Please Mrs Butler 2

Tags

Allan Ahlberg, Educating Essex, hoodie, Isolation, Mrs Butler, Please, Stephen Drew teacher

‘Do you remember that poem that used to be in all the children’s anthologies?

I asked Carrie.  ‘Please Mrs Butler’ by Allan Ahlberg?’

It was grey, wet and a typical half term.  She had managed to sneak away for

a coffee to preserve her sanity.

Oh, yeah, she said, giving me a puzzled look.  Why do you ask?  It used to

annoy me as the kids used to recite it whenever their teachers set poetry

memorisation for prep.  They liked doing the whining voice.

Oh, it’s just that I remembered that the Deputy Head from the programme

‘Educating Essex’ is Stephen Drew.  So, I couldn’t help writing an updated

version.  He is a media personality now.

Oh, I remember.  There was a Derek Drew in the original, wasn’t there?

Pass it over, she said, taking out her varifocals.

Please Mrs Butler 2

Oi, Mrs Butler,

teacher Mr Drew

keeps picking on me, Miss.

What should I do?

 

Check into Isolation.

Leave those fags here with me.

Go and have your nose powdered.

You’re going to be on tv.

 

You, Mrs Butler!

That p* Mr Drew

took my hoodie from me, Miss,

which he has no right to do.

 

Remove your baseball cap, love.

Hide your mobile phone.

Sneer at all the cameras.

You’re going to be well known.

 

Hey, Mrs Butler!

F* Mr Drew

is now a celebrity.

Why aren’t you?

 

Some of us have to teach, dude.

Micro-manage (not!)

Why don’t you open your textbook?

Knowledge can be quite hot.

 

No one pays me attention.

No one gives me much dough.

I always skip Detention.

I see no quid pro quo.

 

Just want to be on the telly-

to be a household name.

Learning’s for the pathetic.

Studying’s a mug’s game.

 

Please, Mrs Butler.

why did you have to start?

you wouldn’t give me an A*,

so I’ve stabbed you in the heart.

 

Yes, now I’m in Isolation.

I’m monitored in my cell.

Reality TV’s here-

so, didn’t I do well?

 

 

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Wish You Were Here!

Tags

Bisto, Clegg, Conversation box, Del Monte, dildo, Dress up as favourite Character, fire extinguisher, fire watch, Fruity Friday, hand blender, hand-bell, induction loop, Land Girl, latex allergic, Mindfulness, Miss Havisham, Onward Christian Soldiers, Pele Tower, Rummikub, Songs of Praise, T-switch, Tea dance, Thine Be the Glory, Wear a Hat and Tell a Story

Aunt Augusta wasn’t as devastated by Drusilla’s letter as her correspondent

had anticipated.

Dru had written to her so-called ‘great-aunt‘ to explain that she would be

unable to visit Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry at Whitsun,

as she was planning a trip ‘oop north‘ to visit her step-father, Murgatroyd

Syylk in his renovated pele tower.

She received a reply by return of post:

Dearest Dru,

Although naturally disappointed that you are unable to visit, I have to advise

you that things are very hectic down here at the moment.

My co-ordinator has drawn up a tailor-made activity programme, or should I

term it a regime?- for me.  She hopes to boost my cognitive skills and minimise

potential depression.  It is supposed to heighten my sense of achievement.

I informed her that I already feel a high level of satisfaction at having out-lived

most of my peers.

On Mondays I have to reminisce, using a Conversation Box.  It is a chair-based

activity and the only reason that I co-operated was that it is preferable to

playing Rummikub with a bunch of old codgers whose flies are undone.  I pulled

out a hand blender, but shocked the woman by identifying it as an electric

dildo. Well, they didn’t have these things in my day- blenders, I mean.

On Tuesdays I have a Mindfulness session where we are encouraged to live

in the moment.  Well, I don’t think I will be too present in the future, if you

see what I mean.  As for the past, who said it was another country?

