils;
• Rollercoasters;
• Technology that works with no faffing around;
• Getting to the till and being charged less than I expected;
• Finding a tenner in a coat I haven't worn in ages;
• Getting a decent e-mail or letters from friends I rarely see;
• A good night's sleep;
• The smell of fish & chips.

What about you, dear reader? What makes you happy?

Something happy

Isn't it odd how happy childhood memories can be triggered by various sights, sounds, smells and so on?

An hour or so ago I was walking round B&Q, half-heartedly looking for a long plastic trough to plant in.  I say half-heartedly, as a trip to B&Q is a pleasant way to spend half an hour unless you are frantically trying to find something.  I like to just walk - dander - stroll - look around and take it in.  I suppose it's the grown man's equivalent of meandering round a big toy shop.  Who cares if you have gotten lost? - there's all these nice toys to see!

It also reminds me of the builders' merchant that was at the top of the street where I grew up.  When I was little, my Granda would take me along when he was going and I would happily potter up and down the aisles, being amazed at how many types of screwdriver there could be or wondering why anyone would need sandpaper that makes something rough.  I remember the signs going up, before Zammo Maguire gave Grange Hill a bad name, saying they couldn't sell glue to children. 

Most of all, I remember the smell of.... freshly sawn wood.  Mmmmmmmmmm.

I know that sounds sad, but I enjoy standing among the doors in B&Q because of.... the smell!

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Correction - Zammo's way of escape was heroin and not glue, wasn't it? I seem to remember that episode being talked about a lot and being told (ordered?) by our teachers to go home and watch the repeat - probably to scare the daylights out of us.  Like a bunch of culchy 10-year-olds were going to follow in his path, that weekend?  Didn't stop some of our classmates though....

 

I would like to...

I would like to...

Give whoever suggested tons of GCSE/AS/A-level coursework, to all come in at the same time, a thorough talking to.

Point out to management that the policy of infinite extensions to make sure youngsters do the work instead of opting out is not working.

Tell management that the prediction myself and others made in a staff meeting several years ago, that unless sharp action is taken, deadlines will become meaningless and students will think it is OK to hand work in hours before it is supposed to be collected by courier, came true.

Take every piece of late coursework and drop it in a river.  This is especially true of the ones I gave lots of constructive feedback for several months ago, that have not changed.

Make students understand that simply reprinting in a different font does not constitute a major change and if I give you the same mark as I gave you in January, or one slightly lower, you should learn from it.

Tell the exam boards, in January, what marks students will get in their coursework.  I'm generally right about this.

Enforce the policy that existed when I did GCSEs.  If the teacher says he wants it on 30th March, he gets it by 30th March and is within his rights to refuse late work.  This is because we have to schedule our time between different courses and a few late-comers really mess things up for a satisfactory home-life.  Only the people who were destined to fail anyway failed to submit.

Charge the overtime rates a plumber gets away with charging.

Be in bed at a reasonable hour tonight, all coursework marked.

End of moan...

It's bad news for me...

It's time to say goodbye. It's been a great life. Light a candle when you think of me.

I have suddenly developed an incurable condition. Time is short. As I write this, the tears are welling up in my eyes.

I will be lucky to see next month.

Sorry of this is a shock to you (imagine the shock to me, not to mention the inconvenience). You see... I have something called "man-flu".

Yesterday I had a sore throat. Now I have the full works - sore head, shivering, dizzyness, purple hands. It all came on inside a couple of hours. Tomorrow - who knows? Severe gangarine, organ failure and spasms, no doubt.

So off I go to the land of my (absent) fathers, to the happy hunting grounds, to Tir Na Nog, Valhalla, the back bedroom etc.  Ha!  Damn you insurance companies! "Life-altering condition" you call it!  Pay up!

Make mine a Lemsip.

*cough*

Bonjour to the French Exchange Students!

This week I've had the interesting experience of French exchange students in the class.  Alas their knowledge of English appears inferior to my knowledge of French, which is surprising for Europeans.  Undaunted by this, I remembered how when I was in school I felt sorry for French visitors who were left feeling out of things while they sat at the back of the room, ignored by the subject teacher.

