Monday

The end of October sees Greenfield Academy with its highest ever monthly total of authorised (sic) absences. This is the unwholesome result of more than 35 per cent of our parental cohort deeming it acceptable to remove their offspring from educational provision so that they can avail themselves of an advantageously priced holiday on either side of the official October break.

Perhaps their academic irresponsibility is something that could be discussed by our hapless ethos committee. They have been charged with the elusive task of pinpointing the reasons for our lack of school ethos and suggesting means to improve it.

Their latest initiative has reminded us that aspiration is all: we are launching a pupil challenge improbably called Go Higher With Greenfield. Its purpose seems to be making reward to any child who achieves the remarkable feat of collecting six “staff award” points in a month and no misdemeanour points. They will then have the chance to further their academic careers by receiving an afternoon off school to visit the Rockston Multiplex with a set of ethos committee cinema vouchers.

Tuesday

My fourth year class is proving considerably easier to handle this week. At first, I wondered if it was due to the Go Higher With Greenfield programme encouraging academic excellence but dismissed the notion almost as soon as it crossed my mind. Then I decided it was due to the extended October holiday being taken by Peter O’Farrell, whose Standard grade study preparation is being undertaken on the distant beaches of Lloret del Mar. But then I realised that in Michael Willis and Donny McIntyre I still had two of the most disruptive pupils in attendance, so that wasn’t it either. Finally, I realised that it was down to Kylie Paterson and Joanna Grieves.

The sudden quiet that has descended upon the class is almost entirely due to the fact that both girls have settled their respective cultural differences on the MosherGoth issue and have decided to present a united front in their latest attempt to challenge official school uniform policy. Their appearance is provocative, to say the least.

“D’ye like wur Britney soax, sur?” Joanna thrust herself in front of me and placed a suggestive hand on her hips.

“Your I eh I what?” I gulped, astounded, as Kylie’s identically-clad figure sidled up beside her.

Both girls had adorned themselves in tighly-fitting black jumpers, loosely knotted school ties and mini-skirts too short for decency which had the added distraction of a split up the side that left very little to the imagination. Worse still - unless your name happened to be Humbert Humbert - they had both completed the ensemble with a pair of lengthy black woollen socks that stopped just above the knee and thereby drew inevitable attention to the exposure of creamy-white bare flesh beneath their black micro-skirts.

Joanna interrupted my startled examination by making answer. “Wur Britney soax, sur. Whit d’ye think o’ them?” Kylie witnessed my puzzled expression and came to the rescue. “Britney Speirs, sur. That’s why thur called Britney soax. She werrs soax like these.”

“Does she?” I nodded uncertainly. “Does she, indeed?” “Aye, sur!” confirmed Joanna. “Widdye think? Sexy, huh?” I coughed. “Very I er I modern, girls. Except I’m not too sure whether these would be considered appropriate school uniform. I suspect Mr Dick might have something to say on the matter.”

“Ach! Stick Dick!” Kylie made disrespectful reference to our headteacher. “Wur 15 now. We kin werr whit we waant!” I decided to let the matter pass for the moment and asked them to take their places for the lesson. Which they did, crossing their legs as they sat down at their desks in a movement which made them the cynosure of all male eyes in the room, especially those belonging to Michael Willis and Donny McIntyre, whose disruptive tendencies and shouts of obscenities had suddenly been exchanged for the quietening effect of unrequited lust.

Wednesday

The builders of our new house have put the entry date back to December 18. Apart from the fact that this clashes with the first year Christmas dance, it means a further three weeks of living with Gail’s parents, a situation which is putting our marriage under intense strain.

However, we have no option but to comply. My only release from pressure these days is in attending school. Which is a pretty sad reversal, when you come to think about it.

Thursday

As I predicted, Richard Dick is not at all happy with the Britney socks being worn by an exponentially increasing percentage of the school’s female pupils. This morning he decided to issue an ultimatum to the principal trend-setters in the personae of Mesdemoiselles Paterson and Grieves.

“These items are not school uniform, girls,” he is reported to have advised them. “And I want your assurance that you’ll be in regulation attire tomorrow. Otherwise, I’ll have no alternative but to send you home.”

It was a challenge that they accepted with relish.

At the morning interval I witnessed them in consultation with a gaggle of third, fourth and fifth years attired in similarly provocative clothes. At midday I saw them outside the lunch-hall speaking anxiously into their mobile telephones. By close-of-play today I espied from the staffroom window a press photographer (clearly enlisted at their mobile behest) lining up 12 of Greenfield Academy’s finest in the school playground, asking them to look “as angelic and innocent as possible, girls” - a challenge, given their outrageously provocative appearance - and snapping away to her heart’s delight.

I darted into the playground but by the time I arrived the impromptu modelling session had concluded and I found myself dreading the appearance of tomorrow’s Parkland Gazette.

Friday

As I had fully expected, our local rag ran a full-scale expose of the socks controversy. “Schoolgirl shocker as sock children sent home” proclaimed the headline above a report which suggested that “education bosses are getting their knickers in a twist, and Greenfield Academy’s bosses’ knickers are more twisted than most!” in denying our pupils the chance to express their personalities in the manner of their dress.

The paper then went on to outline the same tedious arguments about the legalities of enforcing school uniform that we’ve all heard a hundred times before and which seemed to suggest that Greenfield Academy’s headteacher was up there with every totalitarian dictator that the eastern bloc has sought to impose upon the people’s will since Stalin breathed his last.

Frankly, it made me angry, so I decided that it was time to call their bluff with a telephone call to play the ace I had up my sleeve.

“Could I speak to Amanda Fraser?” I asked for the reporter whose name headed the piece. She came to the phone and I outlined my grievance.

“Amanda,” I said. “Morris Simpson, principal teacher of guidance, Greenfield Academy, here. We’re all very taken with your piece today.”

“Oh? Great.” she sounded uncertain. “So you’re not annoyed about it?” “Oh no,” I assured her. “Free speech and all that, even if it was a bit mischievous of the girls to summon you to their aid.

“But we were a bit concerned about the fact that your photographer seems to have taken at least three spools of illegal photographs and you’ve printed several of them. Y’see, they all appear to have been taken inside the grounds of the school. And if you’re doing something like that then I’m sure you’re aware that you need parental permission to publish such photographs in a newspaper,” I reminded her of the relevant professional legalities. “Now, I’ve spoken to six sets of parents already,” I lied smoothly, “and I don’t think you’ve got permission from any of them.”

She was like putty in my hands after that as I said we were thinking of legal proceedings, but accepted the concession of a complete right of reply in next week’s paper for Mr Dick, so that he could put his side of the story. Suddenly, I had a vision of a headline for Mr Dick, accompanied by my rectorial credibility rising a hundredfold.

Then I got too cocky and tried to close our conversation in a more light-hearted fashion when she asked, “off the record”, whether I, personally, felt the socks were appropriate for schoolwear.

“Amanda,” I chortled slightly, “off the record, I can tell you what I’ve already said to the girls.”

“Which is?” she queried.

“Well, what with the cold weather coming in, I’ve made it pretty clear that if they keep wearing skirts as short as that, then they’re more than likely to end up with chaps between the legs!” I started to laugh at my own (admittedly rather ancient) joke and then heard the unmistakable click of a recording machine being switched off.

“Amanda?” I questioned plaintively. “That remark was off the record. Like you said?” There was the chilling sound of a telephone receiver being replaced at the other end. And then silence. Why don’t I keep my big mouth shut?

John Mitchell