ug

It’s official. I am to car maintenance what I am to the art of seduction – with similar results.

Perhaps that is why my first car died on route to a concert and spent a weekend lowering house prices in the posh part of Aghadowey before being put out of its misery. Perhaps it is also why my third car needed to be towed home from Bushmills, having exploded impressively in a cloud of blue smoke, and embarrassingly, in front of some ex pupils. This, just 10 minutes after I had performed a clever piece of DIY at a junk yard to “fix” that annoying radiator leak. Could this also be why my fourth car would only start following a complicated procedure involving switching on and off lights in a particular order and no small amount of prayer?

You’d think after experiences like these I’d leave any repair work to the professions – especially since, for the first time, I’d spent more buying my car (number seven I think - let’s see, the Chevette, the AX, the Colt, the Astra, the Metro, the 306 and now the Bora – yeah, seven) than I did on the stereo I put into it.

Of course I should call in the experts, but of course I don’t. I am a man; and as we all know men are born with an inherent, almost supernatural, ability to fix anything – especially if it involves using a power tool of some kind. It’s right there on the Y chromosome next to the internal sat nav and the common sense suppressant.

So, when the trim broke off the sliding cover of the ashtray in my centre console I immediately went into problem solving mode. By pushing the cover in and down I should be able to realign the trim with the cover – and if I push hard enough I should even be able to break both of them off their runners and lose them inside the console forever – oops.
Not to worry. If I loosen the screw at the bottom of the ashtray that I just spotted it’ll release the console cover and I’ll be able to reach inside. Except it was like no screw I’d ever seen before. I needed to get a new screwdriver – so I did – and it was no good. That screw loosened the cover of the gear stick unit. But look. Two more screws.
Once they were loosened I had managed to reveal the internal workings of my air conditioning control unit. A few minutes, and half a dozen screws, later it seemed like the entire electronics system of my little Volkswagen was lying in bits on the passenger seat, I had practically removed my entire dashboard, and bought three new speciality tools I didn’t even know existed before – but no ashtray cover.

In despair I gave up and began to put everything back together. This turned out to be more difficult than I had imagined it would, and required a couple more new tools, some blu tac, and another hour of hard graft. Eventually I got it all stuck back together correctly. I know it was right because I had that single left over screw that you always have when you’ve done the job right.

It was only once everything was together that I spotted the solitary screw in the wall of the footwell, the solitary screw that, when loosened, allowed the ashtray cover to fall out of the console onto the floor. It was also the solitary screw that allowed my ashtray cover (with newly reattached trim) to slide easily back into its proper place. One lousy screw!

Oh well, my hands are scraped and bleeding, I have four blisters and seven hand tools that I am never likely to use again, and part of my dash board doesn’t quite sit right – but my ashtray slides smoothly. I am man, I am happy.

and... pause

If ever there was someone for whose death a moment of silence was appropriate it was Harold Pinter. He was the king of the pause and I loved him for it. His death, at 78, after a long battle with cancer of the oesophagus has prompted tributes to pour from the theatre world and press. So let me add my little effort to the flow.

A playwright, an actor, a director and a political activist; he said things I didn’t always agree with, wrote things that I didn’t always like very much and, at times, while studying theatre theory, I cursed his existence. But having been in two plays that he created I can’t deny the artistry and the insight he wielded. They were both the most challenging and enjoyable productions I have been involved in.

Fiercely protective of the people with whom he worked, he often appeared sour, occasionally bitter. That was a shame because the words he wrote in creating ‘The Caretaker’, ‘The Birthday Party’, and ‘the Homecoming’ suggest that of his many layers, the sour ones were the shallowest.

Much has been made of the fact that he had a word coined to describe his writing style. Pinteresque. An all new theatrical device.

Pinteresque: adj. in the style of the characters, situations, etc., of the plays of Harold Pinter, 20th Century English dramatist, marked especially by halting dialogue, uncertainty of identity and air of menace.
Chambers English Dictionary

I had a university professor who loved pauses. He often told us that more happened in the pauses than in the rest of the dialogue. I would personally question that statement but there is a lot to be said about what happens during silence. The discomfort silence creates can bring new levels of meaning to conversation. In a world full of noise there is nothing modern humans can deal with less than complete silence. I should know – I’m typing this upstairs in a coffee shop filled with bustling shoppers rather than in the complete peace of an empty house. And can you deny the fact that you are never so connected with someone than when you can share a meaningful silence with them?

When I was doing plays I loved using pauses. It was ok at university when we were doing heavy dramas – but now the plays I do with local groups tend to be comedies and farces – they don’t like my unnerving pauses in those – they assume I’ve forgotten my words. Our prompt hates me.

As a teacher I use pauses to great effect on my classes. It’s a well known truth that a well timed bout of silence will get the attention of a rowdy class faster than a world of shouting – and have a much better effect on blood pressure and voices.

I have written 29 plays and I think that’s really enough.

So Harold Pinter, we’ll miss you, we’ll continue to produce your work and we’ll continue to lap up those dramatic pauses. This is for you… … … … … … ... ... ... ... ... rest in silence

let me compose myself first

I’m not what you might call an emotional man. I don’t know whether it’s the north antrimer in me, seeing emotion as weakness, or whether I just don’t feel as strongly about things as most people. But recently - as in the last couple of days - I have suddenly taken on the emotions and mood swings of a heavily pregnant woman.

Evidence 1: Yesterday I was reading in class. Private Peaceful. I knew how the story was going to end. I had been preparing the pupils through plot prediction and text indicators – but when I got to the final page, after the firing squad had done it’s duty, and the narrator described how the other soldiers came out of their tents slowly and stood to attention – I choked. I don’t think anyone noticed, and if they did they seemed to see it as part of my reading style - but it was definitely there.

Evidence 2: This morning, in assembly, the Principal told the school of an accident involving a pupil from another local school. There had been a crash as he was making his way to a school formal and he had died. Now road accidents are all too common in this country, especially at this time of year; I didn’t know the pupil personally, had never even heard of him until that moment – but hearing that news hit me much harder than similar news had ever done before.

Evidence 3: This morning again. My first class on a Thursday is my year 12 literature class. I have always loved the classes I have with them because they are a lovely bunch of people. Each very different. This morning, however, I slept longer than I should and then managed to puncture a tyre on route to the school. I was 20 minutes late and someone else had taken them to their classroom. When the bell went I was standing at my door as one of the class arrived, fixed me with an icy stare, and said “I think I’ll wait till the rest get here.”
As the rest of the class arrived one by one I actually felt terrible. It’s not as if I could have avoided missing the lesson but the fact that they were all coming to tell me off about it made me feel so disappointed in myself – why? It’s something that happens all the time. Ok, I missed the final lesson before the holiday but it’s no biggy – I’d never missed any of their classes before. So why did I feel sooo bad?

