Getting A Head

How did this happen? I said I wasn’t going to get involved. Have a break. Do nothing.

It seems to be the lot of an unmarried woman in her forties with no young children to end up on endless committees, though I am resolutely avoiding flower-arranging and cake-making. Both groups did invite me to join, but after I served them up a baked oasis, beautifully iced, they took the hint. Obviously Samantha is still in the trauma unit, but she comes home on alternate Thursdays as part of her long-term rehabilitation.  Well, how did I know she was allergic to eating Gypsophila? I mean – how could anyone have guessed that?

Still, worse even than that. A governor at Great Tremlett Infant School? I pointed out that my sole experience of children had been finding somebody to bring up Young Keith for me, and then getting him back aged 23, but that didn’t really weight in the balance against my great advantages in this matter. I have spare time, and I was there when they were looking for volunteers.

So today we were interviewing for a new head. Mrs Crawford was hoping to pack it all in next summer, but the new intake were so terrifying she’s retiring at Christmas before she runs amok with a fire-axe. I’m afraid that Miss Sharp hasn’t really done it for me. I mean – clearly all infant school head teachers look young. Mrs Windsor at St Mytholmroyd’s School for Aggressive Young Ladies always seemed terribly ancient when I was a kid –  but I suspect she was actually about 30.  I knew rumours of alien impregnation were rife when we discovered she was expecting, but that’s because we didn’t realise you could have children when you were that old. And because we’d seen her husband.

Anyway. Miss Sharp. So I asked her – given it’s a small school, with no chance of hiding away in her office doing paperwork and avoiding the flying bullets, horse dung and pitchforks – what it is she prefers teaching, herself. And her answer was “children”. I think we’re gonna need a better one than that.


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