On Wednesdays I am moved to the television room where most of the

aged programme presenters seem to be standing trial for their behaviour in

the Seventies.  Someone once tried to put his hand on my adolescent knee,

but that was where my grandmother’s hat-pin came in very handy.  There

was an example in the Conversation Box and I think the co-ordinator woman

was shocked when I told her where I’d put it in a darkened cinema.  I tried to

demonstrate, but she said it was a bit of a dangerous weapon and shouldn’t

have been in the box.  She found a cork and embedded its point safely.  She

wouldn’t tell me where she got the bottle.

Songs of Praise is full of goody-goodies and you can’t hear the hymns properly,

as our resident hand-bell ensemble always strike up in an accompaniment to old

favourites, such as Thine Be The Glory or Onward Christian Soldiers.  I turn off

my T-switch and then I don’t have to be bothered by the induction loop.

Wednesdays are devoted to Wear A Hat and Tell a Story.  I wound a scarf

round my head like a turban and entertained the troops with a few saucy

tales from my Land Girl days.  The spoilsports wouldn’t give me a cigarette

for verisimilitude and I got into trouble for introducing the ladies to gravy

browning faux seamed stockings.  The laundry couldn’t get the stains off

the sheets and they thought it was something else.

My packet of Bisto was confiscated from my locker.  They’ve no right to

go poking around in there and they took my gin as well.  Killjoys!

Fruity Friday isn’t what its title promises.  It isn’t exactly The Man From Del

Monte He Say ‘Yes!’  It’s just an idea of the co-ordinator to put lots of exotic

fruits in front of us, as if we don’t know what a Kiwi is.  You can be sure

that they haven’t had the wit to read my medical notes first, or they would

know that I am latex allergic and will peg it pronto if a fruit with the latex

protein comes anywhere near me.  I suppose you could sue them and make

a bit out of my demise when the time comes.  (I blame all those rubber

suspenders.)  We never had tights.

So, you can see that I have to be on my toes and on the alert constantly,

or they may inadvertently kill me.  It’s so tiring.  Like being on fire watch

during the war. You never know when an incendiary incident might break

out.

At least things have been quieter on the nocturnal admissions, not to say

emissions, front.

That old gent who tried to get into bed with me seems to have disappeared.

Perhaps he had latex allergy too and they gave him banana custard.  I

wouldn’t put it past them.

At least I won’t be partnered with him at the next Tea Dance.  He would never

have been my choice of beverage. He looked like one of Berenice’s old flames.

If he’d come near me once more, I’d have sprayed him with the fire

extinguisher.

Have a lovely time and do send me a postcard, so I can look popular with

those on the outside.  We have a bit of a scoreboard here.  The resident

with the least postcards in any month is called a Clegg.

Just going off to my costume fitting for next week’s Dress Up as a Character

from Your Favourite Novel.  I’m going as Miss Havisham, so I need to collect

a few cobwebs.  I suggested that there might be some in the cellar, but

they won’t let me be wheeled there. They thought it was an excuse for me

to go looking for drink.  They might have been right!

Have a lovely time.  Wish you were here- instead of me!

Augusta xx

 

Demiurge or Biological Urge?

Tags

Alastair Sim, Alistair Ross, Anglocentric, Article 26, biological urge, Board of Governors, Brittanic Celtic language, Cloacae, Conchita Wurst, cultural norms, demiurge, Furry Dance, geiger counter, Gwer, hirsutism, Institute for Policy Studies in Education, Kernowek, Lapsang, London Metropolitan University, minority communities, model railway club, national minority group, nepotism, pasty, phoenix, piskey, pluralism, positive discrimination, scubmaw, St Endellion Festival, Tate St Ives, The Beatles, tin mining, Universal Declaration of Human Rights

Hmm, it’s interesting that Geoffrey Poskett has got nowhere in his application

for the Headship and he is a Yorkshireman, said Dru.  It was her free afternoon

and she was sharing her thoughts with her mother and Sonia in Royalist

House .

What’s that got to do with it? asked Sonia.

Everything, replied Dru.  You see, various institutions, even in the independent

sector, feel that they are not attracting enough staff from minority

communities.

