The List

OK. I have come up with a decisive and artful plan to compel Doreen (my tardy teaching assistant) into action. Or, if 'action' is too much to hope for (I fear it may be), my plan may at the very least rouse her from her pastry induced torpor. I have given Doreen a list, a list of chores to do during her working day.

Actions noticeably absent from Doreen's list;

1. Devouring sausage rolls in cupboards.
2. Stealing (food from children's packed lunches, loo rolls and soap from the ladies' loos)
3. Colouring in.
4. Cackling.

Actions on this week's list;

1. Design a big, colourful, sparkly homework wallchart that the children can mark (with stickers) every time they return their homework on time.
2. Print off pictures of all our class trips and make display outside our classroom.
3. Sort out all our library books in genres and label them.
4. Tidy up the classroom.
5. Put up all our Tudor portraits in our 'haunted gallery', with labels.
6. Do a display of Year 3 maths targets.

I gave Doreen 'the list' yesterday morning. She eyed me with thinly veiled fury as I went through it with her. She immediately stomped off into the art room cupboard and locked the door behind her. I was unsure whether that was a good sign (she was looking for resources) or a bad sign (she had found a new den in which to freebase Greggs' steak bakes). To be fair, I really wasn't bothered either way. I took my class to assembly and put Doreen out of my mind. Thirty minutes later I was visited by Gloria, one of our super-efficient teaching assistants.

'Miss Underscore, Doreen has just given me a list of jobs you'd like me to do. Can I just check what you want the homework chart to look like?'

Doreen had brazenly delegated her entire 'to do' list to someone else! She was proving a difficult nut to crack. I put her straight though.

'Doreen, those jobs are for you. Gloria has her own class to look after.'

So, for the last 2 days Doreen has been working on item one on the list, the homework wallchart. Two whole days on a wallchart. 16 hours on one cunting wallchart. At least, I told myself, the end result would surely be spectacular. In a moment of rare inspiration and lucidity Doreen had even mentioned the possibility of using Velcro! Oh yes, this would be the Sistine Chapel of wallcharts. It would be a thing of such astonishing, eye-watering beauty that OFSTED would surely be dazzled. They would be blinded to our school's poor academic attainment and general atmosphere of decay and menace. We would become an 'outstanding' school once again and it would all be down to Year 3's homework chart!!! Hurrah!

At lunchtime I took down Doreen's old homework chart. I was glad to see the back of it, it was a tatty sheet of A4 paper, printed in black and white. Snail-trails of Tipp-ex covered up Doreen's many spelling mistakes. I wondered whether we could have some sort of grand unveiling ceremony for Doreen's new masterpiece. One of the children could cut a ribbon and declare the wallchart 'open'. Maybe we could even have a toast, with Doreen's beloved Vimto.

'God bless this wallchart and all who strive to return their homework on time.'

I wasn't teaching this afternoon. It was my PPA time (my afternoon for planning and marking). I had been happily mapping out my Tudor witchcraft lessons in the staffroom. Health and Safety are a twatting nuisance, you know. Apparently I am not allowed to set up a ducking stool by the River Wear. Not even if I ensure that the children I duck have their 25m swimming badges. Not even if I provide water wings and flasks of hot soup. Spoilsports.

On returning to my classroom at hometime I noticed something on the wall. The wallchart was up. My heart sank. From across the room it looked decidedly small and rather monochrome. I tentatively approached it. Dear God! It was EXACTLY the same tatty, A4, black and white, Tipp-ex smeared sheet of paper, only Doreen (in her infinite wisdom) had laminated it. The only other discernible difference was that she had handwritten a title on. Doreen's debased handwriting, quite frankly, would not look out of place on a ransom note. The title, wonkily written in green and orange felt tip, said,

Homework Cart

Doreen came into the room while I was looking at her 'cart'. She had the good sense to look rather sheepish. She cackled nervously. I didn't say anything. Her witch-like cackling had given me a rather wonderful idea. How about Doreen on the Tudor ducking stool?

As I type this I am awaiting a phone call from the swarthy rogue, Rochester. I have not actually spoke to the oaf for 4 weeks. He keeps sending me texts that say,

'Will call you tomorrow pet.'

