Chain Fiction: December 2007 Part Two

It's back! Greg's posted the beginning of a new story. Read Part One by clicking on the link below. Then come back and read my Part Two. If you fancy adding another section yourself then feel free. Check out the rules and conventions here.

Part One @ Greg's Brain.

Part Two: 408 words.

16 years earlier...

Standing by the edge of the great frozen pond, the tall blonde-haired girl looked wistfully out across the vast expanse. She was wrapped in an over-sized duffle coat, a long multi-coloured scarf and large mittens. Her teeth chattered lightly in the cold air. In the middle of the pond an icy breeze churned loose snowflakes into great swirls of white dust. Apart from her, there was not a soul in sight.

Squinting to shield her eyes from the bright light, she moved closer to the edge of the pond, trying to follow the swirling snow patterns in the distance. They reminded her of the ice dancers she'd watched on TV every Christmas for years, spinning and jumping around, seemingly so carefree and yet so meticulously rehearsed. In a strange way they reminded her of what she had done. Could it only have been an hour ago? So calmly and thoughtlessly, innocently even, and at the same time with such premeditation. Premeditation. She rolled the word around her mouth with her tongue, liking the sound of it but hating the meaning. That was the kind of word the police used, she thought. And judges in the criminal justice system. Is that what she was now? A criminal.

The pond before her seemed suddenly like an abyss and she took a step back from it, frightened of falling. She'd done that too many times before. Her hands began to itch again and she pulled the left one out from the warmth of its mitten and began to scratch. She could feel the familiar panic beginning to rise within her. The itch became more intense and she scratched harder. Wasn't there a character in that Shakespeare play they'd read last year at school who could never get her hands clean enough? Wasn't that character going mad?

Retreating further from the edge of the pond, she forced herself to stop scratching and put the mitten back on. Swallowing gulps of fresh, icy air she began to force the panic back down inside her. Get a grip. No-one could know yet. No-one would ever know. She just needed to walk back up to the house, eat Mom's sweet potato pie and celebrate Christmas as usual and everything would be OK. And, anyway, if things did turn out bad, there was one thing she was sure of: she could always say he'd made her do it. For Jack had. Hadn't he?

Part Three...(by you?)

We had a go at this a few months ago and it was great fun. Check out my effort in that story here.

I started life as a dog...

Greg of Greg's Brain has tagged me to write Seven Weird & Random Facts About Me. I have a feeling I've done this before, but I'm going to have a go at dredging up seven more from my somewhat Friday-addled brain because Greg tagged me in honour of my recent return to Blogdom, and that's a really kind gesture!

Here are the rules of the Meme:
Link to the person that tagged you and post the rules on your blog.
Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself.
Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.


So, let me think...


1. I was born in a veterinary surgery.


2. I have never broken, twisted, strained, pulled, snapped or injured in any way that required hospitalisation any part of my body. I guess there's time yet.


3. It's only just begun to dawn on me that one day people won't call me a young man anymore.


4. The most famous ancestors in my family tree were my 2nd cousin 9 times removed and my 1st cousin 3 times removed. One was High Sheriff of Sussex and one was a magician. I'm resigning myself to the fact that I'm probably never going to beat that.

5. My secret desire is to live in every capital city in the world. So far I've managed Washington, D.C., Brussels and London. Only 190 or so to go.


Make that 189: Bangui doesn't really take my fancy.


6. In my time I have voted in national elections for all three of the major political parties in the UK. Yes, to my immense shame, even the Conservatives. I was young and impressionable.


7. I don't know how to belch. And I'm proud of it.


Well, there you go. At least I tried, eh?!

So, I have to find 7 random people to tag now. Hmmm, not sure I know seven people in Blogdom again yet. Let's see...

1. I tag Akoni at The Chaput Blog because he's a new friend of mine.
2. I tag Ingrid at Boricua in Texas because she's been kind enough to comment on some of my random postings.
3. Coffeecup at The Panic Room has also earned a tag as a result of commenting on my posts. She'll wish she never did now!
4. And sad though it may seem that's the extent of my Blogdom friends right now so I'll have to leave it there!

The Lesser-Spotted Substitute Teacher...

So, today the class next door had a supply. Miss was sick and the supply agency had had to be called at some unearthly hour of the morning to request a willing victim. You'd have thought this might be a difficult task; finding someone at 7 o'clock in the morning to jump in the shower, grab some breakfast, cross London in rush-hour and arrive at an unknown class ready to teach they-don't-know-what, but it never ceases to amaze me that these agencies always manage to rustle someone up. Someone is the operative word in that sentence, for you can never be quite sure who's going to turn up. Beggars can't be choosers, you know.

