So, money is no object to a government in such debt that austerity is set to continue for years. What happened then? Where did that money come from? Was David Cameron rummaging around in his back pockets and there he found a few million? 'Hey, Sam, look what I've just found! We'll be able to buy those ponies, yachts and Mulberry bags you had set your heart on. Oh, hang on; there's all this damned flooding going on just outside London, in Datchet and the majority of those people vote for me.Their homes on average cost over half a million, so we had better keep them sweet. And anyway, even though George Gideon keeps saying we're all in this together, we know damn well we're not, so let's get the ponies, yachts and Mulberry bags anyway.'
'Phew!OK Dave - you had me worried there; I thought I might have to wait more than five minutes to get something I want. After all, my needs must exceed everyone else's, and no doubt you'll want me to play the adoring wife come September at conference season again, won't you? And don't forget, that's the last conference speech you'll make to show them what a good guy you are, before the election in 2015.'
'Yes Sam, OK, I know. Do you want me to phone Harrods now for a private shopping session, so at least you can get the bags? It'll be better than having to wait until tomorrow.'
'Ooh yes, thank you Davey darling. Won't be long!'
The floods will go, the money will be spent, the houses will be dry again, but there will still be no money for the poor. They will languish, as ever, on hardly any money, even those working sixty hours a week, because as yet, the living wage has not been introduced. A spare room? Move out! I wonder how many spare rooms the queen has and her extended family.
The poor are vilified for their weak educational performance, their wholly irresponsible production of children, their unhealthy eating habits, their swearing, their smoking, their drug taking, their drinking their lack of hygiene and their general fecklessness. What hope for them?
Wednesday, 12 February 2014
Sunday, 2 February 2014
Are We Responsible for the Happiness of Others?
If your best friend is unhappy because of a broken relationship, a problem at work or a bereavement, how far should you feel duty bound to help your friend feel better? Or do you think that you have no responsibility at all?
What if it's your wife/husband/partner? What about if one of your siblings, or one of your parents is miserable, would you drop everything to help? Worst of all, what if one of your children is unhappy, deeply unhappy? If your child is young, then there are a variety of ways in which you can help. They are with you most of the time if they are very young and even teenagers are with you for a fair proportion of their time.
When 'children' grow up and something awful happens, that is the time when a parent's ability to help is much more limited, unless it's just a question of money. That said, you might not have any money to spare and anyway, the lack of money in your offspring might be symptomatic of something else, a bigger problem, a gambling habit,drug, shoe or alcohol problem.
Not having money to spare is different from not having any money. Should you go as far as to sell your car, your house, put your expensive jewellery on eBay or take on an additional job? Or should you do none of these things, believing that whoever it is in difficulty, should sort themselves out and that by depending on others, it is merely delaying the moment when the individual addresses the problem head-on and sets in motion what needs to be done to make better the difficulty, no matter what it is.
If a friend is utterly heartbroken, inconsolable about the break up of a relationship, how far does it behove you as a friend to be available for late night phone calls, visits, even spending Christmas with your friend, along with your relatives - after all it's just one more plate setting.
Many will say they couldn't possibly do that, but what if your distraught friend has no one else to go to, and has asked you to let them be with you for Christmas, maybe stay until a couple of days after Boxing Day because they regard you as a true friend. Oh and yes of course there's New Year so might it be a good idea to stick around until New Year and in return for your hospitality, they promise to help with domestic chores.
Is it then the case that you like them but just not that much or are you making excuses of the kind that your children now in their twenties, who have been abroad for some time and have actually come home to spend time with you, not, with someone who, in their view, is nothing more than a morose-looking, random stranger.
So, assuming you want to, how should you go about being a friend in general and helping a friend in need, in particular? Is it the case that we only want to be around our friends when they are amusing, interesting and not wallowing in the slough of despond?
And what about family? Is helping someone, whether that is financially or by giving your time, counter-productive? Should people not stand on their own two feet? They may be your children, but haven't you done enough? Isn't it your time now, not their time again? When, if ever, does the parental role end? When should it end? Perhaps it should never end. We can only hope that they will have their own children to experience what it's like.
