A Close Shave

Sorry I haven’t posted for a while but it’s been half-term and I like to use the school holidays to gather material for my sex blog (link removed).

Had a bit of a run-in with the Head just before we broke up.

I was striding purposefully across the playground with some exercise books and an air of authority when our illustrious leader (she has a 2:1 from somewhere In The North) started banging on the window of her office in an agitated manner. She appeared to be beckoning me inside. Within moments we were sat either side of her broad oak veneer desk, admiring her new yucca plant and politely discussing our holiday plans. Then she rather sheepishly explained that she might have to sack me for ‘getting into bed with the Tories and selling my sordid little story to the gutter press.’

Unbelievable.

Still, I remained calm and spoke in my defence. I reminded her how much I love these kids. I reminded her that I am over-qualified to teach in a state school and that most of my friends believe I ought to be earning a lot more money. Finally, I reminded her of all the good times we’d spent together.

She started to back-pedal (slimy, unprincipled Blairite that she is), claiming that it was not her idea to sack me, it was only that some of the governors had expressed their concern…

I gave her a look, and she shut up.

Minutes later, she admitted that she hadn’t been sleeping well lately because she was worried that some of the staff had been saying things about her new haircut. I rose slowly from the comfort-sprung leather chair and made my way round to her side of the desk. As I placed my hands firmly upon her shoulders, I felt her pulse quicken and I breathed deeply, inhaling a tangy aroma of sweat and supermarket own brand hairspray. Easing my thumbs into the tense knotted muscle beneath the flab at the base of her neck, I massaged her like her ex-husband never would. Amidst her soft moans, I too had begun to drift away, transported upon the wings of her euphoria, when suddenly we were both brought crashing down to earth by the excited squeals of a teenage mob in the corridor.

The door burst open and a gaggle of year 8’s and year 9’s flooded in chanting, ‘Miss G’s the G!’ (‘G’ signifies ‘Gangsta’ in the vernacular of the working class urban youth. It is a complimentary epithet.)

Their gawky spokesman stepped forth and explained to a rather bewildered and semi-aroused Head that she must not on any account sack me, Miss G, because I am the best teacher in the school and probably the world and all time. This all seemed a bit much, but he did go on to justify these rather wild assertions.

‘Firstly, she is the only one in this place who can keep order.’

A fair point.

‘Secondly, she obviously cares about us because she tells us she does all the time.’

Can’t argue with that.

‘Finally, she is the only teacher wise enough and brave enough to embrace Right-wing thinking and break free of the shackles of Marxist ideology that poisons the education system…’

The Head’s spluttering objections were soon drowned amongst the cheers of my young disciples as they raised me onto their shoulders and paraded me out across the car park to a specially constructed podium where a number of other students awaited me with their own personal stories of how I had affected their lives in ways that most teachers could not begin to imagine.

So in the end, a rather lovely start to the half-term break that got me right in the mood for some no-holds-barred, bare-knuckle ‘research’. Nine days later, I am exhausted but gagging for some serious teaching first thing in the morning.

Bring on les enfants!