Evidence 4: They weren’t coming to tell me off. When they were all assembled outside my room one of them produced a card. It seems they think that, as their regular teacher may come back from illness after the holiday, they wanted to thank me and say goodbye properly. They stood for a while wishing me well and individually thanking me – partly I imagine to get out of part of their next lesson, but still.
And when they finally left so I could start my year 10s’ class it happened again. Huge waves of emotion crashing as I took a sneaky look at the comments. I loved the fact that they had forced in literary terms. Sure they'd used a lot of them incorrectly and completely out of context - where's the harm?

My unreal English skills are derivative of your unreal teaching... An UnB elysium lad... simply the epitome of the best...

I was a little worried, though, that one of them had chosen to illustrate 'bathos' with a drawing of a bath. Then two returned ten minutes later – this time almost certainly to waste a bit of their Biology class. It was sweet – but not so sweet that I should feel overwhelmed.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me? But it’s catching. I’ve seen three people in tears today - for varying reasons. My classes have been hyper – manic even. One minute over the top with enthusive joy, then next in the depths of despair. Is there something in the water? Either way it’d better be fixed soon – goodness only knows how embarrassing I would be if I won an Oscar.

how did we know what to do before them?

Article 1.
All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights.They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood.

Today the Universal Declaration of Human Rights celebrates its 60th anniversary. This is good news for me as it gives me the excuse to get my year eights to write the universal declaration of twelve year olds’ rights. It’s also, in my opinion, good news for the human race – but then I’m a bleeding heart liberal so you expect me to say that. For many, while the sentiment is admirable the implementation of these rights causes problems.

Article 3.
Everyone has the right to life, liberty and security of person.

The European Court of Human Rights comes under a torrent of abuse on a regular basis from large sections of the British press. It is seen as a set of rules that allow terrorists and criminals to operate on the same basis as the good, hard working, tax paying, church going, bread baking people of the world.

Article 4.
No one shall be held in slavery or servitude; slavery and the slave trade shall be prohibited in all their forms.

It isn’t the UN Universal Declaration of Human Rights they are directly attacking. Over here it is generally the much more recent Human Rights Act (2000) that faces criticism. And the European court of human rights regularly makes front page news when it finds against public opinion. Jack Straw, ironically the British Home Secretary when the Government brought in the Human Rights Act, recently admitted that the Act was seen as “a villains’ charter and promised reform.

Article 5.
No one shall be subjected to torture or to cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment.

The Conservatives have been calling for massive changes for a long time. And the right wing press have been unrelenting:
“It has given prisoners rights to drugs, and foreign hijackers the right to live in Britain. It has given gipsies (sic) the right to squat, and enabled the rapist Anthony Rice to get out of prison early to murder an innocent woman.” said Anthony Brown in the Daily Mail last year, “It allowed the killer of London headmaster Philip Lawrence to live near his widow because it was against his right to family life to be deported to his native Italy.”

You see the problem is that, while we like the idea of human rights, we’re not so keen on the universal aspect of it. It’s all well and good protecting the rights of the masses to practise religion in a free and open way but we don’t like it so much when that religious message turns against the type life we’ve been living so comfortably for so long. We applaud the right to free assembly but we’re not so happy when groups of people we don’t like come marching down our roads dressed in drag.

Article 9.
No one shall be subjected to arbitrary arrest, detention or exile.

It was a moment of delicious irony last week when the same politicians and newspapers who regularly vilify the Act found it supporting them. The English Police lost a case in the European Court of Human Rights that sees them have to destroy DNA records of innocent men. For years the Police have been building and storing records on suspects whether they went on to be found guilty or not. They claim it has helped them catch people who, despite being found innocent of one crime, go on to commit another one. I claim it was a worrying precedent – and the European Court of Human Rights agreed with me.

Article 18.
Everyone has the right to freedom of thought, conscience and religion; this right includes freedom to change his religion or belief, and freedom, either alone or in community with others and in public or private, to manifest his religion or belief in teaching, practice, worship and observance.

I can’t, and won’t, claim that the Human Rights Act is a leak-proof guarantee of liberty and equality. The British Human Rights Act, the European Convention on Human Rights, and even the UN Universal Declaration of Human Rights are far from perfect – I’m not sure it’s possible to enshrine something like human rights on paper. But I am sick of hearing people blame the woes of our society on a list of articles; most of which are common sense. The fact that it doesn’t prescribe responsibility with the rights does not invalidate the rights themselves. Why should it? Why have we become so incapable of taking responsibility for our own responsibilities. In one of my classes recently we stumbled upon the difference between the letter of the law and the spirit of the law. Is it not sad that in searching for gaps in the letter of this declaration we miss out on the immense spirit that shines through it. It is simply, as it claims to be, “a common standard of achievement for all peoples and all nations.”

Article 19.
Everyone has the right to freedom of opinion and expression; this right includes freedom to hold opinions without interference and to seek, receive and impart information and ideas through any media and regardless of frontiers.

So I will be raising a glass to that little list today; for when I read through the UN Declaration of human rights for the first time a couple of weeks ago it reminded me of Thomas Jefferson’s magnificent words, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

Article 26.
(1) Everyone has the right to education. Education shall be free, at least in the elementary and fundamental stages. Elementary education shall be compulsory. Technical and professional education shall be made generally available and higher education shall be equally accessible to all on the basis of merit.
(2) Education shall be directed to the full development of the human personality and to the strengthening of respect for human rights and fundamental freedoms. It shall promote understanding, tolerance and friendship among all nations, racial or religious groups, and shall further the activities of the United Nations for the maintenance of peace.
(3) Parents have a prior right to choose the kind of education that shall be given to their children.

For a full list of the articles that make up the declaration go here.

last chance for one last dance

Of all the music that I use in my lessons the band that seem to evoke the most sustained concentration and inspiration is Nickleback. Specifically their song “Far Away.”

I have no idea why Nickelback. Complete blank. I’ve tried all sorts of music on them. From the Beetles to Beth Rowley; from the Stones to Scissor Sisters; Mozart to the Monkees. Some of them were good – Sigur Rós produced excellent results, and there was one stunning poem written while listening to Amy Winehouse – but nothing compared to what I see after using Chad Kroeger and his little bunch of Canadians.