Yorkshiremen- or should I say Yorkshire people?- form a fairly large

gene pool, remarked Sonia.  I should think that his rejection is more

likely to be down to ageism, rather than Lancastrian bias.

Well, you’ll never guess who has been put on the short-list? Dru teased.

Go on, I’ll never guess, said her mother.  Not that young chap who sang

in the concert?

You’ve got it! Dru was perturbed to be in competition with Nigel.  She

twisted the gold harp on its chain-the one he had sent her after their

performance.  His name is Nigel Milford-Haven.

He looked about nineteen! Diana expostulated.  But, then again, I think

all young men do and not just members of law enforcement agencies.

Nigel is their ideal candidate, said Dru ruefully.  You see, he is half Cornish

and half Welsh.

Presumably his father was Welsh with a surname like Milford-Haven? Diana

deducted.

I assume so.  He said something about going to his mother’s house when

he was at the St Endellion Festival-the holiday when he had to paint her

bathroom!

He is tres gentil, but Father hinted that his classroom management

leaves a lot to be desired.  She hoped that she was not being disloyal.

Sounds like he’s in with a chance then, remarked a jaded Diana.  It was often

those who couldn’t teach who sought promotion out of the classroom.

Well, he is offering extra curricular skills, such as ‘manning’- and I use the

term deliberately- the model railway club.  Even the boys are not allowed to

lay a finger on the locomotives.  To tell you the truth, we have exchanged

views on our joint success thus far.  The poor guy is mortified to be

standing against me, yet thinks nepotism may rule the day, whereas I

think the Board of Governors will be very careful about my having put

myself forward while Father is Acting Head.  I expect that they are

worried that I might accept the post and then go off on triple maternity

leave!

Well, it would serve them right if you did! said Sonia.  I think you should

get pregnant immediately!  After all, she remarked a little unkindly, you are

leaving things rather late.  Let me look at your tea leaves and I’ll see if there

is anyone in the offing.

Dru blushed.  She had drained her Lapsang and Sonia was becoming

excited.

I think a nice young man may be appearing on your horizon very soon.

Great timing! replied Dru.  You wait for a decade or so and then he

materialises just as you are attempting to further your career.

Anyway, Nigel is sure to be the victor.  To be Cornish is to be recognised as

hailing from a national minority group.  He will probably put the Furry Dance

in the School Assembly.  Pluralism is all nowadays.  Article 26 of the Universal

Declaration of Human Rights, 1948, advocates it. Positive discrimination is

the order of the day.

There was a reference in the press to a paper by Alistair Ross from some

Institute for Policy Studies in Education at London Metropolitan University,

Diana agreed.

What did it say? asked Dru.

Wait!  I’ll find it in the re-cycling basket.  She disappeared into the utility

room and returned triumphant.  It poses the question: does it matter if the

teaching profession reflects the ethnic composition of society or not?  He

thinks it does.

Dru looked as if she thought that the powers-that-be would concur.

Nigel will be seen to bring to his work a variant set of cultural norms,

appropriate for the diverse multi-cultural population of England.  He will

reflect that range in his subconscious behaviour and attitudes, as they

stipulate.

Oh, stuff and nonsense! said Sonia.  Forget the subconscious!  And that is

coming from me as a retired Headmistress and a clairvoyant!  It is what you

consciously transmit that is important in the classroom.  Children don’t

analyse your subconscious, except to detect weakness when you say or

threaten something that you really do not intend to carry out.  We always

used to talk about flagging things up.  Making things explicit.  ‘Do that once

again and you will be waiting behind after school, sort of thing.’  They didn’t

need a geiger counter to pick up our meaning.

Now their mothers refuse to let you detain them, said Dru.  Parents have

to do the school run and pick up younger siblings at other establishments.

They refuse to be delayed. One has very few sanctions.

That’s the whole problem, stated Sonia.  But there aren’t any Cornish

children at St Birinus Middle, are there?  So whom would Nigel be

representing?