The Germans never appeared left out - they always had perfect English and congregated outside the school building at every opportunity to smoke.

Anyway, our French visitors seem nice enough, although when I said to them "Hello, what is
your name?" they looked totally blank, so I resorted to Comment Tappels Tu, and they smiled and seemed to appreciate it.

They arrived for an ICT theory lesson about L'histoire des ordinateurs.  Big picture on screen - "La premier ordinateur", I write 1842 on the board.  Hopefully they realise it is a year, not the time of the train.

"Sir, how did it work without electricity?" one of my lot asked.
(someone translated for the French)

"Steam, I think, like an old train" - the French are confused.  I flick through dictionary, look hopefully at the oldest - "Vapeur"
"Ah, oui, vapeur - water - from kettle"

"Oui", I say

"Comme un vieux train" (or something like that), she says to her friend.  By this stage they are
getting into it.

I type on the screen: "Sorry if this is strange.  I am trying to include our French guests in the lesson"

"Sir, why are you typing", my own lot ask, "And why are you in a site called Babelfish?"

I press 'Translate', and "Désolé si c'est étrange. J'essaye d'inclure nos invités français dans la leçon" appears.

"Does this translation make sense?" I type - "fait cette traduction se comprennent?"

"Oui!" nodding of heads, tres bien

So, we muddle through.  We get on to Strowger, of the first telephone exchange.  Babelfish manages to work out that his competitor in business was married to the telephone operator, who put all calls for Strowger through to her husband - I point at my wedding ring and they seem to get it.  The business of Strowger and his rival - undertaker - doesn't translate properly.  I mimic the call.

"Ahhhh, mon ami et mort, je voudrais parlais avec.... " I mumble something from a dictionary - they laugh.  I think it's rude.  The older girl corrects my pronounciation.  I repeat what she has said and her friends look alarmed.  She explains something to them and hopefully they realise Strowger built the automatic exchange so that the rival's wife didn't put the calls directly through to her husband.

We move on to Alan Turing - Enigma Machine, WW2, figuring German codes.  I wonder if mentioning "Guerre Mondiale 2", as Babelfish calls it, is a good idea.  We muddle through anyway.

Bell rings... Au Revoir, Merci, etc.  Later, they smile at me in the corridor.  Bonjour Monsieur.  Tales of a madman escaped the asylum to teach ICT will go to France with them, no doubt.

Goldilocks and the three bears

I don't know why this is troubling me - I should probably have seen the flaws in the story 20-odd years ago. If you have forgotten the story, you can read it here.

First of all, Goldilocks is out walking through the woods on her own. Where was her mother? Why was this child walking alone in a bear-infested forest?

Goldilocks enters a stranger's home: was she never taught to knock? Why was she going to a stranger's house? Why had the Three Bears gone for a walk, leaving the door open?

As for the Bears - it hardly takes a five-mile walk to give porridge time to cool. Why didn't they have their toast first? Why are Bears eating porridge?

Goldilocks then has a little sit-down and isn't happy in the living room. Typical spoilt youngster - not only has her mother let her throw off discipline and restraint at an early age, but she doesn't appreciate a decent chair.

Goldilocks tries the beds. Why were Papa and Mama bear in different beds? Can this story still be told to children - surely it should be Mama bear and 'Auntie' Bear if the PC lobby are to be appeased? Why are we implying Bears have to be married?

Goldilocks goes to bed - because she is tired. Yes, the story implies it was morning (hence the over-cooked breakfast). Obviously the child has been walking round the woods all night - again, where was her mother? Why were people not looking for her?

As I said at the top, I should have caught onto this in P1 and not now. Maybe I was too confused/bewildered to think about it. I lived in a nice rural Irish town with no bears - I was hardly going to care about finding their house or their porridge.

What does she do for a living?

I don't want to sound like I'm jumping to conclusions about a lady in our street, but...

 

• She appears to have several 'boyfriends'... 
• Who all keep very strange hours...
• Who sometimes meet, as one is going and the other is coming...
• Who all stay overnight, usually, and leave quite early...
• And sometimes two of them stay for a sleepover...
• And her mortgage is definitely off-the-radar for a single mother...
• And the wee boy is often away (presumably at some relative's house) when there are gentlemen visiting....

