BLESS ME FATHER – THE HEADMASTER’S SIXTH BLOG

This week’s Friday weigh-in revealed I had shed a pound while one of my fellow dieters actually put on two. I am experiencing deeply unChristian emotions.

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The Pre-Prep deserve loud Yaroos from us all. They passed with distinction what can most charitably be described as a very detailed external audit. Distinction, but not perfection. Where did the Pre-Prep fall down? Gentle readers, I must tell you that the serving of fruit scored only 1 out of 7. That’s some pretty rubbish fruit serving if you ask me. 1 out of 7. Does this mean that our little ones don’t get enough fruit? How can this happen? OMG! What next? Scurvy?  But I’d forgotten this is 21^st century Britain. Mrs. Deval-Reed explained that if you serve fruit as we do with a serviette (how civilised) you score 1. Serve it on a plate and apparently you score 7. God’s own country.

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Bromsgrove Senior School staff are making even bigger strides than my fellow dieter’s tailor. A few are leaving for serious promotions at the end of this year and I offer my congratulations. Two, for example, are off to be house parents at well known boarding schools. Wonderful stuff. Now rumour (see below) can turn this triumph of professional development into something very different. The fact is, last year only one member of staff left the Senior School and I put that statistic on the School Risk Assessment. Seriously. I’m thrilled people like it here so much, but if schools do not aereate themselves, they become clogged and stodgily complacent. If every full time member of staff stayed ten years (which is a long time), we should have eleven teachers leaving each year from Senior School. So even a leave of fifteen, for example, would be perfectly normal for most schools this size. Some people here get shocked when it’s five. Chill. Every school has a place for Mr. Chips, but we need a fair few Fries-To-Go as well. Good luck to them.

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Rumour is a school’s anti-matter. Allow me to paraphrase and grammatically improve Wikipedia: The observable universe is apparently almost entirely matter, but do other places exist that are almost entirely antimatter instead, and what might be possible if antimatter could be harnessed? This week I have been told I have a new dog (I don’t). I have moved away from the School house (I haven’t). I am better (What? Spooky!). Anyway, I’ve decided it might be fun to spread a few stories myself to see if they get a run in classroom and car park. Incy wincy fibs made up by me for subsequent embellishment. A prize for any angry person who reports one of my own stories back to me as truth, and extra champers to anybody whose variant is barely recognizable from my original hare. Now then, did you hear that this year’s Commemoration Day will be sponsored by Tescos? No? Well apparently ...............

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Elsewhere on this website I have written a brief tribute to Roundy Rudell who died suddenly last week. Whether you knew Roundy or not, I hope you will find a minute to read it. He was an extraordinary man who gave much to this School and believed passionately in its young people. We will miss him.

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Site manager Jim is in charge of the sports section of the new build, and whenever academic staff walk round the new arena and satellite buildings, he rightly insists we don safety wear. But no safety helmet fits me properly. This is because I have a huge brain. (Well, that’s my take. Mrs. Edwards says my cranial issues arise from the fact that I am the only post-Neanderthal hominid not to have evolved away my occipital bun). Jim’s attempts to force the safety helmet down over my prodigious bonce saw a gleeful management team rejoicing rather too easily in my humiliation. Whereas the real builders look mean and manly in their rugged safety gear, I feel like a flour baby with a lego hat.

CARELESS WORDS - THE HEADMASTER’S FIFTH BLOG

One of the Furies from Marketing was away last week so I thought I’d assert myself and not write the blog. Remind them who was boss. But she came back unexpectedly and checked up on me, asking why no blog had been forthcoming. I stood my ground, put my hand on my hip and went all teen strop:

“I’d really love to have written something earlier but - you know what? - I literally couldn’t be bothered.”

 Her response was swift, candid and unnecessarily physical.

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When you are building sports facilities on the scale we are, it is inevitable, understandable and wrong for people to suggest that the Arts have to take a back seat. This term I spent evenings at the Bromsgrove Festival listening to our choir sing the African Sanctus (the Birmingham Post review called Mr. Kingston a “local legend”) and, along with Mr. Bowen, taking pupils to the Bromsgrove Festival Young Musicians final. I have witnessed a stunning Words and Music evening in the Prep, a slick Charity Fashion Show for the shining ones in the Senior School, and a virtuoso Housman Verse Prize performance from the worthy winner, Alistair Aktas. Due to governor duties at another School, I regrettably missed the Chamber Choir performance at St. Swithin’s Worcester, but all should note too that auditions for next term’s Midsummer Night’s Dream have been cracking on apace in a week when numerous RADA certificates were awarded.

So, yes, it is a whopping big sports arena, but let’s all remember: our orchestra plays Mozart Symphonies.