As for friends - well I don't have the answer - though I wish I did.
What if it's your wife/husband/partner? What about if one of your siblings, or one of your parents is miserable, would you drop everything to help? Worst of all, what if one of your children is unhappy, deeply unhappy? If your child is young, then there are a variety of ways in which you can help. They are with you most of the time if they are very young and even teenagers are with you for a fair proportion of their time.
When 'children' grow up and something awful happens, that is the time when a parent's ability to help is much more limited, unless it's just a question of money. That said, you might not have any money to spare and anyway, the lack of money in your offspring might be symptomatic of something else, a bigger problem, a gambling habit,drug, shoe or alcohol problem.
Not having money to spare is different from not having any money. Should you go as far as to sell your car, your house, put your expensive jewellery on eBay or take on an additional job? Or should you do none of these things, believing that whoever it is in difficulty, should sort themselves out and that by depending on others, it is merely delaying the moment when the individual addresses the problem head-on and sets in motion what needs to be done to make better the difficulty, no matter what it is.
If a friend is utterly heartbroken, inconsolable about the break up of a relationship, how far does it behove you as a friend to be available for late night phone calls, visits, even spending Christmas with your friend, along with your relatives - after all it's just one more plate setting.
Many will say they couldn't possibly do that, but what if your distraught friend has no one else to go to, and has asked you to let them be with you for Christmas, maybe stay until a couple of days after Boxing Day because they regard you as a true friend. Oh and yes of course there's New Year so might it be a good idea to stick around until New Year and in return for your hospitality, they promise to help with domestic chores.
Is it then the case that you like them but just not that much or are you making excuses of the kind that your children now in their twenties, who have been abroad for some time and have actually come home to spend time with you, not, with someone who, in their view, is nothing more than a morose-looking, random stranger.
So, assuming you want to, how should you go about being a friend in general and helping a friend in need, in particular? Is it the case that we only want to be around our friends when they are amusing, interesting and not wallowing in the slough of despond?
And what about family? Is helping someone, whether that is financially or by giving your time, counter-productive? Should people not stand on their own two feet? They may be your children, but haven't you done enough? Isn't it your time now, not their time again? When, if ever, does the parental role end? When should it end? Perhaps it should never end. We can only hope that they will have their own children to experience what it's like.
As for friends - well I don't have the answer - though I wish I did.
Saturday, 25 January 2014
Interviews - fit for purpose?
A good friend of mine has just recently been interviewed for a job in the National Health Service. The interview was on a Thursday and she heard on the Friday morning that she had not got the job. She really wanted it and thought she had a good chance of getting it, as her particular skill-set matched exactly the person specification for the job. Needless to say she is very disappointed. She now knows who got the job - a person who has no experience of working in the NHS but had been head hunted for his ability to reduce the work force at his previous post.
My friend's disappointment started me thinking about interviews generally and their suitability as a way of finding the best people for jobs. On reflection, I don't know many people who perform well in interviews and it is a fact that I don't do well in them either.
Another friend tells me that in his days as a union rep, he sat in on interviews to make sure that everything was carried out fairly. Nevertheless strange outcomes often occurred. Though the procedures were adhered to strictly during the interviews and marks made on paper to register what the interviewee has replied to each of the questions, he was frequently astonished when the results of the interview were known. He even went so far as to say that the candidate who seemed not to get many 'marks on paper' was often offered the post.
Naturally, this information shook my sense of trust in the interview system, momentarily, then it opened my eyes wide and I realised that of course this is what happens. Why had I been so trusting? And SO foolish. If, as they say, the job is awarded to he/she who performed the best on the day, then why bother with looking at a person's experience and past work record? What nonsense! Were that the case, why bother with an application form. It's my belief that the decision is made prior to the interview and not always because that particular person is the best one for the job. A host of other matters are at play. Will the person take orders or challenge them? Are they of a certain disposition which will be amenable, calm, or even carry out those duties which their superiors want to fob off onto them?
