Would that they would all go the same way. Alas, our ethos committee is still alive and kicking. This afternoon, it unveiled further means of pupils attaining credits towards their reward vouchers. In the new year, staff award points can be issued for a range of apparently commendable academic outcomes, such as handing in homework on time, remembering to bring all relevant textbooks and stationery to class, remaining attentive in class and so on. In fact, it’s all the kind of behavioural procedures which, in my day at least, used to be taken as given.

Roll on Christmas.

Tuesday At last our new house is almost ready for us. Friday is the big day. Because the builders unilaterally declared a series of delays, we have been living with Gail’s parents since September and the tension has been difficult to bear. Although the date is inconveniently close to Christmas, at least I can take the last day of term off. Moving house, together with weddings and funerals, is one of the few officially acceptable reasons for teacher absence, except with weddings it has to be somebody else’s rather than one’s own.

Wednesday I have often had cause to ponder on the admirable standards of hygiene avowed by modern youth and by the denizens of Greenfield Academy in particular. Why, only last month I was comparing the second years’ cloakroom with a Turkish brothel, such is the nostril-enhancing range of body-mist fragrances that emanates therefrom.

Today, alas, I chanced upon a discovery of the opposite nature after I bent over the industrious figure of 3S’s Simon Sheridan to correct a punctuation exercise that I had set.

“Now, Simon,” I began, “you need to remember that the colon has several uses but using it at the end of a question isn’t really appropriate I”, at which point I stopped, wrinkled my nose and looked around in distaste.

At first, I thought that one of the class had been overcome with an attack of flatulence, but the aroma pervaded long after most airborne gases would have dispersed. I shrugged my shoulders, bent over Simon once more I and recoiled in distaste, with a cough to match.

“Hmmph!” I grunted. “Umm, Simon?” I raised an eyebrow and invited him to have his jotter marked at my desk, where I could place him safely downwind and ask a few personal questions.

“Now, Simon,” I gulped a large intake of air and turned towards him with lowered voice, “I don’t want to sound nosy but I just wondered if you’d, er, had a shower recently?” “Naw, sur,” he shrugged a carefree shoulder.

“Or a bath?” “Naw, sur,” he confirmed gladly. “Ah yoosually hiv wan oan a Sunday night but ah didny huv wan this Sunday.”

“Why not, Simon?” “Ma maw said tae wait till Wedzenday coassy ra Christmas disco ta night.”

My simultaneous translation equipment had gone into overdrive but I thought I understood well enough.

“So you postponed your, er, weekly bath by three days so you’d be clean for tonight’s party?” “Right, sur.” He seemed quite proud of the achievement.

I sighed and made a mental note to have a quiet word with Angela Slater, his guidance teacher. It’s not the boy’s fault, after all, I thought to myself as I smiled at him, placed a few desultory ticks on his jotter and bade him return to his seat.

“Have a nice time tonight,” I urged him generously.

“Sure will, sur,” he assured me. “And ah’m getting a clean perrae underpants as well. D’ye think ah’ll scoarr?” I only wish I could be there to find out.

Thursday Today was my own year group’s Senior Ball. Formal dress was not required, which was just as well. The assembled companies contained a variegated mixture of Moshers and Goths, resplendent in their respective finery and intent only upon upstaging each other.

The former group, comprising the likes of Michael Willis, Peter O’Farrell, Karen Porter and Donny McIntyre and wearing layer upon layer of T-shirts with “baggies” (trousers) to match, spent much of the evening “skanking”, at least I think that’s what they called it. Anyway, this peculiar activity involves performing a dance resembling a stationary run forwards with elbows akimbo and legs in virtual slow-motion whilst the participants’ heads and eyes stare floorwards in a peculiar little world of their own.

To themselves, they were the height of fashion. To me? Spread a little sand on the floor and they reminded me of nothing so much as Wilson, Keppel and Betty at the height of their considerable powers.

All of this was performed to music I could only describe as twanging and discordant in the extreme. Until the Goths got their chance, wherupon the previous interlude seemed like Mantovani.

Joanna Grieves and Kylie Paterson, long bereft of their Britney socks, had once again assumed the mantle of the newly-dead, and put me severely in mind of Morticia of The Addams Family. Resplendent with spiked dog collars and leads, their faces painted mortuary white, they simply shuffled, shook and shouted to the most disharmonious collection of records that I had ever heard and which, so far as I could ascertain, consisted solely of banging, thumping and shouting.

Nearly all of the girls seemed to have given up their craze for Britney socks, which was a shame, in a way. At least they looked undeniably feminine in them.

I arrived home with my head spinning, just in time to witness Gail packing our last ornaments from the lounge cabinet into a large cardboard box. I’m not sure which of us had experienced the more enjoyable evening.

Thursday The last day of term, for me at any rate. It was also the day of our staff party, which started earlier than planned due to the almost complete absence of children in school.

One particular innovation this year was Ms Honeypot’s idea of a Christmas gift exchange, whereby we had all been asked to select and wrap (anonymously) an appropriate memento for the member of staff whose name we pulled out of the lucky-dip. It certainly proved a revelatory, if slightly cruel, scheme.

Malcolm Saunderson, our persistently hypochondriac English teacher, received a 2002 calendar with only six months in it, and the legend “How many sickies next year, Malcolm?” on the cover.

Sandra Denver, our Brainscrape enthusiast, opened a package containing a 6in x 4in picture of a green field that exhorted her to: “Imagine you’re sitting in a green field, with water trickling around you. Imagine your mind is letting go. Imagine you can do anything. and be anyone. And now imagine you’ve got a better present than this! Suck on it, Sandra!” Best of all, some genius secret Santa had thought to provide our esteemed headteacher with one of those custom-written coffee mugs featuring his name and an interpretative legend alongside. In black Rockwell extra bold capitals, it proclaimed the bald words “DICK - MEANING POWERFUL”.

I think it was meant as an ironic joke but the gormless twerp actually seemed delighted and proudly displayed the mug to all and sundry, asking them if they’d like to join him for a “power breakfast” over the Christmas holidays.

I don’t think he got any takers.

Friday After the death of a spouse and divorce, moving house is the next most traumatic event in most people’s lives, they say. I think they’re right. And, frankly, I haven’t the energy to outline today’s events right now. Suffice to say that our removal van arrived late and one man short. We eventually took possession of our new house keys as the sales adviser was departing for her office Christmas party and we wished the removal men farewell at 9pm with what I considered a generous gratuity, even if they didn’t.

Our heating isn’t working. I have telephoned the builders’ offices to leave a message for the morning but was met with a particularly dispiriting message of their own. “We are sorry that our offices are now closed for Christmas. We hope that you have an enjoyable festive break. In the unlikely event of emergency cover being required, please telephone our home protection agents, whose number can be found in your information pack.”

After a long and fruitless search on my part, Gail found it underneath our welcome pack of bath towels.

Thus I eventually made contact with an operator based in Chelmsford, who couldn’t find any record of our house, let alone our emergency protection cover.

“Just bear with me sir,” she intoned: “your postcode is not showing up on the system just now and I’ll have to check it out. Unfortunately, we’re a bit short-staffed tonight because a lot of folk are away at the Christmas party.

“Oooh! Stop it, Mike!” she squeaked impatiently, as one of her colleagues evidently decided to invoke a Christmas celebration all of his own.

I sighed, smiled wanly at Gail and blew her a kiss as she went to wrap some presents for Margaret. It might seem strange to say, but I can hardly wait to get back to school.

John Mitchell