He is to make a stand against racism.  Some children were heard calling him

The Pasty and The Piskey, as well as using his main moniker: Caligula, which

isn’t Cornish, obviously. 

You see, said Sonia.  if you forbid one thing, they will just adapt their

impertinence.

The plan is to change some of the signage in school to reflect the status of

the Cornish language, Dru broke in, and to teach them respect for other

cultures.

The canteen are offering Hoggan and Scubmaw on Thursdays and Pesk on

Fridays. The Geography teacher is formulating a module on tin mining and

the Art teacher is taking a little trip to Tate St Ives.

Surely that is discriminatory against Tate  Liverpool? argued Diana.

Apparently not.  That department justified its choice by stressing that

Scouse culture had been over-represented in the past.  The kids had all

heard of The Beatles, clarified Dru. 

But Kernowek, the South Western Brittanic Celtic language was

extinct by the nineteenth century, Diana added.  Mind you, they still

teach Latin.  Maybe they could put up some Classical language signs-

you know, ‘Cloacae’!

Oh, no doubt that would be to represent any families who descend from

Roman deserters who jumped the wall and ran off with local girls, I

suppose? Sonia said cynically.

Yes, well, they want minority languages resurrected like phoenixes, Dru

pointed out. They have already added a sign on the door to the Gents’,

saying: Gwer Privedhyow.

Hmm, Sonia said.  Maybe phoenix  is the current buzzword.  If you grew

a beard you might represent something like that Eurovision person.  You

could stand for all gender variations. You’ve actually got a little bit of a

moustache already!

Dru ran a finger over her upper lip.  It wasn’t that noticeable, was it?

She still intended to turn up for the interview day.  Nigel had better

not exploit the agenda by claiming to object to Anglocentric

curriculae.

He had been taken seriously.  So had she.  But she did hope that

she wouldn’t be confused with Conchita Wurst, in spite of hirsutism

raising its stubble.  There had been headmistresses in the past who

favoured drag- Alastair Sim, for one, but she hoped that she could be

rise to the top of the greasy pole in her own merits, and without

gender being an issue.  And it wasn’t a lap dancing pole.

She suddenly wondered if she could conceive, or whether the moustache

might be a sign that she should heed Time’s winged chariot.

Was the expression of biological urge more important than the desire

for a role as demiurge?  Maybe she and Nigel should dispense with the

Platonic and get a life together?  Or make lives together?

 

What’s in a Name?

Tags

cojones, Equal Opportunities, flamenco, horse leech's daughter, impersonal pronoun, Inklings, Nick Clegg, Pele Tower, Probate Registry, Proverbs 30, Rubicon, Spanish dictionary, St Trinians, The Ministry of Justice, tick box

Drusilla studied the Job Description, with its list of Key Responsibilities.  It had

twenty bullet points outlining duties and skills.  The person specification was

superhuman and its requirement of good time management skills was an

essential, but no single human being could have fulfilled its roles.  This was a

vampire-like predatory beast of a post which would be like the horse leech’s

daughter in Proverbs chapter 30-ie/ perpetually crying, Give, give!  It lent a

whole new blood-sucking dimension to the concept of the tick box.  It was

enough to give you the symptoms of Lyme Disease.

She had heard on the radio that women were inclined to lack confidence

about applying for jobs if they judged that they only possessed about 95% of

the desired skills.  Men, on the other hand, ignored all the hype and, even if

they only had 65% of the skill set, they would apply anyway.  So much for

Equal Opportunities and Investment in People!

Dru thought, Cojones!  She was grateful to Nick Clegg’s spouse for giving her a

useful expletive which had an educated ring about it.  She could imagine the

sultry spouse dispensing it with Latin fervour when Nick came back late, or

hadn’t remembered to take out the rubbish.  It had the harsh initial consonant

that would complement a castanet flick and a stamp of Flamenco heel on a

kitchen floor.

Dru had crossed her Rubicon now and was only slightly perturbed as she had

wondered about changing her surname.  Granted, she had dispensed with the

hyphenated addendum of ‘Syylk‘ and was happy to bear her mother’s surname:

‘Fotheringay’.  But should she be a ‘Snodbury’?  No, should she be a ‘Revelly’?