Interviews then are not always fair, but I'm really struggling to suggest a better way. Short of very time-consuming observations, which would prove very expensive too, I really am stuck. Back in the fifties and sixties, people would be promoted into higher positions as older people retired or were themselves promoted. Of course there are problems with this method. Just because someone has been in a job for a long time does not necessarily mean that they are good at it - I'm sure readers will be thinking of such individuals in their own work place. There seems to be, in all workplaces, everywhere, a ubiquitous manager who really should not be in the job, and we all know it.
So, to return to such a system would no longer work and besides, people are much more mobile now and don't stay anywhere long enough for the waiting for others to move up or retire to take place.
If anyone would like to suggest a way, which would as near as possible, select the best person for the job, in a fair and transparent way, I would be more than happy to listen.
My friend's disappointment started me thinking about interviews generally and their suitability as a way of finding the best people for jobs. On reflection, I don't know many people who perform well in interviews and it is a fact that I don't do well in them either.
Another friend tells me that in his days as a union rep, he sat in on interviews to make sure that everything was carried out fairly. Nevertheless strange outcomes often occurred. Though the procedures were adhered to strictly during the interviews and marks made on paper to register what the interviewee has replied to each of the questions, he was frequently astonished when the results of the interview were known. He even went so far as to say that the candidate who seemed not to get many 'marks on paper' was often offered the post.
Naturally, this information shook my sense of trust in the interview system, momentarily, then it opened my eyes wide and I realised that of course this is what happens. Why had I been so trusting? And SO foolish. If, as they say, the job is awarded to he/she who performed the best on the day, then why bother with looking at a person's experience and past work record? What nonsense! Were that the case, why bother with an application form. It's my belief that the decision is made prior to the interview and not always because that particular person is the best one for the job. A host of other matters are at play. Will the person take orders or challenge them? Are they of a certain disposition which will be amenable, calm, or even carry out those duties which their superiors want to fob off onto them?
Interviews then are not always fair, but I'm really struggling to suggest a better way. Short of very time-consuming observations, which would prove very expensive too, I really am stuck. Back in the fifties and sixties, people would be promoted into higher positions as older people retired or were themselves promoted. Of course there are problems with this method. Just because someone has been in a job for a long time does not necessarily mean that they are good at it - I'm sure readers will be thinking of such individuals in their own work place. There seems to be, in all workplaces, everywhere, a ubiquitous manager who really should not be in the job, and we all know it.
So, to return to such a system would no longer work and besides, people are much more mobile now and don't stay anywhere long enough for the waiting for others to move up or retire to take place.
If anyone would like to suggest a way, which would as near as possible, select the best person for the job, in a fair and transparent way, I would be more than happy to listen.
Friday, 20 December 2013
Offensive People
This morning I was out with my dog. We were on our way back home, crossing a busy road. We were almost on the other side when a woman jumped in her car, a few feet away from us and slammed her huge car into reverse, not looking behind her, missing my dog's front paw by about six inches.
I shouted, 'Watch out! At this she got out of her car and told me, 'This is a fucking road!' She was waving her arms around and telling me I wasn't fit to be out on the fucking streets. I said nothing, too shocked to speak and also concerned about my dog, who appeared a little rattled.
At that moment, I noticed a couple, late thirties I'd guess, and they began asking me how I was and how my dog was. At this, the offender started imitating the couple, mocking them in a high baby voice and saying why wasn't anyone asking her if she was alright. Very calmly and very unexpectedly, the man of the couple turned towards her, and in the most measured tone asked her, 'Why don't you eat shit and die?'
I shouted, 'Watch out! At this she got out of her car and told me, 'This is a fucking road!' She was waving her arms around and telling me I wasn't fit to be out on the fucking streets. I said nothing, too shocked to speak and also concerned about my dog, who appeared a little rattled.
At that moment, I noticed a couple, late thirties I'd guess, and they began asking me how I was and how my dog was. At this, the offender started imitating the couple, mocking them in a high baby voice and saying why wasn't anyone asking her if she was alright. Very calmly and very unexpectedly, the man of the couple turned towards her, and in the most measured tone asked her, 'Why don't you eat shit and die?'