All regular teachers know that supply teachers come in three types: the hippy-I've-gone-on-supply-because-the-real-world-of-teaching-is-way-too-stressy-man teacher; the way too keen newly-qualified-I-haven't-got-a-proper-job-yet-but-not-because-I'm-crap teacher; and the I'm-too-strict-for-the-army ultra hard bruiser (sorry...teacher).

The most common of these breeds is the NQT (or Newly Qualified Teacher or in Latin teacherius terrifdius). They are usually young women and can always be recognised by their sprightly eyes, shot through with a hint of red and a large dose of terror. They nearly always dress in sharp trouser suits, with plenty of pockets for small wandering hands to creep into and usually in a light beige, ideal for displaying the smallest of glue/paint/pen/pencil/snot marks. They begin the day with a sickeningly bouncy demeanour, which, at 7.30 in the morning, is enough to make you want to round up the roughest kids you can find and shove them in the class before she gets there. You don't, of course, because you know that that smile's not going to last long. She'll be eaten alive. The newly-qualified-I-haven't-got-a-proper-job-yet-but-not-because-I'm-crap supply teacher is closely related to the hopeless romantic and the eternal optimist.

The hippy supply teacher is a rare breed, preferring, as it does, the freedom of home schooling and experimental teaching, to the restrictive environment of the classroom, but if you're lucky enough to catch sight of one who has been lured/coaxed/forced into school, you're in for a treat. They come in a variety of colours, all worn at the same time, and their hair resembles a bird's nest recently attacked by a fox. Their clothes trail behind them in a feast of tassles, chiffon and organic, breathable cotton and their footwear, if they choose to wear any, is, somewhat inevitably, a sandal. Their voice is as distinctive as they come: a feathery-light, breathy whisper, at a pitch barely audible to human beings, and which they use to justify their less than traditional methods: Yeah, right, like I didn't do that Maths lesson. The kids were just too stressed yeah after taking the register. We just needed a break from all that academic stuff, yeah, for an hour or two. Yeah...right. If you ever meet a hippy-I've-gone-on-supply-because-the-real-world-of-teaching-is-way-too-stressy-man teacher, take a picture. You'll never see the same one twice.

The final type of supply teacher is the most common and it was one of these who walked into the class next door today. They are usually women, although sometimes, to be truthful, it's difficult to tell. This one was definitely female and I could tell she was one of the I'm-too-strict-for-the-army types when I saw her getting the riot gear out of the boot of her car. These supplies usually wear combat trousers and lead-tipped boots and she was no exception, topping off the look with a full-length body shield and a handily accessible pepper spray canister clipped to her all-purpose utility belt. This was admirable forward-planning I thought, but I could only stand back and applaud when she added a Taser to the belt - that's a woman who takes no crap. And if Miss Chalk's handshake was anything to go by (I still have my hand in ice), she certainly meant to take no crap. Unfortunately, she hadn't bargained on the class next door being the class from hell. 6 hours after arriving, several strangled cries and exactly 18 Taser blasts later, she emerged from Next Door like a bullet from a gun and pounded downstairs faster than you could say Territorial Army. She didn't stop to tell me how it had gone, but I'm sure I saw, through my wry smiling eyes, a cracked body shield being thrown into the boot of her car.

My colleague next door was certainly ill enough for one day off school, possibly two. I secretly hope she will be off again tomorrow. Not because I wish her any ill, but if she is sick again, you never know, if I'm really lucky, I might just get to catch a glimpse of a hippy-I've-gone-on-supply-because-the-real-world-of-teaching-is-way-too-stressy-man supply, and, for a closet Supply Spotter, that's an opportunity too good to miss.

Santa's on vacation...

According to the British Royal Mail, letters to Father Christmas must be sent to the following address:

Father Christmas, Santa’s Grotto, Reindeerland, SAN TA1

The Americans, on the other hand, seem to know something we don't, offering a service whereby parents can write a reply letter from Santa and then have it postmarked The North Pole by a post office in Arkansas.

I ask you, talk about shattering dreams and destroying innocence. What's the point of sending your letter to Reindeerland if he's on holiday in Arkansas? Guess I'll have to send mine off again.

Christmas is coming...

Kingfisher Class Hoop (read: cheap Christmassy tat - the best there is!).

And the winner is...

So, the clock has ticked its last, the fat lady has sung, showered, brushed her teeth and gone to bed and the hoops saga has come to an end. Thank goodness.

