On Friday I had to go to a meeting with Pompous Pilate. It was scheduled for after-school, and he had promised it would be limited to 10 minutes. However, 10 minutes with the verbose buffoon can soon drift into hours, days and even dog-years. But, I was comforted with the thought that it was a Friday afternoon, and surely everyone simply longs to get home early on a Friday. I was mistaken. For a start he was 30 minutes late, and then he launched fervently into one of his epic monologues. The purpose of the meeting was to discuss 'creative curriculums': how we can make ours more inspiring, experiential and relevant. He started by waving a 'creative curriculum' he had downloaded from the internet in our weary faces.
'but isn't the very concept of a 'creative curriculum' an oxymoron?' I asked (quite sincerely)
I attempted to explain that just downloading a 'one size fits all' curriculum is anything but creative. That surely we need to develop our own curriculum and that his downloaded document would simply swap one narrow, prescriptive framework with another narrow and prescriptive framework.
Pompous Pilate furrowed his ruddy brow. A deafening silence echoed around the the room. Suddenly he exploded.
Ha Ha! You're right Miss Underscore! By 'eck! It is a bloody oxymoron!' He then started laughing rather manically, like a demonic Yorkshire Bond villain.
(To be honest, I wasn't entirely convinced the Barnsley buffoon knew what 'oxymoron' meant.)
Yesterday evening we all suffered the tortuous epic that is the Monday staff-meeting. The subject? Creative curriculums.
'You know what suddenly occurred to me the other day?' he crowed proudly ' You know what the concept of a 'creative curriculum is. . . . . . IT'S AN OXYMORON!!!!' Ha! I bet you lot don't even know what that means.'
I found myself scowling at the rogue again (although my contemptuous gimlet-glare is wasted on the chump, he has the sensitivity of a corpulent python.)
Eventually, almost 3 hours after the kids had left classes, I arrived home. I was shattered, irritated and starved. I cooked myself some sausages, mash and onion gravy. I love onion gravy: golden caramelised onions, loads of sherry. I loafed in front of Judge Judy whilst it simmered on the stove. (I base a lot of my classroom discipline technique on Judge Judy's methods.) During the interval I popped in the kitchen to check on the gravy. I was confronted with an empty, smoking and hissing pan rattling on the stove. Fucking Hetty had guzzled the lot. Yes, whilst it was simmering! I am amazed the hirsute hound didn't set her beard alight. She is as leggy as a supermodel and as sly as a fox. She can reach any surface. I expect it is only a matter of time before she has mastered the Kitchenaid and microwave.
This morning Pompous Pilate assessed my maths lesson. It went very well. The kids behaved like angels and were enthusiastic, attentive and participative. I thought the lesson, with a pet shop theme, was imaginative and (dare I say) 'creative'. I don't think I could have done better. Pompous Pilate's view? It was . . . . . 'good'
'Hmmmm. It was almost outstanding' he begrudgingly mused.
By this time I was thoroughly pissed off with the cunt. I asked him what he felt I could have done to warrant an 'outstanding' (I didn't mention the fellatio).
'Ahhhh. . . . well. . . . . I'm not sure really. But I tell you what, I just KNOW that you're now really fired up to work even harder for an 'outstanding' next time.' he smarmed.
I tried hard to resist the urge to punch the smug idiot.
So, I came home from school feeling irritated and stressed. I came in to find that Hetty had opened my post again. Opened it and shredded it. Amongst the tattered pieces I noticed the logo of the St Mary Mead school. I sat at the kitchen table and frantically attempted to piece together the sodden scraps. And guess what? I was not even shortlisted for the job!
I am obviously fated to spend my twilight years at the School of Hard Knocks. I don't mind that so much, I love the place really. I love the job and the kids just make me smile. But, thirty more years of Pompous Pilate's power-crazed buffoonery? I am not sure I can tolerate that.
So, overall a dreadful day. I also awoke with the niggling thought that it is the Swarthy one's 41st birthday. So, it seemed like a good idea to send him a 'happy birthday' email this morning. Of course, I am now too scared to check to see if there has been a response. Oh fuck. No good can come from it. No good seems to come from anything I touch at the moment. I am consequently boycotting email (apologies to anyone who has mailed me). I just couldn't handle a 'no response' or a 'fuck off' response. Not tonight.
So, my evening? A hot L'Occitane vanilla bath, tea, toast and warm home-baked flapjacks (still in the oven at the moment, smelling like caramel and syrup). Oh, and Six Feet Under on DVD.
I shall console myself with a great line from 6FU. Said by Claire.
'I suppose there is some comfort in knowing that being miserable will always be better than being an idiot.'
Hopefully at some time in the future I won't be miserable. Pompous Pilate will always be an idiot.