Wednesday, 11 December 2013
Single Women - is there still a stigma about them?
As a pupil at a grammar school in the late sixties/early seventies, my friends and I felt so sorry for the single, unmarried teachers. Our Domestic Science teacher, Miss Scarr, was a very attractive woman, even though she had enough hairspray on her hair, that she, like Mrs. Thatcher, would not have had a hair out of place if she found herself in a force nine gale.
Poor woman! (Miss Scarr I mean, not Margaret Thatcher, never Margaret Thatcher).
'Have you got a boyfriend Miss?' 'Do you want to get married?' Would you like children?' 'Are you in love?' and on and on and on.
There were many Misses at my school. Miss Fry, History, Miss Gaye, Maths, Miss Freeman, Latin and Miss Parry, also Latin. The headmistress was a Miss too, Miss Furtado - though her name suggested it, there was nothing of the exotic about her. Mrs Roberts was our English teacher and she was married. She was beautiful, so therefore she was married. Such was our thinking.
There was then, most definitely, a stigma about being unmarried for women. (I'll leave men out of it for now). Is there still a stigma today? I would say yes -yes, despite feminism, more women than men in university and more women in senior roles in politics and business. Still, even now in 2013, women, if they are honest want the whole marriage and children deal. Why is that? Who,or what is it that makes women buy into this? Given the divorce rate, surely women are not in thrall to the Cornflake family.
More thought required...
Poor woman! (Miss Scarr I mean, not Margaret Thatcher, never Margaret Thatcher).
'Have you got a boyfriend Miss?' 'Do you want to get married?' Would you like children?' 'Are you in love?' and on and on and on.
There were many Misses at my school. Miss Fry, History, Miss Gaye, Maths, Miss Freeman, Latin and Miss Parry, also Latin. The headmistress was a Miss too, Miss Furtado - though her name suggested it, there was nothing of the exotic about her. Mrs Roberts was our English teacher and she was married. She was beautiful, so therefore she was married. Such was our thinking.
There was then, most definitely, a stigma about being unmarried for women. (I'll leave men out of it for now). Is there still a stigma today? I would say yes -yes, despite feminism, more women than men in university and more women in senior roles in politics and business. Still, even now in 2013, women, if they are honest want the whole marriage and children deal. Why is that? Who,or what is it that makes women buy into this? Given the divorce rate, surely women are not in thrall to the Cornflake family.
More thought required...
Sunday, 8 December 2013
Manchester - the London of the North
My youngest child, 23, has a Christmas job in Harvey Nichols. He's not front of shop but behind the scenes, delivering goods to different departments and loading vans to deliver goods to the homes of the Cheshire set. I received a text from him on his first day - I pad cover, £395! Say What? Yesterday, my niece aged 16 and I (aged much older) went to Manchester for the day and hoped to meet him. It is stunning. The crowds, the decorations, the restaurants, the market, the street entertainment - just as good as any you would find in Covent Garden- are all (almost) up to London standards.
We shopped for a few hours and then decided to try to have lunch, or whatever name you can give to a meal at 3.30 in the afternoon, and went down to The Print-works area, where the high end shops are, including Harvey Nichols and Selfridges. We tried to eat at the Hard Rock cafe, but it would be a 50 minute wait.A real shame as she has a bit of a thing about the Hard Rock cafe. Still, I was able to by her a charm to add to her bracelet of Hard Rock cafe charms of those she has previously visited. I had been told 2 days previously that bookings were not taken at the Hard Rock cafe.So we were given a bleeper which would bleep when there was a table ready. We gave it 7 minutes, wandered round and looked at the photos, used the toilets with the almost impossible to use taps until someone, accustomed to a Hard Rock tap, pressed gently where it said Press, and out came the water. The bleeper was handed in and we then headed off to Prezzo - quieter, though still busy, more spacious and probably better food. Lovely it was. Pizza Vesuvius for me and Spaghetti Carbonara for her. My son couldn't meet us; out on a delivery, which was a shame for several reasons, but the one reason that I was particularly concerned about was that my boy is chatty, always has been and he's witty and excellent company. Fond of my niece as I am, she doesn't talk all that much.