Coincidentally Nickelback have a new album out. You may not have heard about it – the band have decided not to do any interviews in papers or magazines. Apparently they’ve had bad experiences in the past. The New York Times once said that the band had "the worst rock lyrics ever recorded" and later that the band were known for "undeniably pretty melodies with literal, wildly unimaginative and often insipid lyrics."
I think that’s harsh. The fact that their last album was in the US top 30 for over two years suggests that I’m not alone – if it is insipid and unimaginative clearly the masses like insipid unimagination. Although the Daily Mail disagree: "Millions of people buy Nickelback albums, but millions people once voted for George W. Bush too. Both facts are equally baffling." – an imaginative comment, but it doesn’t really tell us much – I mean two and a half million people read the Mail everyday and I don’t judge them (well, actually I do)
I won’t be rushing out to buy “Dark Horse” but I will check out the tracks on Itunes and if there’s any that might have a similar effect to “Far Away” I’ll buy it faster than you can sing the chorus of Rockstar.

I don’t care what other people think; I have seen such good work created by pupils while listening to them that I am thinking of asking if they’ll do a live set during our exams. We already have a stage in the exam hall – what else would it be used for?

where'd it all go?

The first proper snow of winter! Hurrah! I’m a big fan of snow. We don’t get enough of it anymore.
I’m sure I remember long periods of time filled with snow related fun when I was a child. Daily snow ball fights, snowmen that seemed to last months, death defying toboggan runs that had been honed to perfection over the course of a week. We built an igloo at primary school once. I remember carving out the blocks of snow, hardening them, stacking them, packing them and polishing them. I don’t remember actually going inside though – it didn’t look very sturdy and I wasn’t that brave.
Now we never seem to get big quantities of snow – and any we do get never seems to hang around long. There is no longer a big thaw in February; instead we get lots of little ones after each fall of snow throughout the winter.
I don’t know whether I can blame it all on global warming but it’s a convenient rationale so I will anyway. Cause and effect. We ignore all caution in some kind of development race – ergo – we lose all that’s good about winter.
But today is looking good. What started as a few stray flakes drifting down has become a steady curtain of white in the time that it has taken me to write this. The world will be white in the morning – it’ll be glorious; it’ll be pure; it’ll be clean; it’ll make my journey to school over the mountain a bit interesting – oh dear.

Update: I woke up this morning to find that the snow had all disappeared overnight. Thee wasn’t a single sign that it had ever been there. What did I tell you! Although, on the plus side, it did mean I didn’t have to set off for work half an hour early

there's santa waving

“Look! I see Santa! He’s waving!”

A highly improbable assertion made by the small child sitting behind me on the plane to Edinburgh on Saturday. He was of course kicking the back of my seat, making inane conversation and being annoyingly childlike for the majority of the journey. Normally this would have spoiled the flight completely. But for once I am willing to forgive.

It was a journey filled with enlightenment all round. For instance I had already learned that, even on a short thirty minute flight, it is possible for the fairly tiny women in the seat in front of me to order and down a triple vodka with tomato juice and just a little gusto. A short time after the waving Santa incident I would be watching, with some awe, the woman beside me intricately applying make up during the descent and even the (extremely bumpy) landing without pause or mistake – how is that even possible?

But it was when I glanced out the window to see if I could spot Father Christmas flying his reindeer alongside that I made my favourite discovery of the flight. For immediately I saw what the kid was talking about.
Looking down, the darkness was interrupted by a definite image of a rather fat man with a beard and braces made up of the street lights from a small (clearly strangely shaped) town. The main entry route formed his crooked “waving” arm.

I started looking around at all the other little settlements – trying to find images in the illuminated patterns below. Have you ever sat flat on your back on some grass and gazed up into the sky looking for pictures in the clouds? Well I suppose it’s kinda the reverse of that. I looked down at ground from up in the clouds for an eternity. I concentrated, hard – I saw racing cars and angels, Christmas trees and bobbles; Elizabethan actors and Budweiser bottles; old fashioned steam engines blowing smoke rings… these are a few of my favourite things…

from page to stage

“Some things are just designed to be read aloud I guess.”

That was a comment from one of my year 12s earlier. And it was one of several events which restored my faith in Literature this week – well, maybe ‘restored’ is the wrong word; maybe ‘reaffirmed.’

Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18. Don’t tell anyone but I’m a sucker for a good sonnet. Even one as popular as #18 - Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day. Normally I try to forgo the popular choice in favour of a path less trod but I like this one.
Of course I got the usual groans when I handed out copies to my year 12 literature class. They tell me they’re not Shakespeare fans. They tell me that they find his language a barrier rather than a selling point. They tell me he is rammed down their throats so much that they can hardly breathe and they feel under undue pressure – that if they don’t like the bard they believe they are seen as lesser beings. I try to understand, but I can’t empathise. After they read through this particular poem, making first impression annotations, their mood was no better.
“It’s gay!” announced one of my more vocal girls. “If some lad said something like that to me I’d finish with him there and then.” There was general murmured approval and so she continued, “I’d worry greatly about his sexuality.”
“Because he writes poetry?”
“Because he wrote a poem about a type of love that doesn’t exist. It’s sickly sweet and unrealistic”
I found it hard to argue against that – so instead I took them through the poem a bit at a time and looked at the mechanics – I find this an uninspiring task but it has to be done. And finally, as a parting gesture I read it aloud – well, I didn’t read it; I recited it. Eye contact makes a big difference you know. I gave it everything. I put my all in to it. I gie ‘er Dixie.
I’m not going to tell you I am a good reader, I am under no illusion that my public speaking is anything other than average; but twelve lines in I paused, looked them in the eye, and read the last couple of lines,
As long as men can breath, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, [dramatic gesture towards the poem projected on the wall behind me]
And this, gives life to thee.
Then silence. Everyone was looking at me - it was unnerving. The silence seemed to last an age. Then a collective exhale. They were rapt. I think I may even have heard a slight "awww" coming from one of the rugby players sitting at the back of the room.
Of course it was all ruined when I pointed out it was written to a young man and the rest of the lesson descended into a debate about whether Shakespeare was gay or not. Well at least I had them for a moment.
Do they love Shakespeare now? Not even a bit. But they enjoyed that one little bit of Shakespeare. I think it helps when you understand that he understands us. Wow that last sentence was pretentious – superb!

who'll crack first?

I was chatting with my form class today. They’re an amiable bunch of 17 year olds, and I get on well with them. We don't tend to get into too many deep and meaningful conversations - usually.