A laboratory accredited by The Ministry of Justice might provide a parentage

test.

She could have launched a court action to claim an interest in the Wyvern

Estate, but what was the point in filing a caveat in the Probate Registry?  No,

she would have to discuss it with her step-father, Murgatroyd Syylk.  He

needed to know that he was not her biological father.  Heavens to

Murgatroyd!  He might want a DNA test too.

Miss Fotheringay sounded as though the bearer had some gravitas and would

look good on the school prospectus.  Miss Revelly sounded a little flippant,

perhaps a shade decadent.  She would not want any connotations of St

Trinian’s high jinks.

The interview was in two weeks.  After that she would go up to the pele

tower for Whitsun.  But at least she had been shortlisted.

She fingered the gold harp on its chain which she wore next to her skin.

There might be no time for romance now.  And, would it be inappropriate

to start a relationship with one’s employee?  Surely one had a duty of

care?  She was practising the use of the impersonal and first person

plural pronouns already.  Better ensure that she did not become mad

through power, as Maggie Thatcher had, when she issued her

announcement of  grandparental status.

Nigel was fading into the background and for Geoffrey, frankly, she didn’t

give a-whatever the singular was for ‘cojones’.  She lifted her Spanish

dictionary off the shelf.  Life was all about educational opportunities.

But she could see why her father wanted to retain his Inkling status.

Maybe he had an inkling that there was no such thing as a free lunch,

even a school one.

As for personal strengths, she may have been accused in the past of

nagging in the Boarding House.  That could be transmuted into

‘powerful, motivational speaker.’

Snod’s Law

Tags

Bourbon biscuit, Caracas, crystal ball, DNA analysis, Elgin marbles, exhumation, Katherine of Aragon, kinship, Lady of the Bedchamber, perjury, St Birinus, Tindall, Tyndale, Wyvern Mote

Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe was open on the Bank Holiday and, the

weather being clement, Sonia, Diana and Dru were sitting in the courtyard,

out of earshot, they hoped, of the other customers.  Snod came in, looking

ill-at-ease in this bastion of good taste.  He was probably the only

customer who could have explained what a ‘bastion‘ was.  Most would

have thought it a term of abuse.

I just want a simple coffee.  Why does life have to be so complicated? he

grumbled.

Diana cleared her jacket from the spare chair that she had been reserving.

I’ve been studying the paperwork from Aurelia, she began.  The Tindalls of

Coquetbrookdale!  Quite a family.

Not related to that rugby player with the smashed nose who married Zara?

queried Sonia.

No, not the same branch. Elizabeth Swan married John Tindall and this was

how the- here Diana lowered her voice and looked around furtively – the

Tindall jewel came into Elizabeth’s possession.  It had been handed down

from generation to generation, from mother-in-law to daughter, or daughter-

in-law.

A relation of Sir William Tyndale, who was knighted at the marriage of Arthur,

Prince of Wales to Katherine of Aragon, originally seemed to have acquired it,

possibly from a royally-esteemed Lady-of-the-Bedchamber.

Whose bedchamber? asked Sonia, forthrightly.

Ah, that might have been telling! said Diana, coyly.  No, it might have

come into the family through a marriage.

Which leaves the problem of what you are going to do about it, said Snod,

nodding to Dru.  The letter says that it comes to the wife, or daughter of any

of her sons.

I’m definitely out of the picture, said Diana.  But what if you were to marry in

the near future?  Would that rule Dru out?  She was desirous of protecting

her daughter’s interests.

And can we be sure that Lionel and Peregrine did not have any illegitimate

daughters? asked Sonia.  They would have entitlement.

I suppose Bunbury et al will advertise in the press in Thailand and Canada for

any claimants to come forward within a certain period of time.  They might

have to be subject to DNA analysis, said Snod.

I might have to give a swab too, interrupted Dru.  They might want to check

your paternity.

Diana blushed and her chin disappeared into her collar.  Shhh! she hissed.