Manchester is thriving - 2 very successful universities add to the hoards of young people crowded round the city centre, along with 2 highly successful football teams, which add significant economic benefits to the region. But it's not just this and the other aspects mentioned. There is an atmosphere, no doubt assisted by the time of year, created by a city centre at the zenith of its success. In the main area of shops there are no boarded up places as there are on so many high streets, no charity shops, plenty of high-end shops such as Hobbs, Russell and Bromley, Diesel, and Jigsaw. Confidence abounds, exuded by the many shoppers carrying several smart bags, their purchases within.
Moving towards the station, things get a little more down market. There is a distinct aroma of cannabis in the air, strongly suggesting that the police are turning a blind eye to minor law-breaking. The ubiquitous Pound shop is there and a leather shop, hard leather, biker leather, not the leather of Selfridges coats and bags, which seems to be so processed that ironically it barely looks like leather at all. There's a Gregg's, a Barnado's charity shop and a greasy spoon. There are a few beggars - oh the agony they bring to the middle classes - to give or not to give? - and several drunk people who are tolerated as long as they do not become abusive or unruly.
But, once inside the station we go upmarket again. Monsoon, an expensive greeting card shop, Thornton's chocolates and enough baristas to form an orchestra. On the upper floor there is a Marks and Spencer's food shop - Simply M+S as it bills itself. The station is well-organised, clean, controlled and generally feels safe.
Manchester has a magnificent town hall and a stunning library too. Compared to London though, these are very modest boasts as the capital has such a wealth of showstopping sights. Borough Market in Southwark has no competitor from the provinces though and Trafalgar Square, the museums and the galleries, the theatres are world class of course.
That said, Manchester is a good place to be, especially for a young person, especially if the young person is from Yorkshire because Leeds and Sheffield simply cannot compete. Manchester's Primark is huge and packed. We did 40 minutes inside which was far too much for me but, I suspect, not enough for my niece. Again, not as big as the one on Oxford Street in London.
So Manchester wins for the North, is the London of the North, but has a long, long way to go to beat London as so many places have.
a tolerance, n nce
We shopped for a few hours and then decided to try to have lunch, or whatever name you can give to a meal at 3.30 in the afternoon, and went down to The Print-works area, where the high end shops are, including Harvey Nichols and Selfridges. We tried to eat at the Hard Rock cafe, but it would be a 50 minute wait.A real shame as she has a bit of a thing about the Hard Rock cafe. Still, I was able to by her a charm to add to her bracelet of Hard Rock cafe charms of those she has previously visited. I had been told 2 days previously that bookings were not taken at the Hard Rock cafe.So we were given a bleeper which would bleep when there was a table ready. We gave it 7 minutes, wandered round and looked at the photos, used the toilets with the almost impossible to use taps until someone, accustomed to a Hard Rock tap, pressed gently where it said Press, and out came the water. The bleeper was handed in and we then headed off to Prezzo - quieter, though still busy, more spacious and probably better food. Lovely it was. Pizza Vesuvius for me and Spaghetti Carbonara for her. My son couldn't meet us; out on a delivery, which was a shame for several reasons, but the one reason that I was particularly concerned about was that my boy is chatty, always has been and he's witty and excellent company. Fond of my niece as I am, she doesn't talk all that much.
Manchester is thriving - 2 very successful universities add to the hoards of young people crowded round the city centre, along with 2 highly successful football teams, which add significant economic benefits to the region. But it's not just this and the other aspects mentioned. There is an atmosphere, no doubt assisted by the time of year, created by a city centre at the zenith of its success. In the main area of shops there are no boarded up places as there are on so many high streets, no charity shops, plenty of high-end shops such as Hobbs, Russell and Bromley, Diesel, and Jigsaw. Confidence abounds, exuded by the many shoppers carrying several smart bags, their purchases within.