We discussed the formal for a while today. It had taken place the night before and I was surprised to see so many of the class actually make it to school. I hadn't been invited, something I make a point of bringing up at every possible chance.

One kid hadn't gone to the formal. I remember when I was his age I didn't go to my formal either - I went with a friend to a Bob Dylan concert. I was keen to know if he had come up with a worthy alternative to spending the night wearing rented evening wear eating a luke warm meal and bouncing about a crowded dance floor trying to seduce something in a dress before the lights came up.

"I went to a meeting."
"a meeting?"
"a religious meeting. I'm a Jehovah's Witness."

I already knew he was. I had a form pointing out that he would refuse blood in a medical emergency locked in my filing cabinet and we'd already had a discussion on how his pacifism and my pacifism were actually as far removed as pacifism and war mongering. I came out of that one wondering how I had gone from being a wooly liberal pacifist into a war loving fascist in three easy steps. He has a way of turning everything I say into something wholly contradictory. I admire that.

Usually my discussions with my lower sixth pupils end after 5 sentences, so I prepared to move on to the next topic – but he hadn’t finished,

“Are you religious sir?”
“As a matter of fact I am.”
“I respect that.”

It struck me that he hadn’t asked the nature of my religiousosity. Normally that would be an important part of that question. But to him it didn’t matter if I was a Presbyterian, a Cistercian Monk, a Muslim or a Discordian. All that mattered was that I was religious (and he respected that) and that I was wrong (which he obvious didn’t respect.)

“It won’t stop me trying to convert you though.” He said with a slight edge and a knowing smile.
“I’d be disappointed if it did.” I replied with, hopefully, a similar edge and an even knowinger smile.

And so the challenge is set – the gauntlet thrown. I don’t have long in this school so we’re under pressure. He to turn me into a Restorationist, Millenialist, Adventist door knocker – and I to turn him into Calvinistic Reformationalist. Anyone else sense an impending stalemate?

a lane

what next?

As I type this around 15,000 primary school pupils are sitting the final paper of the last leven plus exams in Northern Ireland. The test that will determine which secondary school they attend. Despite the fact that most of the rest of Britain scrapped this form of selection over a decade ago we have held on firmly and proud. And now we let go.

I should be happy. I hate that sham of an exam; that overblown IQ test. Some will suggest that it is a fair system, a mertitocracy of sorts. Poor and rich are assessed on equal ground. 'Life is a series of tests' they will tell you, 'the quicker people learn to deal with stress rather than avoid it the better.'
I, myself, have managed to avoid stress most of my working life (mainly by avoiding working maybe) and I hate the idea of the eleven plus. Who wants to be branded a failure before they even reach their teens? And meritocracy? How does that explain the huge class imbalance we have in our schools?

So I should be happy - but I'm not. At time of going to press our Assembly, the people we intrusted with running our wee country, have yet to agree on what should replace the 11+. I have yet to decide what I think should replace the 11+. Parents of year 6 pupils, who have no idea what their children will be facing in twelve short months time, are asking teachers for answers - we don't have any.

While there is no official plan in place for a replacement a dangerous vacuum has been created. Schools are taking it into their own hands to create selection processes. I find that faintly terrifying. The school where I currently work have decided, along with 29 other Grammars, to form their own 'Association of Quality Education.' This association will produce their own assessment papers. Let's face it - they're creating their very own eleven plus.

Meantime all those 10 year old year 6 kids are being batted around in a game of politics. Their uncertainities are being used as canon fodder with which the DUP and Sinn Fein are battering each other. And that can only be viewed as wrong on so many levels.

the beginning, revisited

It will mean very little to you I'm sure but it's finally done. Six months ago I accidentally hit delete and lost this blog.

So what, you may say. Well, you're actually right. In the grand scheme of things it's hardly life changing. All around us wars are being fought or are on the verge of being fought; countries are in recession; people are losing their jobs - and I'm worried that I lost two years of trivial, introspective monologue.

But it really annoyed me. Sure life would have gone on. Some may even suggest that the enforced clean slate could be seen in a positive light. Just yesterday I was having a conversation with someone about how I prefer to create new stories rather than revelling in the nostalgia that keeping a blog or a journal allows.

I believe that - but I was still a little annoyed that it had gone. And so I was relieved that I found a way of rebuilding it. In much the same way as a historian records every stone in a building before removing them one by one, transporting them, and rebuilding again in a new location - actually not really like that at all but we'll go with the allusion anyway, it sounds grand - I replaced each entry.

And now it is done. I uploaded entry #1 just a couple of minutes ago. They are there, where they are meant to be. Not that I intend to sit and read them again anyway - but it's nice knowing they're there.

inspirational?

How did you end up where you are today?

I don't mean transportation. I mean doing what you're doing with your life. I only ask because I'm beginning to think I may have had the wrong idea.

Talking to people in the staff room here I get the impression that good teachers breed good teachers. So many of the staff here seem to have been inspired by a superhuman teacher from their childhood - someone who made such a difference to their lives that they had no option but to pay it forward and enter the pedagogy business.

My high school English teacher, who for some reason assigned me the role of Portia in The Merchant of Venice when we read it aloud in class -- it was the first time I'd ever done anything remotely like acting, and I thought, hmmmmm...

Megan Mullally

Then I started to think about acting, sports and music awards. How often have I heard someone get up and thank their high school music/drama/chemistry teacher who told them they could reach for the stars when no one else believed in them. It seems the world would have been a much less talented place had there not been some superb confidence builders in the teaching profession. It’s something I always say with a smile when a pupil thanks me for putting up with them for a term or helping them through something they find particularly challenging, “Just remember me when you’re making your acceptance speech.” I say it half jokingly.

When I was in sixth grade, I had a science teacher named Mrs. Walton. She’d had my older brother, Durran, in her class the year before. Durran is as smart as they come, the kind of student that every teach­er loved. I idolized him. One day she gave us a test. I’d studied as hard as I could, but got a mediocre grade—nowhere near what Durran had probably scored. My eyes filled with tears.
Mrs. Walton came up to me.
“You’ll do better next time,” she said.
I shook my head. “I’ll never be like Durran,” I said.
She shook her head, then said softly, “No, you don’t have to be like Durran. You just have to be the best Shaun the world’s ever seen.”
Those words clicked in my head. That’s been my goal ever since.
Shaun Alexander, Seattle Seahawks

But me, why did I become a teacher? Was it because I was inspired by one of my teachers. Well, here’s the problem. I despised my English teacher. Looking back I realise that is a bit of an overreaction – she was never that bad to me – but let’s just say she and I never really saw eye to eye. I remember at one point she decided to instigate a new rule that if someone forgot a book or a pen or a homework they would have a mark put beside their name. If someone got three marks beside their name they would be given an after school detention. I was in detention two days later. Three marks, two days.