Don't get me wrong - I love Christmas, just not the horrendous manic build-up to it that is a primary classroom in December. I'm not kidding you - it's hellish. As the final day of term draws ever closer, the classroom makes the transition from serene learning environment through tackiest Santa's grotto imaginable to, finally, explosion in an elf-run tinsel factory and I, in a matter of days (about two to be precise), make the transition from serene educator to the person who planted the bomb in the elf-run tinsel factory. Maybe you can tell - it's always a little bit stressful.

The most joyous part is the Christmas party. I actually love the Christmas party, mainly because the kids love it. They're so easily pleased it's great. Whack on a cheap Christmas hits CD from PoundLand (usually to be found on the Bargain Basement half price shelf), play some outdated parlour games that they wouldn't be seen dead playing in 'real life', throw in a few sausage rolls and sugary cakes/sweets/biscuits/drinks and you'll have 'em eating out of your hand (or from paper plates if you prefer). Honestly - it's that simple. If a chimpanzee could work a CD player and knew how to play Pass the Parcel or Musical Chairs, then even a monkey could do it. Whatever people say about kids these days and the loss of their innocence and youth, my experience is that, wherever you are, inner-city Britain or posh Brussels - the capital of Europe, kids can still make their own fun at the annual Christmas party.

So, I'm looking forward to this year's, especially as it'll mark, very nearly, the end of my time at this school. So, the kids will be happy (they'll be too distracted to be crying over my departure...hmmmm) and I'll be happy. Happy kids, happy teacher - a magical combination. Suddenly, it's starting to feel like Christmas!

Oh, by the way, despite the skullduggery of my fellow teaching professionals, we finished our class hoop and it's hanging as I write in the Lower Hall, a piece of resplendent tat, worthy of any Santa's grotto, or, at least, a PoundLand window display. Check it out above.

Jumping through hoops...

So, there we are at the top of the stairs - my class (read: rabble), my T.A. and me. The silent high-five has passed between us and the game is afoot. As if in a flash, the plan lurches into motion. My T.A. dives up the stairs, heading for the Resources Room and I, suddenly transformed into some kind of art and craft maniac, slowly open the door from the stairwell to the corridor. I'm about to poke my head around the door to check out the lay of the land when I'm hit by a wave of nerves and I shove a kid out in front of me. He says the way is clear - no-one else is up from the playground yet. "Right kids! Run!" And with that eloquent cry, I herd my children (read: gaggle) into the classroom and slam the door shut behind me, my heart racing and my breath coming in short gasps. Either the adrenalin is kicking in or I really need to cut down on those anti-fit-person pies.

What follows can only be described as pure and simple chaos. Shrieking, running, shouting, excitement coupled with horror...and that's just me. As for the kids, they listen intently as I divulge the genius plan. Some had already noted the T.A.'s unusual absence and seem, if I do say so myself, somewhat impressed by the two-pronged approach. We clear away the handwriting books (who likes handwriting anyway?) and lie low, waiting for the return of the tinsel and card-laden T.A. Time seems to stretch on for hours. Every footstep past the door makes us look up and then, in a flash, the door swings open and in staggers my T.A., bruised, battered and, most distressingly of all, empty-handed. She seems dazed and slightly confused and is babbling in a more than usually incoherent way. I manage to sit her down and she explains, between gasps, that she made it to the Resources Room alright and that she even made it to the Holy Grail - the tinsel and glitter shelf - before she noticed an icy chill in the air. Turning to find the source she caught a glimpse of raven hair fleeing the room and, between the locks, there was definitely a flash of glitter. Her mind racing with who it could have been, she turned back to the shelf to be met by an avalanche of boxes and card, tumbling from all around her, burying her up to her neck. It had taken her several minutes to dislodge herself and then she had come straight back to the classroom.

Pacing the room, there is only one thought on my mind: how are we going to make our hoops now, when the last remaining glitter in the school has just been snatched from our grasp by Miss Black, the evil raven-haired supply teacher from the top floor? Looking at my watch, panic begins to set in. Time remaining: 10 hours. There's nothing for it: we'll have to make our own glitter. I run to my computer and google how to make glitter. 5,310,000 hits stare back at me. Deep inside I know that none of them are going to help me. I feel the elusive title of Best Class Hoops slipping away from me with every second.

Then the epiphany comes: I'm leaving this school in two weeks so I don't give a damn who wins Best Class Hoops. With that my panic, along with my sudden transformation into the James Bond of the primary school art and craft world, come to an abrupt halt. The handwriting books come out once again and order is restored. Let the evil raven-haired supply teacher from the top floor have her glitter. It's no skin off my nose.

Mission: hoops. ABANDONED.
Time remaining: Who cares?

To be continued...check back tomorrow to see what my class eventually produces.