Moving towards the station, things get a little more down market. There is a distinct aroma of cannabis in the air, strongly suggesting that the police are turning a blind eye to minor law-breaking. The ubiquitous Pound shop is there and a leather shop, hard leather, biker leather, not the leather of Selfridges coats and bags, which seems to be so processed that ironically it barely looks like leather at all. There's a Gregg's, a Barnado's charity shop and a greasy spoon. There are a few beggars - oh the agony they bring to the middle classes - to give or not to give? - and several drunk people who are tolerated as long as they do not become abusive or unruly.
But, once inside the station we go upmarket again. Monsoon, an expensive greeting card shop, Thornton's chocolates and enough baristas to form an orchestra. On the upper floor there is a Marks and Spencer's food shop - Simply M+S as it bills itself. The station is well-organised, clean, controlled and generally feels safe.
Manchester has a magnificent town hall and a stunning library too. Compared to London though, these are very modest boasts as the capital has such a wealth of showstopping sights. Borough Market in Southwark has no competitor from the provinces though and Trafalgar Square, the museums and the galleries, the theatres are world class of course.
That said, Manchester is a good place to be, especially for a young person, especially if the young person is from Yorkshire because Leeds and Sheffield simply cannot compete. Manchester's Primark is huge and packed. We did 40 minutes inside which was far too much for me but, I suspect, not enough for my niece. Again, not as big as the one on Oxford Street in London.
So Manchester wins for the North, is the London of the North, but has a long, long way to go to beat London as so many places have.
a tolerance, n nce
Tuesday, 3 December 2013
It haunts me still...
What I am about to relate is a description of the scene I encountered when on toilet duty at a school in Sheffield in 1983. The school was in a socially disadvantaged area and staff employed at the school were paid extra, for 'daring' to work there. Rumours were rife as to just how bad it was working there - the staff never walked alone, but in pairs and all the pupils carried weapons.
I absolutely loved working at that school, and at the tender age of 24 I had boundless energy and a genuine belief in working the pupils hard- that way they would fulfil their potential. The department I worked in was great too, the Head of Department leading by example, by means of his inspirational teaching, his relationship with the pupils and his high expectations.
So many changes have taken place since the 80s one change in particular being people's attitudes to smoking. We had a staff smoking room eventually but in the early 1980s teachers would smoke in their staffrooms with no consideration for their non-smoking colleagues. It was just what it was like.
Staff took it in turns at break and dinner times to check that our pupils were not smoking in the toilets. It wasn't such a bad experience usually and we got a free school meal for our trouble.
One particular lunchtime when I was on duty, I was fretting a little because I had forgotten that I was on duty and I had planned that I would mark the test I'd set the previous lesson, for the class I was due to teach after the lunch break. Accepting that that would be impossible and starting to relax a little, I heard a muffled sound. Just at that point a colleague came up to me telling me that he was concerned about the behaviour of one of my tutor group. I forgot about the muffled sound until my colleague and I had finished our conversation. Then, I heard it again. I decided to wander into the girls' toilets to see if I could find out what the sound was.
There were seven ordinary sized toilets but at the far end was a cubicle about double the size, which also had a sink. I listened carefully but couldn't hear anything, though I was sure someone was in the large cubicle. 'Hello, is everyone alright in here?' I asked. I then heard a rustling sound and what seemed like a squeak. 'Hello! Is everything OK in there?' I heard a shushing sound. Becoming quite irritated now I said, 'Please answer me. What is going on in there?' While this was going on girls were in and out of the toilet. One girl in particular was hanging around, looking at me, checking her reflection in the bit of the mirror that still gave out an image, but seeming extremely tense. 'Miss,' she said, 'have you seen Donna Mayers this dinnertime?' I hadn't but that wasn't unusual. 'Well Miss, you should open that door at the end because I think she's in there and she's in trouble.' I studied her face and she seemed extremely on edge. 'Miss, for Christ's sake, open that door!'