I will readily admit that most of the issues she and I had were of my creation. I rubbed her the wrong way. I was lazy. I was, at times, insolent – lots of times. I lied to her, I skipped class, I never handed in any work on time. Looking back I can understand why I was never her pupil of the month. But what I never understood was why she didn’t get my writing. In the five years that she taught me English I never achieved a mark higher than a C. It could be an end of year exam, a piece of creative writing, a detailed critique of a Philip Larkin poem or a haiku – nothing I did was ever worthy of an A or a B.

Right in the middle of my time at secondary school I had two years with another teacher. My GCSE years. Suddenly the world changed. In two years I never once got anything lower than an A for anything. I was the best in the class – the teacher loved what I wrote and regularly told me how she looked forward to reading the next piece. The world of English became a brighter place. So much so that I felt confident of taking English Literature on as one of my post 16 specialties. And with it my previous teacher. And with her my previous grades.

D,D,D,C,D,D,C . The frustrating thing is that I can’t claim she was marking me unfairly. I had a second teacher at the same time who was giving me similar grades. Between them I was predicted a slim pass in my A Level English Lit. I was predicted an E and told that they were being generous; told that I had made a bad choice when picking subjects. How did I do? Well, I’m not going to say I aced the exam – but a decade later I am teaching A Level English Literature to pupils of my own after completing an English Literature degree. You don’t do that with an E.

Teachers are often the people who inspire us the most. I know I wouldn't be where I am today without my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Duncan. She so believed in me, and for the first time, made me embrace the idea of learning. I learned to love learning because of Mrs. Duncan.

Oprah Winfrey

So I find it difficult to give her any credit when I think on how I got where I am. I know she is owed some – I learned a lot from her, even picked up her hatred of words such as ‘hard’ or ‘nice’. There is no doubt she had an effect on me – but my inspiration? No. Although having just read back a couple of paragraphs maybe I did have an inspirational English teacher after all. Maybe my preoccupation with the negative has overcast the positive effect of my GCSE teacher. So when I get up to make my acceptance speech, you know, when I win that Academy Award/Man Booker Award/Tony; Mrs Doherty – this is for you.

is this even possible?

We were discussing discursive essays. I want them to write about something that matters to them. Well, maybe I'm too lazy to come up with a range of titles and got them to do it for me. No, I refuse the guilt - it's their job to come up with the ideas and that's what they were doing.

Anyway as I was making my way round the classroom in a surreptitious manner (well, as surreptitiously as someone 6'5" tall can be) I observed their progress. They were doing pretty well. There were some imaginative topics along with the old chestnuts. But as I was skulking about I was struck motionless by a comment from a sixteen year old girl who I've come to admire for her ability to come out with randomimity. She and a partner were discussing the evils of the Internet,

I love YouTube. I would completely marry it. If YouTube were human I would marry it. Do you have to marry a human? Can you marry non humans? Is that even possible do you think? We should look into that.

I asked her what she meant but I'm afraid to say that my mind went off into its own little world as she replied. I had images of the ceremony joining human and web site in a lifelong partnership. The bride dressed in a beatiful white A line gown with a halter neck, the groom clad in badly shot cell mobile phone footage of young men performing jackass stunts. I pictured the speeches - they were a little disappointing as quality had to be reduced to fit space. And the happy couple's first dance as husband and wife - mesmorising and romantic; except for the fact that the dancing and the music were just that little bit out of synch. At least the wedding video took care of itself.

All of this took place in my mind during the time I should have been listening intently to what she had to say. I immediately felt bad that I hadn't given her the attention she deserved - from experience I would guess that her explaination would have been even more bizarre than my daydream.

yesterday

Yesterday I went for a walk. Several walks in fact. I’d just spent a few days in Dublin with a friend. I love Dublin, as cities go it’s one of the good ‘uns. It’s busy in right way – energetic and vibrant. Eating great Moroccan food served by beautiful Romanians in the Irish capital with a wonderful friend visiting from Wales; watching Italian cinema surrounded by film lovers of indeterminate nationality… It was a joy. But after a time, even a short time, in a city I long for the crowded emptiness of the countryside. And so I set out for a walk - four walks in fact.

Walk 1: The beach. Ballycastle is an odd little town perched on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. I walked the length of the beach there, and marvelled at the fact that on a gloriously clear day I virtually had the place to myself. Besides a young family flying a kite and a middle aged man collecting pebbles (why?) I was completely alone. Besides the huge growl of ocean colliding with land, and the cry of a thousand gulls, it was silent. Apparently I was the only person in the country not out trying on costumes or making final adjustments to their pumpkins – well, one of six people anyway.
I used to teach in Ballycastle. I miss it. The combination of the craic I had with my pupils and the inspirational view from the windows of the ocean made my classroom a joyous place to be.

I love the sea – I miss it intensely when I leave for any amount of time. Yesterday I stayed till my face was bright with exposure and my mind was clear of… well, just clear. My afternoon was spent breathing in the fresh air and watching the sea batter rocks and gently caress the sand.

Walk 2: The moors. I moved on south to the heather covered hills leading to the majestic Glens of Antrim. My feet, already sharing my shoes with sand from Ballycastle Strand, became itchy with broken off bits of the course heather. I remember hiking up here when I was a teenage member of the Boys’ Brigade. Back then I cursed the spongy sensation of the ground beneath my feet. It seemed to force that little bit more effort out of every step. Of course back then I was carrying my own weight of tent, clothes, emergency food and pot noodles on my back. Today I was able to walk where I wanted, when I wanted, and if anything the whole experience lifted a weight off my back.

Loughareema, the vanishing lake, was clearly not vanished today. I have a vague recollection of hearing about researchers dying the water in an attempt to discover to whence the water vanished. I can’t remember if they came to any conclusions or indeed whether I made the whole thing up in my astonishingly flexible memory.
To me it makes no difference. The magic of the place does not lie in the water level.

Walk 3: The pastures. North Antrim has some extraordinarily fertile land. I don’t know whether this area, a few miles inland, could be described as such or not – but it is beautiful. My father worked in this area for the Department of Agriculture for years. He has many crazy tales of the characters he met in the course of his career. I wonder if characters like those are still being created or whether they are a dying breed like the smallholdings they cared for. I stopped to have a long conversation with a rather erudite sheep. His opinions of Sarah Palin were intriguing though I think his fear of Polar Bears may have clouded his judgement slightly.

