Wednesday, 6 February 2013

Letter to my school



Dear St Thomas Moore,

I am very lucky that I made some great friends whilst at the school, but you could have ruined me. You did not notice a bright, intelligent child in need. (There I go blowing my own trumpet).

When Mr Nutt (yes that was his real name, not sure if his wife was really called Hazel), hauled myself and Mandy Mac in front of the whole school to humiliate us, that was out of order.  We had stared at a girl from another school to wonder why she was staring at us. We were not bullies. You knew that. We were good catholic girls from nice families. You should have got your facts right first.

When Mr Pierce practically beat the shit out of Michael Ahearne for giggling in his art class, that has stayed with me for life. Perhaps Mr Pierce, you had your own homophobic tendencies that you were trying to get out of your system.  Mr C, the PE Teacher you were a nice guy, but you didn’t do anything to discourage the girls from flirting with you and you accidentally walked into the changing rooms when we were in a bras and knickers a few times to many! As for Mr Lomax, you were a sadistic bully. It was cruel that you told me that I looked an utter state. Did you know that my Mum was in and out of mental hospitals during my childhood?  Was it absolutely essential that you caned boys in front of the whole school for getting excited when the snow fell?

Mr Everard, you were a wet fart and your Jesus creepers with white socks was not a good look, but you were very kind and your heart was in the right place. You encouraged me to do well and gave me a lead part in the school play.  I relished being on the stage and got great laughs from the audience.  During the school talent show, myself and a bunch of girls rehearsed for weeks and weeks to dance to a song from Grease. I loved wearing the long skirt, ankle socks and pumps. But I never got to perform as I was called out just before going on stage to have my school medical. You bastards!  Could you not have just waited another ten minutes for me?

When my Nan died and I was in a mess with trying to understand my mum’s mental illness, I was a bit withdrawn. But I was not thick like you thought I was. Nothing wrong with French life studies because you did not think I was not bright enough to speak the friggin language but I did not want to be making French onion soup, I wanted some oo la la and when I finally got put in the French Speaking class, I came out top! I also came out with A grades in my exams and when I went up to Senior School, I was in the top ability classes where I belonged. St Thomas Moore, you tried to squash me and did not notice a little girl that needed some TLC. Anyway, thank goodness the children were all so lovely and I learned more from Aunty Marion the Dinner Lady than most of the teachers put together. 

I didn’t do too badly out of this experience anyway. It made me a stronger person. Schools today would not get away with that behavior.  I had a great time at Salesians School in Chertsey.  Oozing with confidence, I became a holiday rep for several years, have been successful in recruitment and ran my own business for six years and write on a fairly regular basis for one of the financial papers. So stick that where the sun don’t shine!

Friday, 1 February 2013

Do you believe in Father Christmas?



This is old news I know, however I have to join in with the banter about the Health Minister saying that fat people are poor people. Well, I am not surprised. Have you been into the pound shop lately?  Why would I pay £2.50 for a multi pack of Charlotte’s Skips at Waitrose when they are, well a pound in my new favorite shop. Once you are in there it is like Santa’s Grotto – chilli nuts, After 8s, Walnut Whirls. Yum Yum and Yum.   

I had a small barney with Charlotte the other day. I said that I would ring Father Christmas to say that she doesn’t want any presents this year. Well, the little monkey ran to the phone, dialed Santa and said, “Mummy is very naughty and not on the good list. She does not want any presents”. Well, I don’t get much anyway so I don’t really care.  I will have to think of a new punishment now! 

Friday in our office is wine Friday. We finish at 5pm on the last working day of the week and celebrate by cracking open the vino a little bit before home time. Usually after just one glass of something sparkly, I feel a little bit squiffy and place some mint drops on my tongue before picking up Charlotte so that Nursery does not think I am an alcoholic. You might thing that a little strange but last year I got called into the office at the Nursery as the staff had noticed that Daddy’s breath smelled of alcohol, not just once but on several occasions. I was mortified but not sure why.  Embarrassed that my husband cannot do the pick up without a quick pint to numb the pain a bit of what lies ahead.  Do those girls really think Ben is an unfit Father that should be on the Jeremy Klye show? No, of course not, they are only doing their job and to be honest I am fairly impressed by how astute they are and Ben now never touches a drop of the amber nectar until the evening! 

I need to tell you about my lodger. He is my brother who moved in with us September 2011 for 3-4 months and he is still with us!  Not that I don’t mind the money, it is nice and helps us with the crippling nursery fees.  He is very good company and fairly tidy – he always washes up his own plate and cup and there is never any of his mess downstairs amongst the rubble of toys, Ben’s shoes, clothes, wet towels etc (there I go again with the towel thing, I have serious issues, I know).  Only little things about him bug me like the nicking of wine and Charlotte’s snack stash.  There is also a little bit too much black sock fluff around the house and the bathroom looks like it has hit an iceberg with the amount of water everywhere.  I just look forward to it just being the three of us again which will help with the clutter situation and I am may even have some impromptu romantic moments with my husband on the sofa of an evening while we are watching Miranda! Euugh, “enough already”, I hear you say. On that note: Hasta La Vista