Like I said, I don't want to jump to conclusions, but is there any other logical explanation apart from her being 'self employed' and 'working at home'? 

Last week's highlights - the 'sick' student and the phone call home.

Scene 1 - school office, around 9.30am. A secretary holds a phone, she is talking to somone at the other end.
"Hello, can I speak to Mr Jones please... This is the High School, ringing about Jenny who's absent... she's sick, you say... ok, thanks."

Scene 2 - school office and also a random accountant's office in town, around 1pm. Imagine one of those split-screen scenes in a movie. In our office, the Vice Principal, in the other office is Jenny's Dad.

VP: "Hello, Mr Jones?"
Mr J: "Yes?"
VP: "I'm Mr Castles from the High School - Jenny is absent today."
Mr J: "Your office phoned me this morning - I said she was sick."
VP (disbelieving) "So they told me - what is wrong with her?"
Mr J: "Flu, I think. She's been in bed all day."
VP: "Are you sure?"
Mr J (challenging tone): "Of course I'm sure - what are you saying?"
VP: "It's just that one of our teachers saw her in town half an hour ago."
Mr J (insistant): "She's sick! she's in bed!"
VP: "She was with another girl who is absent today!"
Mr J (sternly): "No, she said she was sick!"
VP: (I-know-rightly tone) "When did you last see her?"
Mr J: (told-you-so tone)"Eight o-clock, when I left for work and she wasn't too well. She sent a text around 8.30 to say she had gone back to bed. I phoned at 9 and she sounded poorly. I phoned an hour ago and she didn't answer - she must be sleeping"
VP: (it's-checkmate tone) "Are you sure she's not answering because she's not at home to answer?"
Mr J: (how-dare-you tone) "No! she's a good girl! I resent this! you must be mistaken!"

It turns out, Mr Jones was mistaken and Jenny was, indeed, in town, with her friend, in school uniform.  I'm not an expert on playing truant, but I'd have thought wearing full uniform and walking past the town's main supermarket, on a busy road, was not a good way to avoid being caught.

If your brat says she's as good as gold, then you must believe her?

The other morning I recieved a phone call from a parent.

-"Hello, is that Mr Smith?"
-"Yes, that's me"
-"I'm Mary's father. She came home yesterday quite upset."
-"Oh. Why?"
-"You put her in lunchtime detention, but she didn't do anything!"

I pause to think... Mary... oh, yes, Mary, one of a group of girls who messed up yesterday's lesson.  And the one before.  And the one before that.

-"Yes, Sir - Mary and her friends were quite disruptive in yesterday's class"
-"No, she wasn't. Mary is not a disruptive girl."
-"As I was saying, Mary and her friends had been warned for continual messing and had choice to do the set work or do detention. This has been an issue for a few classes now."
-"That's not wat happened."
-"Pardon?"
-"Mary told us what happened. She asked her friend a question and you put her in detention. Is that the school's normal discipline policy?"
-"Asking a question isn't a problem. Shouting, waving, putting off the people around her is."
-"She didn't do that. She's an honest girl and told us what happened."

So, I thank him for his concern and reassure him that in general she is well behaved but for a few weeks has been lively. I tell him she has probably learnt her lesson, while he insists she has no lesson to learn.

Why do I bother? I wonder....

I blame the parents

A teacher's job is made easier by supportive parents.  Thankfully, our school has many of these - probably 9/10 are supportive and only a small number are a problem.

Recently, I moved a girl to the from of the classroom. This led to a note home to the mother: "Sally has been moved to the front of the room because she insists she cannot read the board... she might benefit from an eye-test."

The reply:
"Dear Mr Smith, Sally has PERFECT eyesight. You are a teacher, not an optician. Do your job and teach."

No doubt, a few years from now, she will sue the school for her poor results, citing our refusal to recognise her sight-disorder, and not mentioning her own bone-idleness. Or, maybe she will find out that in real-life, being a stroppy cow and insulting everyone who disagrees with you, does not help your career prospects. Maybe, one day she will get the glasses she needs and after discovering the world is not as blurry as it looks at the minute, realise that I was only helping her.

 

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