Walk 4: The Town. After all that fresh air my body ached for toxins. The only way to satisfy it was to go somewhere with car exhaust fumes and freely available caffeine. And so I made my way to the nearest town – Ballymena. In many ways this is a typical Northern Irish town – its divided population and sporadic sectarianism are in direct contrast with the hospitality and friendliness of those you met there. Sons of this little town include Timothy Eaton (of Eaton Center fame – where I first discovered the delights of Calvin Klein Contradiction for men) and Liam Neeson (who seems equally at home as Scottish Warrior or a Jedi Warrior)
The streets were oddly empty today. Vaguely reminiscent of the beach I found myself sharing the area only with some police officers. Police officers with torches, checking every dark corner and grating; police officers on bikes, police officers in cars, police officers with dogs, police officers with big guns – lots of police officers with guns. I tried to work out what was going but was at a complete loss. It was surely an overreaction for the Halloween festivities that evening. I found out much later that there was to be a homecoming parade for our local regiment, the Royal Irish Regiment. They have done tours in Iraq and have only just returned from Afghanistan. The tight security was because of anticipated republican protests and a fear that things could turn nasty.
As it turns out everything passed off relatively peacefully.

I was glad.

I have my own opinions about how valid the various wars involving our soldiers are – but I was mortified that a homecoming parade could be hijacked either by Irish Republicans opposed to everything that the British Army stands for, or by Loyalists eager to turn the situation into a reason for Catholic bashing. Such an event should be removed completely from politics. If that’s possible. Such an event should be about the relief of family and friends that their loved ones have returned, remembrance and mourning those who have not returned. Such an event should be about the human beings that have risked everything – not for the politics that put them in that position.
Tensions are still apparent in this little country of ours. There are still people on both sides spoiling for a fight. Sad to say there are still people here who miss the troubles. But maybe things are slowly changing. And as fewer people have strong memories of that, the darkest part of Ulster’s history, maybe they will find things to share rather than searching for things to fuel the feud.

And there's no denying - it's a beautiful wee country and it shouldn't be spoilt by the people that live there.

things you should know about me

For the most part people who stumble upon this blog don’t really know me that well – so I thought I’d put together a quick cheat sheet of things you really should know.

1. I am not a special needs teacher. At least not at the moment. When I set out to begin this blog a couple of years ago I was working within the special education department of a mainstream state school. When I tried to think of a title it sort of made sense as my job had been gradually taking over my life. Now I’m not working there any more but I am too lazy to change the name of the blog.
What I’ve come to realise is that the title is a little misleading in at least one other way. Basically because I call my blog the Thoughts of a Special Needs Teacher people assume it will be all about special needs education or education in general. It’s not. Education slips in because I’m a teacher (sometimes) and the state of the state of the education system matters to me. It’s on my mind if you like. It’s on my mind therefore I vent.
The current disastrous state of Newcastle United Football Club also occupies a sizeable chunk of my mind so you’ll find they appear on occasion. My family are rarely far from my mind but since my sister started reading this occasionally I have to be careful what I say about them.
No, this blog is mainly just a means of clearing my head. When I was a school kid I used to record the detritus clogging my mental pores in the form of notes and doodles on my file paper. I’d write them down and then I’d crumple the paper up and throw it in the trash – now I publish them on the web.

2. I really am as bumbling as I make myself out to be here. I am in no way adapting real life to make it appear worse than it is as some sort of attempt to appear blind-puppy-style endearing. I do not relate my experiences either to endear nor to elicit pity. I do it because sometimes I can’t believe how incredibly stupid I’ve been and need to tell people about it. The pity thing is an added bonus.
When I appear naïve it is because I was naïve. When I appear clumsy it is because I was clumsy. I am but a camera (Evelyn Waugh would be proud) capturing events as they happened for you’re amusement. A camera in the old sense, before photoshop was invented obviously. Rest assured, if ever I do something suave, sophisticated or generally smooth you will read all about it.

"I'll expect you'll be becoming a schoolmaster, sir. That's what most of the gentlemen does, sir, that gets sent down for indecent behaviour."
Evelyn Waugh - Decline and Fall (1928)

3. I have several guilty secrets. Don’t tell anyone but occasionally I watch rubbish television. In fact sometimes I enjoy it more than the good stuff. Currently I am addicted to the Big Bang Theory. I love everything about it from the Bare Naked Ladies theme to the lame stairwell conversations to the cringe-worthy stereotyping. The girl who plays Penny (Kaley Cuoco I think – I hope that’s spelt right) bears an incredible resemblance to a girl who helps me out sometimes when I’m filming weddings. Similar in appearance and personality. She has the same sunny disposition, the same assumed ditziness, the same patient but frustrated look when dealing with someone who’s overly complicated ramblings and general bumbling make no sense to her whatsoever.
Sometimes when I watch it I find myself diagnosing various syndromes in the characters – I’m not sure that’s healthy. I think it maybe suggests I miss the Learning Support Unit.
Anyway, I’m not going to attempt to argue the merits of the show – it’s frivolous, occasionally sketchily written, stereotype affirming, generalises wildly on a regular basis – and I can’t get enough of it.

4. I hate/detest/abhor/loathe those emails that ask you to take “10 minutes” out of your time to answer “a few” (dozen) questions about yourself. Can someone tell me what the point is? Are you really going to try and persuade me that you can get to know someone better through these things? Really? How does it benefit anyone to know what colour my toothbrush is, or when I last cried, or what music is on my ipod/ cd player / 8 track? It doesn’t I tell you! Well, I suppose they can now choose between buying me a gift of a CD, a toothbrush or some tissues.
Not only are they a waste of time but they revel in that fact. I saw one recently which asked the victim to record the time they started the questionnaire and the time they finished. It then asked them what else they could have spent that time doing. Cruel.
Worse still, they have pervaded the blogosphere. They take the form of an award that you pass on to blogs you admire. Once “tagged” you answer a few questions about yourself in your blog and pass it on, pyramid scheme style, to seven other victims. “Award or virus?” I hear you ask. “Or is he maybe just a little bitter that he’s never been tagged?” No! I’m not! Although you would have imagined that someone out there would have me somewhere in their top seven blogs.
These are not to be confused with the profiles to be found in some blogs. These are a different beast entirely. They tend to be relevant and specific to that blog. They don’t require you to pass anything on to anywhere. They are generally humorous and interesting as opposed to inane and irrelevant.
So, no tagging. Agreed?

