History has taught me two things:
a) Never invade Russia in winter
b) Don’t get smart with fifteen- year-olds
The latter observation is based on two recent incidents in a Fifth Form set. A few weeks ago, while teaching these paragons of nonchalance, I incorrectly attributed a quotation to Stalin.
“It was Lenin actually,” came the languorous correction from the back.
“Man errs as long as he strives”, I thought, quoting Goethe to myself. But I could see the class were thinking more along the lines of “You’re some loser, dude.” Not to worry; I would use shock and awe to win them back.
My chance came this week with Robert Browning’s poem “My Last Duchess”. Many of you may know that the poem’s big surprise comes when we realise the elegant portrait on the wall is of a woman the narrator had killed. Eager to spook the naive teens, I slowed the pace of the lesson with masterful ease, slipped effortlessly into my Vincent Price whisper and asked:
“Can you guess what he keeps on his wall?”
“The rotting corpse of his wife?”
Thunder stolen.
******************
Schizophrenia struck early this week. Monday began in Maoist fashion with the massed choirs of the Pre-Prep piping me out of the building with Happy Birthday and showing their blind obedience by giving me twenty-one congratulatory claps. But by lunch time I’d heard that I’d resigned.
To be fair, this morale-boosting dispatch usually does the rounds whenever I call a Senior Staff meeting at short notice. Once the staff realise that it really is just another meeting on academic issues rather than a teary Headmaster’s farewell, I sense bunting being shoved slowly back into pockets and fridge doors closing reluctantly on the Veuve Clicquot. I walk around the campus afterwards saying “Good-afternoon” to people; but behind the polite rejoinders, I detect a weary “Still here then?”
*******************
Just as every Friday afternoon is set aside for the architect’s meeting, so Wednesday morning is for the weekly Project Review meeting with Uncle Tom Cobley and all. Pernickety quantity surveyors, burly Site Managers, enigmatic Health and Safety nabob, frenetic Estate Manager, the Scary Ladies, bemused Headmaster etc. Some of you may have seen the informative plaques appearing on the more historic Senior School buildings (funding kindly supplied by Senior PA, texts from Mr. Bowen,), and I got to wondering if, in a hundred years time or so, any of the five new buildings currently under construction will have granite slabs attached to their walls celebrating the achievements and vision of our generation. Again, I thank you all for your forbearance in the face of this unprecedented construction. We won’t let you down.
*******************
It’s been Upper Sixth reports week. This means my penning (yes, I still use a pen) advice and encouragement at the bottom of each document. Bromsgrove Upper Sixth pupils tend to be stunningly impressive and so it’s a genuine pleasure to read about and comment on progress. All the same, litigation and the threat of a lengthy stint of bird have taken a good deal of fun out of report writing. Gone indeed are the days when a Geography teacher could write “I’m amazed Algernon can find his way home”. I will now confess to having written a small number of alternative, private reports on the very few pupils who are not cutting the mustard: things I would have said were I not so concerned about prison food. One day.
***********************
In the week those unstoppable Year 8s became National Rugby 7s champions (remember, they became National Prep Hockey champions the previous week) I suggest we all give a big Yaroo! for the fact that Bromsgrove is more James Brown than Radiohead. (Before complaints of misogyny or worse flood in, I’m thinking specifically of “Get Up Offa That Thing”). No shoelace bands here, thank you very much. On Friday evening I watched a hilarious Year 6 production of Aladdin; on Saturday night the Choral Society and Chamber Choir moved us with a haunting Chapel concert; Sunday saw the England Under 18 Rugby team (coached by our own Mr. Mullan) play at School; Monday night will see me giving a speech at a dinner for Foundation donors, and on Wednesday evening I’ll be in London at the launch celebrations for Old Bromsgrovian Lord (Digby) Jones’ new book, modestly titled “Fixing Britain.” At Bromsgrove we are, in the words of the Godfather of Soul, most certainly “Sayin’ It and Doin’ It.”
Have a wonderful Easter.
