Open letter to the pupil who ran out of my class.

I’m sorry – but not for what you thought I should be apologising for.

Yes, I was ignoring your constant attention seeking – but not out of malice or even indifference. The fact that I don’t constantly acknowledge you is not a sign that I don’t care. I do know what has happened to you, I do know that you have lost everything. I feel pain when I imagine what you must be going through. Thoughts run through my mind and questions pass unanswered in a constant flow through my consciousness.

Don’t think I’m heartless when I change the subject and stop you talking about what you want to talk about. I know you need to let your feelings out and express your loss – possessions, family, sense of security. I know you need to talk about those you loved and who loved you. I know that your distractions, irritating behaviour, belligerence, and defiance are your way of making some form of much needed human contact. Forgive me when I respond occasionally rather than constantly. Don’t assume this means I only care occasionally rather than constantly.

If I could find a way to solve all your problems I would. If I could find a way to ease even part of your burden I would. All I can do is be there for you and try to give some semblance of normal life in an otherwise abnormal existence.

Look at the thirty young people around you. I know you must feel none of them have the slightest idea what you’re going through – and you may be right. But don’t misjudge them. When they try to stop you being disruptive or express frustration at your outbursts it is not because they don’t care – each and every one of them is full of concern for you.

Like you, each one of them is extremely valuable. They need my help as well. But I am not putting their needs ahead of your’s – I am putting them along with your’s. True it seem I am quicker to help them out, but that is because I am able to fix their vocabulary problems quicker than your life challenges. I wish with all my heart I could mend your spirit by telling you how to spell ‘establishment’ but we both know I am helpless in that regard.

So when you ran out of the room and I waited a few seconds before following you – when you looked up in tears and saw my eyes were dry – it wasn’t because I felt nothing. It was because my tears won’t give you what you need. No tears can do that. And that is why I am sorry. But more than that I’m sorry that I can’t say these things to you in person – that I can express them to complete strangers but not to the person who needs to hear it the most.

car park conversations

I was sitting in my car reading my paper at lunchtime today when an old woman came to the driver’s window. I didn’t notice her there – like I said I was reading the paper. Well, when I said I didn’t notice her, that was until she made me spit water all over my shirt by banging on my window.

And why did she do this? Did she know me? Did she have an emergency? Had I run over her little dog? No:

“Aren’t you going then?”
“Going?”
“To see THEM.”
“Them?”
“Charles and her”
“Charles and her?”
“Prince Charles and Camilla.”
“Oh – Charles and Camilla.”
“They’re at the Town Hall.”
“The Town Hall?”
“Yes. Well, the new Town Hall. Not the old one.”
“There’s an old Town Hall?”
“What? … Anyway. They’re there. Aren’t you going to go see them?”
“Hmm, no, I don’t think so.”
[shocked silence]
“Right. Um… why not?”
[pensive silence]
“Um… I have to work?
[like-that’s-an excuse silence]
“Right.”

And off she trotted to her car so she could visit the heir to the throne, pausing only to throw another disbelieving glance in my direction.

I’ve been thinking about that encounter and trying to work out who was the more taken aback – Me, that she was excited to the point of initiating conversations with newspaper reading strangers in car parks – or her, that I showed such disregard for my future monarch.

I’m no put-them-all-against-the-wall republican. I have a healthy apathy towards the royals. If they were driving past I may stop what I was doing and watch. If they were to visit my place of work I’m sure I would bow and say something appropriate. They seem like pleasant enough people – I just don’t feel a great deal of enthusiasm when I hear them mentioned, and I find it odd that other people do. I guess I’m just not much of a patriot.

teen talk

I’m covering a year 11 maths class today. The note from their regular teacher said to give them personal study time to revise for upcoming exams. I am bored. I’ve finished the marking I had brought along, wandered round the class three times to see if I could be of assistance to anybody, and counted the gaps in the metal grills covering the windows (12,000 exactly)

As I drifted off into the abyss that is daydreaming without the dreams I began to hear snippets of conversations. So, as I am so bored, and as I haven’t posted for a few days, and as I have nothing of any consequence to post about, I thought I would open the world of disjointed year 11 conversions to the world – don’t worry, I did ask permission first:

Okay, I’m scared… Do you drink coffee? Do you? Do you?.. I’m fishing!.. Where’d that lead go?.. Just tell me how to do something… That’s RE – do. not. write on your RE work... Jemma, stop giving me slabber… Where’s these pluses at?.. Are you gonna make any money at the old writing?.. Very nice... You’d nearly think I need to know this crap... Lean on me, when you’re not strong, and I’ll be your friend… He’s not worth it… Oh my gosh!.. I am not eating burgers ever again… Let’s ring Tescos!.. Suzanne – Sue-zed-eh-en-en-eeeee – Suzanne had braces… Let’s put on some Beach Boys… That’s the thing about Tai Chi… Shut up… I bring ma pappy to you. My pappy got a shotgun… Do you know you’re eating crisps at this time of the day and it is highly revolting… I don’t plan on passing the test… I’m trying to teach the p4s here… Excuse me!.. Someone licked that!.. Stephen, what is that? Jack and the Beanstalk?.. I said Shut up!.. Did she text back? What did she say?... I can’t say that out loud… Aw, sweet… she said ‘tell him he can [inaudible] her [inaudible]… what are we revising again?... If you’re finished with her could you let her know… Apricots… What?... Apricots… I SAID SHUT UP!!!