I might have to have a DNA test, agreed Gus, not relishing the idea,

as he confused it with sperm banks for some reason.  After all, my father is

not named on my birth certificate and my mother is designated as Berenice. 

Just because Lady Wyvern, er.. Aurelia, paid some school fees and confessed

to perjury in her letter, it might be seen as the ravings of a madwoman and

Anthony being dead too, how can we prove kinship?

There could be a hair on Aunt Augusta’s sheets, suggested Dru.

Don’t be silly, laughed Diana.  I expect that in an establishment as genteel

as Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry, they have probably

changed the bedding since Anthony’s last nocturnal perambulation.

Dru looked sceptical.  From what I’ve read, it’s a miracle if the sheets

are laundered at all on some of these premises. But, seriously, DNA

is pretty resistant material.  It survives washing machines, apparently.

Sonia said: Washing machines have inbuilt obsolescence nowadays,

so it wouldn’t be difficult to outlast them.  I only had mine three years.

Yes, but you don’t use de-calcifiers, reprimanded Diana.  That’s why

your towels are brick hard.

Sonia shot her a look that might have been interpreted as inviting

her to lodge elsewhere if she had any further criticisms.

Well, I am not going to sanction any exhumations, avowed Gus.  And

that includes Berenice’s.  It’s rather extreme to rule out a blood

relationship.

You wouldn’t have to, clarified Sonia.  You could get a sibling swab from

Aunt Augusta which would disprove your relationship to her entire family.

Not by stealth, Diana countered.  Only by informed consent and the

authorities might think she is too confused to comply.

Nonsense, said Sonia.  From what you’ve told me-here she nodded

towards Dru- she has all her marbles and it wouldn’t surprise me if she

had some of the Elgin variety too, stashed in her bedside locker, alongside

her gin.  Anyway, you could ask that De Sousa chap in Caracas to supple a

hair.  That would disprove that he is your half brother.

Oh, I’d forgotten about Hugo, said Snod, a trifle guiltily.  I’d better write to

him to disabuse him of our familial ties.  He will be disappointed.

Well, you asked me what I was going to do, Dru finally chipped in.  And I have

already decided.  If the lawyers are satisfied that Dad is Aurelia’s son and I am

offered the jewel, I am going to say that I want it to remain on exhibition at

Wyvern Mote.

These things can bring a curse on families and I don’t want Mum to regret

that she should have had no stake in it. Nor do I want to alienate any future

step- mothers. (Here Gus flushed deeply)  And, anyway, what would I do

with it?

It’s probably uninsurable in private hands. I don’t need the money.  I am more

interested in my career and this seems as good a time as any to announce

that I have been short-listed for the post of Head of St Birinus Middle, with the

blessing of its finest Master, my father!

And she raised her coffee cup to her lips in a loyal toast.  I wouldn’t need

any treasures, as there is accommodation provided and, without having to

worry about a mortgage, I would be well provided for and would have an

adequate salary and pension.

That’s my girl! Gus flushed with pride.  He could only hope that she would

be successful.

He had declared his affiliation and conflict of interest to the Governors and

had stepped down from the interview panel.  He had yet to be informed of

the other candidates.

But what about your parentage? Sonia challenged Gus.  Don’t you want to

have everything cleared up?  I know there is no inheritance involved, since

Wyvern is now National Trust, but aren’t you a teeny bit curious?

I thought you would have taken out your crystal ball and enlightened me,

teased Gus. But, I’ll take Aurelia’s word for it. As far as I am concerned, at my

time of life, I am grateful to one parent alone and he is the one who has

perpetually looked out for me through thick and thin..

And that is..? they all asked simultaneously.

St Birinus. And Snod twiddled the ring on his little finger and drained his

cup of basic filter coffee with satisfaction, even though there were no

accompanying Bourbon biscuits on offer.

So, you don’t mind the uncertainty? Sonia probed a little further.

No, Gus shook his head. It’s just like many of life’s vicissitudes: an

exemplification of Snod’s Law!