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This week, the diet (thank you for not asking) was given a mauling due to a mighty induction lunch with a new governor. I was wondering why I still felt hungry after so large a meal until, on leaving the table, I realised I had deposited most of my goodies (including the raspberry coulis) over the floor around my chair. (Whoever dreamt up eating coulis with a fork was clearly the same sadist who put an “s” in the world lisp). Sheepishly following the governor out, I inadvertently stepped in the coulis and trailed it down the carpet. It now looks to visitors as if I butcher my guests and drag them into my dining room. The detention queue might look more nervous than usual this week.

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My unpopularity graph is likely to go Alpine because I have just made up the new Senior School monitors. It’s for the most part a democratic process. Staff and pupil votes are counted, and house recommendations assimilated. Yet the plethora of extraordinary young people in the current Lower Sixth (we could make up two or three times as many monitors as we do) means some exceptional pupils do not join the team. I am always touched by the pride and the utter lack of cynicism of our older pupils, manifest especially in their total respect during the solemn signing in ceremony. But that means feelings run high. Accusations that I am biased towards or against a particular gender, race, House, subject, examination system, or even extra-curricular activity have all, in the last six years, been levelled at me by disappointed parents and pupils. At times of such emotion, reason is sometimes as intangible as froth on a daydream. Best to concede and let myths go out into the car park and unto the world.

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I lunched at the Prep School this week with the young people who have volunteered to be “buddies” for other pupils. They told me the biggest problem people face in schools is gossip. Same with adults, I said. At Prep Chapel earlier in the week I had recounted the ancient tale of the mouthy woman who one day, regretting her careless words, went to the village wise woman to ask how she could undo the hurt her gossip had caused. The wise woman told the villager to pluck a chicken and drop the feathers along the road. The villager, thinking this was some kind of magic spell, did as she was told and returned to the wise woman the next day. But all the wise woman said was: “Now go back to the road, collect the feathers and tell me what you find.”

The villager did as she was told. When she returned to the wise woman, the villager said:

“Some feathers were still there, although in different parts of the road, but some had vanished on the wind. I’ll never get them back.”

And then she realised: so it is with words.

TRUTH IS BEAUTY - THE HEADMASTER’S FOURTH BLOG

I have decided to become unfathomably gorgeous for Commemoration Day.

“Come, come, Headmaster”, I hear you say; “how can one improve on perfection?” And I thank you for that. But maybe – just maybe - I’m a teeny bit overweight. By three stone, say. Anyway, after an abortive first diet over Christmas (I know, I know..), I am now in a weight losing competition with both fellow blimps and more streamlined models who erroneously think they are tubsters. I have already told Senior Staff to strike me if they see me eating desserts. My ribs sting. But at least the lady who hit me found my ribs. My competitors have set themselves ambitious target weights. As for me ... I’ll just be happy if well meaning people stop rolling me back into the sea when I’m lying on the beach.

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Terms have rhythms, and the Royal Wedding is not the only new syncopation. The International Baccalaureate examinations are underway. We are not used to the public examination season beginning so early. Indeed, results will be out and university destinations known just after Commemoration. So, the Senior School is not going through the late spring phoney war period to which we have been accustomed. It is now and it is for real. We wish all our IB candidates every success.

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Readers may recall that as we broke up for Easter I was heading off to London for the launch of Lord (Digby) Jones’ new book: “Fixing Britain.” I’m not in the business of plugging all Old Bromsgrovian’s books, but think of this volume as the antithesis to Princess Beatrice’s hat. (I initially thought –honestly - that some of the Abbey’s masonry had fallen on poor Princess Beatrice’s head and that she was stoically soldering on). Whether you agree with Digby on every issue or not, this hugely entertaining trip round the bay is paradoxically a ludicrously sane account of national problems and solutions in Asia’s century. The chapter on UK education is searing. And as far as I’m concerned, anybody calmly advocating policy delivery via a technocracy rather than leaving it to the vicissitudes of career politicians deserves to be heard. Anti-establishment and highly recommended.

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I went and got some Factor 50 suncream in my left eye over the holidays. Sadly this happened just as the doorbell rang. I don’t know if any of you have suffered from directional issues when squirting the Factor 50, but I promise you, Hieronymous Bosch could not have dreamt up the torment I was going through as I answered the door to a stranger. I started yelling and clutching my face as she said “Hello.” Blistering agony then compelled me to bang my head against the porch and howl. For my finale, I staggered into the drive groaning and flailing like Dr. Jekyll after a drink. She ran off. Those of you plagued by cold callers, take note.

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While the holiday saw mighty and very visible progress in the multi million pound developments in the Senior School, we should recall a quieter moment that took place over the weekend in the Prep School. The untimely death of John Ormerod, who as Headmaster led the Prep School into the twenty-first century, was a sadness to all who knew him. I did not know John, but was moved by Saturday’s ceremony attended by his wife Jane and family. The new Prep School cricket pavilion will be known as the Ormerod Pavilion. John apparently  loved cricket beyond measure and even –according to Jane - banned football in summer break times, insisting the boys practised their batting and bowling instead. The building will have a special place in many hearts.