But he never does. Never mind. I have the new Laura Ashley home furnishing catalogue to flick through. There is nothing like a bit of soft-furnishing porn to take your mind off a flaky fanny rat.

I shall leave you with this picture of Cyril, the lurcher. On Sunday Cyril stole and scoffed a whole chorizo sausage. I was rather vexed. I had planned to have a chorizo-y Spanish omlette affair for supper. I was left with mere scrambled eggs on toast. After devouring his sausage contraband Cyril appeared to go into a deep, blissed-out, paprika-addled trance. Here he is, like some sort of tapas zombie, crashed on the sofa.

So, a public service announcement to all you dog-owners out there: please keep your hounds away from bendy, European sausages. Not unless you want to see your dog looking like this. . . . I think you will agree, it is a sorry, sorry sight indeed.

Parma Violet Tea Who's Who

Miss Underscore

(Moi). Rather insecure, romantically and emotionally autistic Primary School Teacher. Sometimes quite funny. Often quite sad. Would love to write a book, but is generally too lazy to even write a cheque.

Likes:

Imagining she lives in a 1950s Miss Marple novel, lipstick shopping, quoting Dorothy Parker, sleeping, chintzy floral bedding, good hair days, teaching, flea markets and falling in love with tatty, hound dogs (of the 2 and 4 legged variety), afternoon tea.

Dislikes:

Her inabilty to ever choose the right man, her unrelenting self-doubt, perpetual social anxiety and failure to master an even passable Bearnaise sauce. Poverty (her own, not so much worried about starving African children or UK pensioners huddled by a one-bar electric fire), Pompous Pilate (her officious, blustering buffoon of a Headteacher), Winter.

Natural Habitat:

The classroom, the Bobbi Brown make-up counter, Betty's tearoom, Bamburgh/ Alnmouth beach. Between the months of November-April Miss Underscore will probably be found in bed. She is indeed half-woman, half dormouse.

Identifying Features:

An intransigent and slightly tiresome devotion to ballet pumps, cardigans, Mad Men eyeliner and pink-brown lipstick. Has recently had to sell all her jewellery on EBAY to pay household bills, consequently she now only has one decent necklace: an Alex Monroe peacock feather pendant, and wears it CONSTANTLY. Pure Grace perfume (in the days when she could afford such luxuries).

Rochester (also has an alter-ego called 'Don')

An ex/ current dalliance (not sure which). Louche, dark, sarcastic and shambolic. 30% Walter Matthau, 30% Nick Cave, 30% Tommy Cooper, 5% Ted Hughes, 5% The Littlest Hobo. Currently a seller of double glazing and a self-styled 'healer' of lesbians with his charity 'The Missionary Position'. Perpetually late. The only reliable thing about Rochester is his eternal unreliability. Swarthy rogue.

Likes: Gin, fanny ratting, the words 'cunting' and 'gosh', taking brooding pictures of himself in the Lakes, lesbians (he is obsessed with lesbianism), performing death and cancer themed haiku poetry, meat and Minstrels (of the chocolate, not black and white variety).

Dislikes: Commitment of any kind, being punctual, vegetarians, Guardian reading social workers (he used to be one), keeping promises, giving compliments.

Natural Habitat: A scuzzy bar with a pool table, a bleak Lakeland hillside, bed.

Identifying Features: eyebrows that resemble two fat weasels, his mumbling Geordie voice, which is so low that it is generally only heard clearly by dogs and dolphins, rather lovely brown eyes.

Senor Boldon/ Dr Stir Fry/The Burger Baron.

An ex. Elder brother of Rochester (I know, I know). Top Gear and stir fry obsessed executive of McDonalds. Suffers from extreme OCD. Rather dour, misanthropic and monosyllabic, although would occasionally come out with an utter jewel of a one-liner, such as describing his middle brother (the only one of the Brothers Grim that I did not become romantically involved with) as a 'masturbating monkey'.

Likes: Routine, order, timetables, cars, stir-fry (EVERY twatting night), holidays in Spain (EVERY twatting holiday), a pint (same time, same place EVERY twatting night), silence, Margaret Thatcher.

Dislikes: Spontaneity, cheerful people, Burger King.

Natural Habitat: See his timetable for details.

Identifying Features: A scowl, but on the rare occasions he does laugh, he becomes almost endearingly Sid James.