And that will do for now. I think you know all you need to about me. And all without the use of a single questionnaire. Although if it is bothering you – I prefer cold vacations to hot ones, I have two pets, I wanted to be a train driver / pig farmer / psychologist when I was growing up, I’ve never been toilet papering, I have blue eyes, I prefer croutons to bacon bits and my toothbrush is purple.

downtown ballywatt

we don't have many shops - but the ones we do have their priorities firmly placed.

word of the day (part 3 in a 73 part series)

enigmatize e`nig´ma`tize Intransitive verb To make, or talk in, enigmas; to deal in riddles.

I used this in a conversation with someone last night and have only just realised it wasn't the proper use of the word. I don't care - I wanted to use it and so I did. Sue me.

education could damage your health

Week #2, school #2; and I have an admission to make. This subbing lark should come with a health warning: May seriously damage your moral high ground.

Anyone who knows me would be able to tell you my views of the Grammar school system and academic selection. Northern Ireland is the only part of the UK that still holds onto academic selection for entry into secondary schools and it is holding onto it fiercely. I, just in case you don’t already know, am fiercely opposed to a two tier education system (or indeed the three or four tier system we actually have)
It is an opinion that has brought me into verbal conflict with several members of my family and my closest friends, all of whom benefited from a Grammar school education. I, myself, benefited from a Grammar school education – the difference being that I have worked most of my adult life with children who didn’t pass the test at eleven and are thus not benefiting from a Grammar school education. I see what the great divide does to them. I have witnessed the sense of resignation they have that they aren’t ‘meant’ to be academic so they’ll not bother. I’ve worked on breaking down barriers that a sense of failure (aged eleven) builds. And it’s just not right.

The Grammars in Northern Ireland wield a lot of power. The Government love them because they allow us to produce the best exam results in the UK year after year. And how do they achieve such fantastic results? Well, using academic selection they pick out the pupils with the highest IQs; the academic cream if you like. Unsurprisingly these pupils perform well in national tests (relatively speaking) which gain the schools good reputations. These good reputations make them extremely attractive for business and community support (everyone loves a winner) so they see all kinds of funding opportunities opening up. They can plough this money into improving the infrastructure and resources of the school, which in turn improves their standing in exam league tables and leads to a higher percentage of post 16 students, who attract the largest amount of governmental and commercial funding. And so the cycle continues.

I’m not suggesting that Grammar schools are wallowing in cash. The way state education funding is at present no schools are finding it easy to balance books. It just seems to me that Grammar schools are better equipped for this hardship and seem to find it easier to produce money than non selective schools when push comes to shove. Just look at the beautiful gardens and perfectly manicured playing fields on which Grammar schools play their Rugger and Cricket. Compare those to the council owned dog walking parks that the high school next door use.

Grammar schools produce results; of that there is no doubt. If I hadn’t gone to a Grammar I doubt very much that I would have gone to university – I have no idea what I would’ve done but I wasn’t the kind of pupil who could motivate themselves against the odds. I would have blended in and faded out of education. I certainly wouldn’t be a teacher.
Back when I was eleven I did the test that was to determine whether at thirty one I would be sitting typing up a blog in a classroom after teaching a year 12 poetry lesson or… well I just don’t know.

I’ll be honest. The reason I fixate on this issue is because in my mind I shouldn’t have passed that test. I failed every one of the practices in the build up . Somehow I squeezed through and onto the road to Grammar school. To this day I don’t know how. In quiet moments I find my mind wander into ‘Sliding Doors’ territory and I find myself imaging what my life would be like had I dropped a couple more points in that test. I know it’s pointless; I believe that things happen for a reason, that I was guided up the path I was meant to take – but I can’t help wondering. And then I start wondering about the pupils I teach. What would happen to them if they’d done just a little better or worse when they were eleven.

I believe that schools selecting their pupils on the basis of IQ is wrong; I believe that eleven is far too young to map out someone’s educational career; and I believe labelling pupils as either academic or non-academic is just plain immoral.

After all of that please don’t think less of me because I am writing this entry from a classroom of a Grammar school. Just because I am in a position where I have to take what work is offered doesn’t dilute my opinions. I’ll teach their pupils, I’ll take the pay cheque but they can’t make me like it.

a quick rant

I am depressed this evening. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to expect a branch of the “UK’s leading bookseller” to stock a classic piece of literature such as Death of a Salesman. It’s not as if I was looking for some obscure, was I? I mean, I’m not being elitist by expecting a high street store to have a copy of one of the most famous pieces of American theatre? Am I? It can’t be that obscure – they used references to it in Seinfeld!

I needed a new copy as I’m going to be covering it with a bunch of A-Level students as part of their course and I seem to have misplaced my copy (for ‘misplaced’ read ‘lent it to someone who seems to have forgotten where I live’) so I went in to my local Waterstone’s expecting to have to choose from a range of editions (and possibly translations.) But here’s the thing – they didn’t have a single copy. But that’s not the thing – not really. Yeah it was surprising but it’s hardly enough to make me depressed. A little disenchanted maybe, but not depressed. So what is the thing?

Take a look at the photo above.

You have now seen the entire Literature section of my local branch of Waterstone’s. The whole literary canon reduced to a single block of five shelves – four if you discount the top shelf which contains only study guides. I remember a time when they needed more space than that for plays by Shakespeare – now he has to make do with sharing his space with Tom Stoppard.

In a shop filled with floor to ceiling shelves upon shelves of biographies, with whole walls devoted to travel guides, it seems impossible to believe that they need to put Stanislavski beside Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? It pains me that anything calling itself a bookshop would have more varieties of Dilbert compilations than Sartre writing? And while we’re on Jean-Paul Sartre; does no one else find it incredible that we can go from Willy Russell, through Sartre to Tennessee Williams in less than six inches of shelf?

I don’t know who to blame. Is it the shop’s management who decreed that classic literature doesn’t sell in Coleraine? Maybe it is a wider problem brought on by the rise of the warehouse booksellers and the demise of the local independents? Could it be that the people where I live just read cartoons and ghost written celebrity autobiographies? Whichever or whoever or whatever, I cannot help but feel sad.

But in a moment of delicious irony I went into the tiny little second hand bookshop on my way home. Despite the lack of shelf space, 'helpful' staff, and comfortable chairs I was able to find what I was looking for in seconds. It cost £2 and had been carefully annotated in pencil by a previous owner who was obviously directing a production of the play – now when the big chains start offering that as a service I may forgive them.

supply, supply and supply again

Back to subbing.