I pushed hard but couldn't move it. The muffled sounds, the shushing and the rustling were getting louder. 'Open this door immediately,' I shouted. Nothing. So, I climbed onto the toilet of the next cubicle and looked over the top. What I saw I will never forget. There was a girl on the floor, Donna Mayers, and at each of her limbs as she lay spreadeagled on the floor, sat another girl. Four girls sitting on one. Their victim had a scarf tied over her mouth and tears were streaming down her face. One girl was holding a pair of scissors and Donna's long thick chestnut coloured hair was lying in chunks on the toilet floor. Another girl had in her hand a pair of tweezers, another a metal nail file and another a purple lipstick which she was smearing all over Donna, while the others jabbed at her with their makeshift weapons.
I remember yelling as loudly as I could for them to stand up immediately. Soon, other members of staff arrived alerted by the girl who was telling me to open the door.
Parents were called in, exclusions were carried out and other suitable punishments administered. Donna, I never saw again. She was fifteen years old when this happened to her and I wonder just how badly this experience has affected her life. She'll be in her mid-forties now. This incident haunts me still and I'm certain it will still haunt Donna.
(NB Donna is not her real name).
I absolutely loved working at that school, and at the tender age of 24 I had boundless energy and a genuine belief in working the pupils hard- that way they would fulfil their potential. The department I worked in was great too, the Head of Department leading by example, by means of his inspirational teaching, his relationship with the pupils and his high expectations.
So many changes have taken place since the 80s one change in particular being people's attitudes to smoking. We had a staff smoking room eventually but in the early 1980s teachers would smoke in their staffrooms with no consideration for their non-smoking colleagues. It was just what it was like.
Staff took it in turns at break and dinner times to check that our pupils were not smoking in the toilets. It wasn't such a bad experience usually and we got a free school meal for our trouble.
One particular lunchtime when I was on duty, I was fretting a little because I had forgotten that I was on duty and I had planned that I would mark the test I'd set the previous lesson, for the class I was due to teach after the lunch break. Accepting that that would be impossible and starting to relax a little, I heard a muffled sound. Just at that point a colleague came up to me telling me that he was concerned about the behaviour of one of my tutor group. I forgot about the muffled sound until my colleague and I had finished our conversation. Then, I heard it again. I decided to wander into the girls' toilets to see if I could find out what the sound was.
There were seven ordinary sized toilets but at the far end was a cubicle about double the size, which also had a sink. I listened carefully but couldn't hear anything, though I was sure someone was in the large cubicle. 'Hello, is everyone alright in here?' I asked. I then heard a rustling sound and what seemed like a squeak. 'Hello! Is everything OK in there?' I heard a shushing sound. Becoming quite irritated now I said, 'Please answer me. What is going on in there?' While this was going on girls were in and out of the toilet. One girl in particular was hanging around, looking at me, checking her reflection in the bit of the mirror that still gave out an image, but seeming extremely tense. 'Miss,' she said, 'have you seen Donna Mayers this dinnertime?' I hadn't but that wasn't unusual. 'Well Miss, you should open that door at the end because I think she's in there and she's in trouble.' I studied her face and she seemed extremely on edge. 'Miss, for Christ's sake, open that door!'
I pushed hard but couldn't move it. The muffled sounds, the shushing and the rustling were getting louder. 'Open this door immediately,' I shouted. Nothing. So, I climbed onto the toilet of the next cubicle and looked over the top. What I saw I will never forget. There was a girl on the floor, Donna Mayers, and at each of her limbs as she lay spreadeagled on the floor, sat another girl. Four girls sitting on one. Their victim had a scarf tied over her mouth and tears were streaming down her face. One girl was holding a pair of scissors and Donna's long thick chestnut coloured hair was lying in chunks on the toilet floor. Another girl had in her hand a pair of tweezers, another a metal nail file and another a purple lipstick which she was smearing all over Donna, while the others jabbed at her with their makeshift weapons.
I remember yelling as loudly as I could for them to stand up immediately. Soon, other members of staff arrived alerted by the girl who was telling me to open the door.
Parents were called in, exclusions were carried out and other suitable punishments administered. Donna, I never saw again. She was fifteen years old when this happened to her and I wonder just how badly this experience has affected her life. She'll be in her mid-forties now. This incident haunts me still and I'm certain it will still haunt Donna.
(NB Donna is not her real name).
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