Son of Satan

An ex. A twat. An impregnator of german girls (whilst in a relationship with me). Did have a terribly useful career as an electrician when I met him. Gave that all up to study for a PHD and become a professor of 'Contemporary History' (an oxymoron if ever I heard one). That was the beginning of the end for us, as he stopped fixing light fittings and started using the word 'discourse' on a regular basis. Passive aggressive, vegetarian cunt.

Likes: The sound of his own voice, living up to the cliche of the the fanny ratting university professor (he recently married a student 19 years his junior).

Dislikes: Fidelity, Paul Weller's 'Style Council' years.

Natural Habitat: Lurking in bushes behind the University humanities buildings, chatting up fresher girls with quotes by Raymond Williams and Susie Orbach.

Identifying Features: Affected cockney accent (to emphasise his humble working class origins), big nose, granddad-collared linen shirts, general aroma of felafel and sanctimony.

Madam Noir

Shopping obsessed, potty-mouthed recruitment consultant with a black sense of humor and a generally pessimistic view of the world. Recently discovered the joys of moss mumbling and lesbianism. Madam Noir, like Miss Underscore, is an orphan.

Likes: Bizarrely, naff 1970s comedies such as Hi de Hi, Sorry and Butterflies. Lives for music. Also loves New York, shopping, cheese scones, single malt, whippets, the colour black.

Dislikes: Christmas, New Year's Eve, all other drivers on the road (her road rage can be TERRIFYING).

Natural Habitat: John Lewis.

Identifying Features: Pale, ghostly complexion, uniform of leather jacket, jeans, black top and Jo Malone perfume.

Pompous Pilate

The most tedious, arrogant and self-obsessed man on the planet. Currently Head Teacher at The School of Hard Knocks (primary school situated on our town's bleakest, most crime-ridden sink estate). Like many male headteachers is rather lazy, full of grand plans and ideas but can never be bothered to implement them. Highly patronising, speaks only in obtuse edu-jargon soundbites. 

Likes: Talking. Bullying. Hiding in his cosy office, well away from the violence and chaos of the classroom and playground.

Dislikes: Listening, working, dealing with the frankly atrocious behaviour of some of our most 'challenging' kids and families.

Natural Habitat: Assembly: he gets to pace up and down the school hall, pontificating to the entire school. The staff meeting: again, a forum for the oaf to lecture and pontificate.

Identifying Features: Bald, fat, beetrooty complexion, ill-fitting suit. Yorkshire accent so thick you could grout tiles with it.

Aunty Margaret

90 year old Aunty Margaret is a tough-talking, arch, witty, salt-of-the-earth matriarch with a heart of gold.

Likes: Gossiping, telling stories about her beloved husband, Barty, who died 20 years ago, going to church, child-minding for the entire village, Mr Kipling cakes, milky coffee and (rather decadently) Chanel make-up.

Dislikes: Snobbery, pretentiousness and ALL of Miss Underscore's boyfriends, 'Hmmmm! I wouldn't trust that one with a bonny dog!'

Natural Habitat: Aunty Margaret looks like she should be knitting next to a guillotine somewhere.

Identifying Features: Resembles Les Dawson (when he was dressed as a woman). Outdoors she is never seen without her head scarf and raincoat (even in July). Indoors she favours a nice cardigan, slippers and American Tan tights combo.

Hetty

Lovely, intelligent, gentle and graceful RSPCA rescue lurcher. Half Scottish Deerhound, half Greyhound. Found tethered, starved and close to death on an allotment. As one very astute commenter on this blog once remarked, Hetty looks like she was drawn by Quentin Blake.

Likes: Running, watching TV, lounging on the sofa, going to the beach, marmite on toast, chasing squirrels, wearing jaunty pink collars, flirting with Bruno the German Pointer (he's a wrong 'un, the swarthy rogue of the Backhouse Park set, but the girl is smitten), bossing her brother Cyril about.

Dislikes: Staffordshire Bull Terriers, the postman (and indeed, any men of the male gender who enter her domain), baseball caps, fleas.

Natural Habitat: The sofa, the bed, the beach, the park, Minchella's ice cream kiosk. Anywhere she can run like the wind.

Identifying Features: Long, lean and elegant, Hetty has the tatty, regal look of a down-at-heel aristocrat. Hetty sings when she is happy. She has Dennis Healy's eyebrows (I am not sure how she aquired them, EBAY probably).