Different term, different kids, different school, same old challenges. Well for the most part anyway. However the task does seem a little different this year. In the past I have always been fortunate enough to end up working in the same school for the entire year. This year, however, I am facing the prospect of moving around looking for work where I can get it.

I have to admit that I have mixed feelings about returning to the chalk face. There is a certain amount of relief involved. If you include the summer holidays I haven’t taught in over three months. From a purely financial point of view the relief is immense. They say that most of us are only three pay cheques away from homelessness. I may not be in risk of that just yet but I was beginning to watch the outflow from my bank account with increasing concern.

It is, however, much more than just a financial relief. I was (whisper it softly) missing the working day. I missed the hubbub of the school, the flow of people in the corridors, the characters in the classroom. This may not sound like the cynical old grouch, lacking in any semblance of the youthful idealism with which he once glowed, to whom you have become accustomed – for that I apologise – but sometimes… well… I just miss teaching.

But, as I said, this is a new school and a whole new experience. New beginnings always worry me a little (you’d think I’d get used to them considering I go through this annually.) I’m not a huge fan of readjustment, and fitting in around a completely new system with a completely new set of rules, with a staffroom full of strangers and a classroom full of young strangers fills me with dread.

It’s a good dread though.

down the plug

I am making a stand today. I am avoiding Starbucks. I know they’ll be worried.

It is something that I have thought about before but today it was in the news so I chose this moment to make my one man boycott.

You see Starbucks have been wasting the amount of water most small countries use. In fact we're talking 23.4 million litres. Every day.

Every time you go in there you see taps that are left running constantly. Look at the wee sinks that they put the spoons and thermometers in between uses – they are placed in constantly running water and in a world that is seeing the value of water more and more it is ridiculous.

Of course it seems less of a priority in this wee country as I type this while looking at the rain streaming down the windows of the seemingly more ethically aware Ground. If there is anything we have an abundance of it is water. But that isn’t the point. If it were the point then the fact that the Starbucks shops in drought affected countries such as China, Australia and Romania are also leaving their taps running would be horrendous.

I don't often urge you to read the Sun but take a quick pop over and read the full story. It still pains me slightly that this is an issue I have noticed but never fully appreciated until I spotted it on a tabloid newspaper front page. Maybe I need to do a bit of work on my observational skills before goin back in the classroom.

So maybe Starbucks won’t miss my custom today; and maybe we won’t find a way to share the surplus rain we have in Ireland with the rest of the world any time soon, and maybe I need to look at some of the waste of which I am guilty – but until I can feel a little better about my extra hot latte I’ll be spending more time in Ground.

Father I place into Your hands...

It’s been a pretty horrible few weeks for me. At times I’ve wondered whether it would be easier to give up and let someone else take over.

I remember once when I was a kid I had a Home Economics assignment. I wasn’t as good at cooking back then as I like to believe I am now and I had worried myself into a frenzy over it. I had undertaken to create some kind of apple sponge swiss roll style thingy. I had no idea how I was going to do it, I had no idea what I needed to do it and I had no idea why I was planning to make something like that when I couldn’t stand cooked apple. The one thing I did know was that I had messed up.
So at 4am on the morning of the assessment I finally broke. In less than six hours I was going to be plating up for the teacher. I hadn’t looked up any recipes; I hadn’t even checked whether I had the necessary raw materials.
I got up and made my way down the dark corridor to my parents’ room. I knocked on the door, went in and, with tears running down my face, shook my mother awake.
“I need help.”
I half expected her to be angry that I had left everything to the last minute. I fully expected her to be livid that I was waking her up at a ridiculous time. I would have understood if she told me it was all my own fault and that I had to learn the lesson before washing her hands of it and going back to sleep.
Of course she didn’t. She got out of bed and started pulling things out of cupboards in the kitchen. She showed me how to stew the apples, she gave me a masterclass in weights and measures, and we even had time to do a practice run for the sponge making.
The weight she lifted off my shoulders that morning made the journey to school the most pain free it had ever been. And it is probably that incident I return to when I try to trace my love of cooking odd things. I’m not a parent so I cannot begin to surmise why she did it or what was going through her mind at the time – but it left a lasting impression on me.

So when I was weighing up my problems while standing in the freezing cold rain on a half deserted football terrace watching Coleraine losing one nil to Ballymena United I thought again of going to my mother for help. When Coleraine had their main goal scorer sent off it appeared to symbolise the uphill struggle I seemed to be facing. I wanted to talk to my mother about what I should do about my lack of employment, about the toothache that was keeping me up at night. I wanted to talk to her about the huge gap she had left when she passed away on the previous Monday after fighting illness so bravely for so long. But she is no longer there for me to shake awake.

As I stood in the rain, half watching the match I suddenly realised what she would tell me. In fact it was as clear in my mind as if she were standing in front of me. It was real because it was what she told me time and time again when she was alive. I wouldn’t dare suggest that my problems all drifted away at that moment but I was able to be a bit more objective. And a few minutes later Coleraine equalised. Not that I’m suggesting the events were related but it did bring a smile to my face and I spent the rest of the match jumping up and down and urging my team forward with all my breath. My voice has not recovered yet.

But I bet you want to know about that apple sponge swiss roll thingy. Well I went into the class full of confidence. I threw it together with panache and a smile on my face. The teacher was impressed and I got a decent mark. But it was never going to be as good as the one my mother made six hours earlier.

reasons why i'm single (part 2 of a 78 part series)

I am so smooth sometimes it hurts. Take the other day for example. I was filming a wedding locally. Everything was going well and I was getting along royally with one of the bridesmaids. We were making serious eye contact throughout the day and as the evening party approached I had made up my mind that I was going to save the last dance for her.

One of the services I offer in my wedding packages is called the Diary Room. That is where I find myself a spare, quiet room in the Hotel (usually a broom cupboard), set up a camera and allow guests to leave private messages for the happy couple. On this occasion the bridesmaid offered to help me set up (result!)

As we worked we made small talk – and for a change I did pretty well. Pretty well that is until it all went wrong.

With the room set up the bridesmaid prepared to leave the first message. As she was sitting down she looked up, smiled sweetly and said, “When you’re editing this you will be sure to make me look pretty.” Now, I wasn’t really concentrating, I was adjusting the settings on the camera. So when I thought I heard her say “…make me look prettiER” and replied with an ultra charming, “Ah, now we both know that’s not possible.” You can understand my surprise when she didn’t speak to me again that night. The whole thing was captured on film – but you’ll understand why I don’t youtube it.

Ah well, I tried.