My secret life between the covers

7th December 2001, 12:00am

Share

My secret life between the covers

https://www.tes.com/magazine/archive/my-secret-life-between-covers
Want to stay sane - and ahead of the pack? Then keep a diary, advises David Thomas

It’s 21 years since I became hooked on keeping diaries, and I am now an addict, unable to sleep unless I have scribbled down the day’s hot news. As a head, I always wrote a few hundred words a day until I grabbed early retirement in 1996. Occasionally, I leaf through a few pages of those manic years and am so pleased that they were more than just a miserable moan to an invisible friend.

An early diary of my first year of headship contains the graphic account of a parents’ revolt that followed my decision to admit a couple of traveller children. These parents remembered the chaos caused when previous travellers held pony and cart races up the village street. Unfortunately, the teacher who came rushing to tell me what was brewing in our school hall had a stammer. Stuttering dreadfully, he barged in and yelled: “I think our parents are revolting.” It eventually became clear what he was trying to say. My diaries tell me that I handled the whole thing masterfully by remaining decisively in the office until they had all gone.

On another diary page is the best excuse I ever heard for failing to pay for or return school photographs. It came from a mum who I knew was determined not to cough up. She came in, weeping, to inform me that her children’s grandfather had died and she had put them in his coffin. I hadn’t the heart to ask her for the money.

I looked up the 1995 volume the other day for something and couldn’t help chuckling at some of the things I used to write that kept me sane.

“This diary is damned brilliant. A teacher challenged me on something today. I whipped out my diary. Ah, but Miss Bedpan, I see you agreed to this job description on March 4, 1979 at 11.20am. She slunk away - or is it slunked?” “Went to Greece for holidays, as usual. On the ferries you can easily recognise teachers by the ring-binders under their arms. You can also recognise the heads. They carry books about management, appraisal and pension entitlements.”

“A dad came in to see me today to say how ill he had been. He said he’d told the doctor: ‘Doctor, doctor, my liver’s terrible’. ‘Try it with a pound of onions, then,’ said the doctor. I must have looked blank. ‘Gotcha,’ said the dad. I resisted the urge to throttle him.”

“One of the mums has a for sale sign in the window of her car. ‘For sale. Starts slowly but good banger. Phone Mrs Brown anytime’.”

“Two staff came today to moan about the new timetable I gave them only yesterday. I christen them the Rapid Reaction Force.”

“I’m a bit apprehensive. I might have to give evidence at an industrial tribunal. A caretaker I know has allegedly been selling the coal he’s been ordering for the school. What gave the game away was the heating system being gas-fired and the coal was in his back garden. He might have got away with it ... but then the head found his pine desk and cupboards were missing.”

“Fire brigade were due today to show children their new fire engine. Alas, they phoned to say they couldn’t come because someone’s house was burning down. Rapid Reaction Force come to complain that their timetable has been unnecessarily disrupted, and assume it’s me who set fire to the house.”

It might just be my fourth-form sense of humour (long may it continue), but even now, years later, these diaries make me laugh. Writing these entries, and the hundreds more I have, provided a daily therapy; an unwind, and a release from the bombardment of initiatives that plagued schools then just as they do now.

My diaries show me that letters, such as the much-publicised one sent by headteacher Carole Clayson to David Blunkett (Friday, February 18, 2000) could have been, and were being, sent to education ministers 10 years ago. Yet, here we are, still drowning in overwork, paperwork and unnecessary form-filling.

But schools are still funny places. I do regular supply work now and find that humour still abounds. I see that where the absurd happens, people can make it work for them by recognising it and stepping back to have a good, long laugh.

I recommend one thing. Keep a diary, folks. Get hooked like I did. You’ll be amazed at how much of what you write will make you laugh and make the day seem lighter.

David Thomas is a retired primary head. He lives in Leeds

Want to keep reading for free?

Register with Tes and you can read two free articles every month plus you'll have access to our range of award-winning newsletters.

Keep reading for just £1 per month

You've reached your limit of free articles this month. Subscribe for £1 per month for three months and get:

  • Unlimited access to all Tes magazine content
  • Exclusive subscriber-only stories
  • Award-winning email newsletters
Recent
Most read
Most shared