To Sir with love.....

Well, stormed up the school, didn't I. To see Sir (Son's teacher). Said he'd been expecting me and ushered me into a "group room" opposite the classroom. We sat round a small table, with water and glasses and that, not that I got offered anything!

Sir whipped off his glasses, and tears came to his young and beautiful eyes. He declared he wasn't gay at all really. And that he no longer wanted to be married to this other bloke, as he now thought civil weddings were new age nonsense. He will get a divorce immediately as he now likes birds. Especially older ones with big breasts and that.

I begged him to control himself and think logically. But it was too late, he had buried his gorgeous head in my chest before I could say Bats For The Other Team.

Actually, what really happened was Sir said He'd knew why I'd come. And I said Don't you think you were a little harsh in Son's end of year report? Maths and English were his strongest subjects. And he got level 5's for Gods Sake. He shouldn't be graded in the Need to Improve category. And he said He had been ruthless, yes, as he wanted to give Son a wake-up call. A shove to do better in Secondary school. He was capable of so much better things, rather than keep mucking about with his mates.

He assured me he had been in turmoil about this. (I was in turmoil about him, I tell you!) and Son's report took the longest to write.

I said Thank You. And Sir said he was glad I came. I said So was I - but not for the reasons he thinks. I was glad, because I was this close to that gorgeous Jarvis Cocker look-alike teacher. . Better not tell him that , eh?

Anyway, after Friday, he will be history, as Son is out of primary school for good. From now on, Son has a lady teacher for the next five years, so Husband can clean up on that one!
Sigh!

Anyway, afraid Georgie Fame is well packed-up. Its Sir all the way for me now! Though I don't think the feeling's mutual.

Treasures.....

Desperate to get back on here again, o my brothers. That nasty bully Virgin had a fault and we were offline for a few days. That was their story anyway. That Richard Branson looks dead shifty to me - with that stupid beard and his wandering eyes and everything. What kind of fault eh? Thats what I wanna know. Something sinister, I bet.

Week before. Had to work. Would you believe it? Bastards! Stock-taking, babysitting, school stuff - the lot. I virtually had to get on me hands and knees and scrub the workhouse floor. Thats what it felt like anyway. Look at my hands! They're shaking like frack! Me poor nerves.
Got kind of itchy and tetchy by the time that long week finished. Wish people would leave me alone.

Sent off a sample of my book to some agency or another. Their rejection was brutal and cold. Bastards! A terrible shock after the warm and embracing arms of "Womans' Weekly". Gits!! Me with my nerves too!

Went to my mates' boys confirmation party last weekend. They forced me to smoke and drink - AND eat cheesecake. Fell right off that wagon! And then on Monday, Son was in a school production of Oliver. His heart not being into drama and showbusiness at all, he stood at the back of the chorus, dressed as a pickpocket, bored senseless. I don't think we'll be buying the video somehow.

Anyway, afterwards, these two blondes (mums) made me drink a big glass of wine. And forced me to have a fag too (outside the school gate). They said "drink this, bitch.." - I choked back tears and gave in to their evil demands.

Tomorrow night, another party. Husband's nephew's 18th. Got a strong feeling I'll be falling off that wagon again!

Decided I really fancy Georgie Fame. Saw him in Twickenham recently - playing that is. Not walking the street or anything. He's even sexier now he's older. I wanna hold his hand and go to the pictures with him. And snog and that. Thats all you do, isn't it? Can't remember to be honest. Can someone put in a good word for me?

It was a hot afternoon.....

Where is all this heat coming from? Does it never relent? I don't understand all this shit!

I go to Son's school to bollock the teacher. Its a lunchtime. There is classical music playing. Children are allowed to sit in the corridors, and the very forbidden trim trail.
"They're hot", a teacher tells me, "They probably didn't sleep well"

Good grief! Has she wiped their bottoms as well! What about a bit of wet-nursing!

Sunshine should never be missed was the policy at my primary school. Despite the heat bringing out the worst in everybody. Boys had vicious fights, girls were ultra-bitchy and the teachers more slap-happy than usual.

We were dragged outside on any pretext on a blindingly hot afternoon in the late sixties. Mostly to the threadbare school field, not a scrap of shade in sight. And despite being off ill several times with heatstroke, "I'll give you something to cry for", was the most sympathetic response from teaching staff.

Sportsday was a real bastard. Dragging your wooden chair miserably across the sportsfield in 90 degrees, skin angrily red and fat thighs bulging out of tight shorts, you had to run whether you liked it or not.

Miserably trailing last, only my mum cheering me on, the boys would throw stuff at me as I went by. My mum bollocked them if she saw them but no-one really gave a shit. My face as red as a beacon, I would miserably put on my team band to take part in some sort of tedious relay where I really would let the side down.

Did me plenty of harm, I tell you. I touch the red roughness of my neck. 1967 wasn't that long ago, was it? Surely there's still some bugger there I could touch for a settlement?

Meanwhile I cluck my tongue at such outrageous mollycoddling.