Enlightening. Enjoy your day.

motor bikes, tragedy and fairy tales

I live in the middle of nowhere - but it is a very fast middle of nowhere. Right next to me is an open straight section of road that is just perfect for boy racers and Valentino Rossi wannabes to open up and 'see what she can do.' Perhaps understandably it is also an accident blackspot. That doesn't seem to deter the speed merchants and the air is often filled with the sound of squealing engines and the smell of rocket fuel.

Never is the road as busy as it is on this weekend each year. For this weekend is North West 200 weekend. The weekend when the roads between Coleraine, Portrush and Portstewart are closed for Motorcycle road racing. Hundreds of thousands of people converge on this tiny part of the world to watch. Usually I would be among them, but this year I couldn't make it. As the cars were heading North I was heading south.

12 miles from the races

18 miles from the races

24 miles from the races

This year the event was tinged with tragedy as 47 year old father of three, Robert Dunlop, died during one of the practise evenings. People not from here, or not part of the biking community may not have heard of him - but for the people of Ballymoney he was a legend.

His brother Joey had acheived folk hero status for winning the Formula One Championship five times. When he died while racing in Estonia eight years ago the people of Ballymoney erected a statue of him, and you can see photos of him in everything from Chip Shops to Barber Shops. He was the biggest thing to come out of Ballymoney since... well, ever.

Lesser men would have had trouble living in the considerable shadow of such a brother but Robert set about making a name for himself in his own right. His record 15 wins at the North West bears witness to his success. As a younger brother with immense hand-me-down shoes to fill myself I always had a special admiration for Robert and it hit me hard when I heard about his crash.

Racing and motorcycles are in the Dunlop blood and Robert could not give it up... He did try to retire but he got a real buzz from riding motorcycles. It is difficult to describe the feeling - you need to have done it yourself.

11 time TT winner, Phillip McCallen

He’d has crashes before, serious ones. In 1994 he had a major incident on the Isle of Man TT, but he recovered and returned to race again. He always returned to race again – until now.

He was a great ambassador for the sport in this country and further circles as well. It's a major tragedy for sport in this country.

North West 200 clerk of the course, Mervyn Whyte

But the most amazing part of this story – in my mind – is the fact that his sons, Michael and William went off to race yesterday. Despite the fact that their father had died just two days before. Even more amazing is the fact that Michael went on to win the race that his father had died preparing for. What greater tribute could be paid to a man who loved the race as much as Robert.

"I had to do it for him - I hope my dad's proud of me,"

Michael Dunlop

In a movie we would expect it to happen, but for it to happen in reality… Truly the stuff of fairy tales.

close your eyes and think of england

It took some pretty strong persuasion but I am coming out of a year long retirement (again) to appear on stage. I can’t actually tell you much about the play itself – I’ve only been to the auditions and one read through. I should really have read through the script about a dozen times by now but this is me we’re talking about.

It’s a play by William Douglas Home called The Secretary Bird. An English comedy apparently; which generally means not very funny and we have to put on English accents (which I cannot do.)

The concept is something like this – forgive me if any of this is inaccurate. A married couple are having issues. The wife, Liz, has taken herself a lover, and plans to run away with him. The husband, Hugh, agrees to give her a divorce. To avoid her being named as the reason for the break up he arranges to be caught in bed with his attractive, young secretary by his housekeeper. Still with me? He invites his secretary, Molly, and his wife’s lover, John over for the weekend. Of course nothing goes to plan; the husband and wife reconcile and John leaves with Molly. Fun, frolics and laughter abound. I will be playing John, the wife’s lover with the slightly dodgy Canadian-Irish tinged English accent and who is nowhere near as athletic as he is supposed to be.

I haven’t acted in a stage play for a very long time. The thought of it fills me with dread and panic. But there is one thing that is worrying me more than anything. The idea of having to kiss an old woman in front of an audience… well, I can’t imagine it – I’m trying not to.

Public kissing is not an issue for me. In my first year and a half at university I was in eleven plays, nine of which involved making out with a total of ten different people. It became passé. It was like a normal, everyday thing. But these were all people the same age, or slightly younger than me. This woman is in her sixties.

Would it make me ageist if I was slightly uncomfortable with the idea of making out with a pensioner? Would I be bad person? I don’t care. I am.

God bless Google

I was pacing round my classroom giving my year 9 drama class examples of different ways of delivering the 'To be or not to be' soliloquy when it suddenly struck me...

"If I go into Google and search using the cache feature my blog will still be there."

And so it was - all but the most recent entries anyway, and they weren't worth saving anyway. I reckon I'll spend the next couple of weeks reinstating the old ToaSNT post by post. Maybe then I'll tackle the skin. Sound fun? Yeah, I guess not; not everyone has a life like mine.

The End?

... or just another beginning.

I'm sorry folks. I did something incredibly stupid. I was doing a redesign for an ex pupil of mine - check it out over at The Thoughts of a Student with Aspergers Syndrome - and I created a temporary blog in my account on which to test it. The thing is after I'd finished with it I hit delete... on the wrong blog.

ToaSNT died.

Apparently there is no way to recover blog entries that are deleted by mistake. That seems like something Blogger should look into - you know, giving a few hours of grace time just incase someone, suffering from tequila or stupidity, deletes three years worth of blog.

Anyway, I'm lacking motivation to write anything right now - but looks like it's back to sqare 1. And, looking on the bright side, at least I can revisit some of the topics I've already blogged on - who's going to know?