Cyril

Another RSPCA lurcher. Cyril is a cross between a Bearded Collie and a Greyhound. If Hetty was drawn by Quentin Blake, then Cyril was certainly drawn by Walt Disney. Daft, clown-like, clumsy and highly vocal, Cyril is utterly bonkers and completely brainless. Obsessed with food and chewing, the hound costs a twatting fortune.

Likes: Raiding the kitchen counters for food and then vomiting all over expensive household items (Laura Ashley rugs, Macbooks, sofas). Chewing: especially shoes and remote controls. Gnawing through the gussets of his owner's knickers (this is one of Cyril's more worrying habits, he is an obsessive knicker-ripper). Also likes running with Hetty, stealing food from the cats, chasing birds, wallowing up to his oxters in mud and going to the Hair of the Dog beauty spa for pamper sessions (although, at £28 a time, that is a luxury that his mum can no longer afford).

Dislikes: Brown and black labradors of the male gender: for some reason they all treat him as a sexual play thing. A trip to the park, for Cyril, very often turns into a scene from Brokeback Mountain. Also has a deeply ingrained fear of rubber ducks.

Natural Habitat: The kitchen, the mud-bath, the park.

Identifying Features: You will hear Cyril before you see him: he 'talks' constantly: barks, growls, mutters, grumbles. Cyril has a long, flowing coat of silver and grey. It is usually caked in mud.

Fantasy shopping and good news for Freya!

Well. First of all the good news. Freya has found a home. And, even better, she has found a home with a lovely retired couple who live just up the road from me. I shall still see the little girl every day on our 7am walk in the park. In fact, that is how she found her home, the couple own a soppy, gentle mastiff dog called Sandy who is walked in the park every morning. They've always wanted a lurcher, and met Freya and fell in love. So, to everyone who said I would keep her - I hope you are eating your words! But, it is lovely to know she'll still be in Hetty and Cyril's gang of doggy friends. A great result. Oh, and did I mention, she'll be living in a 3-storey Victorian mansion! I took her along last night for a visit, the house is so stunning I felt like asking if they would adopt me too.

Freya will be with me for a few more days while the RSPCA do all the paperwork and check out her new home. I shall take her for the traditional foster dog treat later today: a Minchella's ice-cream cornet at the seaside. And maybe even some fish and chips.

I love this picture of the three lurchers together. It looks like a family portrait. Lurchers really are amazingly laid back, gentle and calm dogs (unless they're running). I do think they make the perfect pets.

Freya has been to The Hair of the Dog poodle parlour this week. Here she is looking all clean and fluffy on her return. Oh, I am going to cry buckets when she goes, you know.

Now. My finances are as dire as ever, so I thought I would indulge in a bit of fantasy shopping. Here are a few things I have my eye on at the moment.

Emma Bridgewater Lurcher Mug. £16.95

This is her second lurcher mug, her first is now a collector's item. They sell on EBAY for about £35. I prefer the first mug, as the picture is of a grey, rough-coated lurcher (like Hetty), but this is lovely too. Of course, I already own dozens of mugs. Indeed, part of my kitchen is given over as a sanctuary for retired and chipped mugs. I quite like the idea of having this one as my school mug. I am teaching younger children this year, I think they may be scared by my current mug, which is adorned with a picture of Nick Cave looking particularly wicked and demonic.

Alex Monroe Peacock Feather Jewellery (from £135)

I do already own a silver feather necklace by Alex Monroe, but this one is larger and more dramatic. I'd go for it in silver. There is a beautiful ring too. I have started saving for the necklace already, although my plans were scuppered by an impromptu trip to the vets with Cyril yesterday (another running/paw injury). And, another £35 spent in the blink of an eye.

All of Alex Monroe's pieces are beautiful: delicate, feminine and inspired by the natural world - flowers, leaves, birds and butterflies.

Boden Islington Coat £175

Last winter I really craved a bottle-green winter coat. I couldn't find one anywhere, but it is probably just as well. The winter turned so bitter and arctic that I lived in a terribly cosy but inelegant quilted jacket. It was rather like wearing a duvet. I adore this Boden coat, it has very chic, 60s styling. It also comes in bottle green, although I think I prefer it in grey tweed. Far too expensive though. Also, are three-quarter length sleeves really practical for a North East winter? I expect I'd have to add knitted wrist warmers, and consequently end up looking more scuzzball Artful Dodger than graceful Joan Holloway.

