Monday: No man is an island, no week is self-contained. The post contains two letters, in response to last week’s query - could the Arts Council for Wales provide a speaker on arts funding? The replies are identical: “We do not have the resources to provide speakers.” Resources to duplicate letters, yes; to tell you how they’re spending your money, no.
ACW suggests contacting South West Area Board in Exeter. I do so. What do I want? “Don’t be silly! You want the Arts Council.”
Ring the Arts Council. No, they don’t send out speakers, they let their work speak for itself. I splutter about how much money they spend on opera and how much the tickets cost. Threaten that my pupils will soon be voters: is this any way to treat their natural curiosity? Cannot speak to the right woman, she’s out to lunch. It’s 12.45 and feels like a long day already.
Tuesday: the daughter-still-on-holiday is causing anxiety - she couldn’t open a student bank account until her university offer letter came through, and that was too late for her trip to Czechoslovakia. So what will she do if she runs out of money? At least she won’t run out of knickers - there seem to be none left in the house. Escape school at lunchtime to raid MS.
Wednesday: Full of classes, with a particular pleasure for an English teacher being the constant stream of new texts, but have problems with The Remains of the Day - seems like a lot of fuss about what the butler saw. Go home to help junior son with spellings. In his list, “Mummy” is followed by “grumpy”; is his teacher trying to tell me something?
Thursday: I feel a fair swap has been done - my knickers for the daughter’s car. My own automobile clanks and turns left when I brake, so it’s consigned to the garage. Driving to school, I wonder if cars with chokes qualify as antiques.
Friday: Enlivened by an invitation to take part in a radio broadcast on university entry. I am incarcerated in coffin-like room with lugubrious studio manager - “I’ll just move this phone: BBC economies make it a party line with the one in the foyer, so if someone makes a call, this one dings, and we don’t want to put you off.”
I’m quite off-put enough by talking “down the wire” to someone in London and all my body language goes to waste. Later, Idiscover the audience consisted only of my husband and mother. Many friends - and junior daughter - were unable to find the station on the dial.
It’s been an Arts of a week, and so to the opera. Hugely expensive jolly, courtesy of large sponsor and, I suggest, the British taxpayer. Public relations girl from the Welsh National Opera was very nice - she really could give lessons to the Arts Council. Isn’t this where I came in?
Hilary Moriarty is deputy head of the Red Maids’ School, Bristol