Nigella Lawson: Kitchen £26 (or £13 on Amazon)

The appeal of Nigella Lawson's cookery books is their homely, cosy and chatty style. They are the kind of cookery book that you read in bed on winter's nights, happily planning the next day's supper. I really don't need another cookery book, but confess, I've already ordered this and cannot wait for it to arrive!

The Last Rites of Spring

Coco Chanel and Igor Stravinsky

Another French film at the Tyneside. This one tells the story of the intense 'love' affair between Chanel and Stravinsky. It seemed to be a strangely glacial affair, utterly lacking in romance, warmth or affection. Lord, the film was slow . . . tedious. . . brooding. Nothing much happened. . .twice (as the saying goes). Plus, yet another disappointing leading man. Stravinsky looked, quite frankly, like a bit of a weirdo. Strange, ferrety eyes blinking behind rimless spectacles, a sallow, sour expression. He resembled a bitter and repressed Edwardian botonist. He did get his arse out every 20 minutes, but was not enough to convince me he was a passionate man. Even Coco Chanel maintained her slightly bored, aloof and unruffled demeanor during their lovemaking. That made me suspect that, in the bedroom at least, Igor failed to hit all of the right notes.

So, during the film there was lots of tortured and angry banging on the piano accompanied by long lingering shots of sorrowful, sunlit autumn leaves. Yawn. And the occasional heaving Ruskie arse. Double yawn. BUT, I have to say, the film was saved for me by the divinely opulent costumes and sets. I spent the whole time wishing I lived in an elegant Parisian art deco palace and wondering what lipstick Chanel was wearing. It's a bit like Midsummer Murders - I can happily sit through hours of John Nettles' woefully dreary crime drama just admiring the Agas and chintz sofas.

I did think the actress who played Coco Chanel was spectacular. She portrayed a prickly, steely determination, a beautiful, talented but cold and emotionally distant woman. Last year, Audrey Tatou's Chanel was a little to girly and twee, in my opinion.

Overall then, unless you have a passionate interest in costume, art deco design, lipstick, Ruskie arses or autumn leaves then I suggest you give this film a miss.

Shabby Chic

I have been teaching myself to sew. I confess, I am making slow progress. I can only sew cushion covers. Still, I have reupholstered many of my sofa's cushions this holiday and made some squashy floor cushions. OK. It is fair to say that my creations exist more at the 'shabby' rather than chic end of the shabby-chic continuum. But, I am proud of them nonetheless. Particularly as my favourites (the green satin) cost only 50p each to make.

A treat

You all know that I adore Lola Rose jewellery. I did break my spending-fast to buy this simple and chic ivory stone necklace. I had admired it with Madam Noir in John Lewis many times. Today it was half price. I had to have it. I love the feel of the smooth, cool semi-precious stones. Plus, inspired by the Chanel/Stravinsky monochrome mise-en-scene (if not the film itself), I love the simplicity and purity of the creamy white tones.

Don't you like colour Madamoiselle Chanel?

Well, of course. As long as it's black. Or white.

At last - my new foster lurcher

This is Freya. She will be living with me for a couple of weeks. She is an RSPCA girl, looking for a new home. She wasn't doing so well in kennels.

I agreed to take Freya as a tribute to beautiful, big-hearted Angie, the RSPCA volunteer who rescued hundreds of lurchers. With any luck this little girl find a home before I go back to school. I WILL NOT BE KEEPING HER!!! I keep saying this to people and they keep sniggering. Honestly. This is just temporary. I swear.

But, the thing is . . . I love her already. She is such a gentle and sweet little girl. And, she looks just like a mini-version of Miss Hetty. Here they are together on the sofa.

Hetty's sister

I really shouldn't keep checking the local dog pound and RSPCA websites. I am always tempted. It doesn't help when the spritely, canny RSPCA volunteers, Gladys and Ethel text me pictures of new inmates.

This is Shakira. I know, I know, lurchers are working class gypsy dogs. They need 'salt of the earth' type names, Maude, Mabel, Nell. They should not be named after seductive sexpot rock stars!

You can see why I have fallen in love with Shakira though. She could be Hetty's little sister. I went through to see her today. She is BEAUTIFUL - very cuddly and waggy. You won't be able to see on this pic, but she only has one ear! So tempting, I was considering fostering her, but in my heart I think Hetty would prefer to share her home with another boy.
Anyway, Shakira (aka Nell) wasn't the only hound that caught my eye. In the next pen was this very regal, elegant Saluki lurcher. They have called him 'Enrico'. (sigh). I know, another 'Johnny Foreigner' name. I shall refer to him as Norman. He was terribly sweet. I fed him some chicken, which he took so meekly and gently. I am used to having fingers severed when I try to feed Cyril and Hetty.

I think Norman may be 'the one'. The summer fosteree. He is an older boy, so may have some trouble finding a home. At least he will be cosy and comfortable with us.

Goodbye Kipper

Readers of this blog will know that I love animals. I have Hetty and Cyril, but I also have a suave, handsome Dalmatian lad called Kipper. Kip was my first dog, I bought him 12 years ago when he was just a tiny pup and he has been with me ever since. For the last couple of years Kipper has suffered with his back legs and spine. He was getting progressively less mobile. Today, sadly, I decided it was time to let him go. So, Kipper died peacefully at the vets this morning. I am heartbroken, but I am comforted by the thought that he had such a long and wonderful life. My favourite Kipper memories:

1. Once, on a walk, he greedily snatched a Greggs corned beef pasty out of the hands of an 11 year old girl. Dreadful, yes? Can I also add - THE GIRL WAS DISABLED AND IN A WHEELCHAIR! Oh, the shame!

2. He foiled a burglary at Chez Underscore. Showing tremendous courage and grit he chased a couple of wrong' uns after they broke into my house at midnight. I say 'broke in', actually, I had forgotten to lock the door. I was racing downstairs, naked as a jaybird, a rolled up copy of the Laura Ashley catalogue in my hands, ready to give the ruffians a good thrashing. Thankfully, Kipper had already seen them off. I was terribly proud of him. Sadly, not long after that incident Kipper became deaf. That severely limited his crime-fighting and sleuthing. When I was burgled last year he slept through the whole thing!

3. Kipper was an awfully naughty and destructive puppy. He once ate a whole sofa, a whole sofa in one afternoon! I came home from work to find my sofa stripped down to the springs. There was not one shred of padding or fabric left.

4. Also in his youth he enjoyed a spot of gardening. He would joyfully dig up and shred every shrub, tree, herb and flower I planted. For two years my garden was as barren as a desert. Then, realising his own garden now held no appeal, he knocked a hole in the fence and went into the neighbours' garden and manically dug up all their plants too. It was a horticultural 9/11!

5. Kipper particularly amazed me when my dad was dying. In my dad's last few days Kipper never left his bedside. He could not be coaxed away, not even for a Gravy Bone biscuit or a walk. At night I would drag Kipper up to my bedroom, but would inevitably discover he had snuck out again. I would discover him curled up next to my dad's bed in the sitting room.

6. Apart from the burglar, Kipper only ever growled once in his whole life. That was at my ex-boyfriend, Son of Satan. Kipper was a tiny puppy at the time. The first time he saw Chris (S.O.S) he bared his teeth and growled like a mini-minotaur. He was obviously an excellent judge of character. He could spot a duplicitous, passive-aggressive fanny rat, even if I could not. Maybe I should let my dogs choose my boyfriends in the future? Although, Boo chose Rochester, and look what happened there. Tragically, that relationship had more of a Mills and McCartney ending than Mills and Boon one.

Maybe I should allow Hetty to chose my next beau.

Anyway, my beautiful Kipper. Run free. I'll see you (and Boo) again one day, I know. xxx

p.s. Just a note about how Kipper got his name. Well, I was utterly undecided on names - he was called Monty first (Montgomery Clift), then had a day as Owen (A Prayer for Owen Meany). He was even called Badger for a while, inspired by his black snuffling nose. Nothing seemed to suit him. One day at my dad's house Kipper curled up on my knee and started snoring loudly.

'By, he's a good kipper.' my dad observed (meaning a sound-sleeper).

And that was it. Problem solved. Kipper was born!