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Thank God it's Friday

MONDAY Ah! The relentless passing of the years. Too tight waist-buttons that forgiveth not the excesses of yet another sedentary winter. No, Sophie, you may not make merry again at my retro-chic mismatch of brown shoes and bright blue laces; that's how they came in the shop. Now run along to break, I have a Bourbon biscuit downstairs with my name on it.

TUESDAY Another day, another plethora of insults at my expense. That heap of metal in the playground you drive to work is only W-reg, for goodness sakes. Surely not a white shirt with those cream chinos? Then I have an urgent message to phone a Mr Bird. This is an amusing little jest by our ICT co-ordinator: Mr Bird's home turns out to be our local wildfowl sanctuary.

WEDNESDAY Sophie (of blue laces notoriety) and smug Kathryn stop me in the corridor. I sense trouble. What a smart jacket I'm wearing, and would I like that chalk on the sleeve brushed off? No, I like it there.

Later, I am animatedly embracing characterisation using one of those new-fangled Big Books. I draw out my retractable, pointy car aerial thingummy to gasps of unsought admiration, only to catch it on a washing line overhead, a string usually set aside for the hanging of wet works of art thereupon. The aerial ricochets on to indowblinds and thence to the extreme opposite of the room, causing no little sensation. My charges are admirably composed. My own choice of expletive is apposite, but perhaps needs some expansion to attain a firm level 4 grading.

THURSDAY I intend to present the tale of Samson and Delilah in assembly, using it to illustrate the moral of self-control. I sense a Year 6 breathing out of synch and subject the entire crowd to an irrational, yet systematic ear-bashing. I forget to switch off the menacing look for the colleague whose rendition of "Kumbaya" on the piano has been interrupted. Later, I am assured that no offence was given, in a manner which palpably oozes offence.

FRIDAY So what if this is my second iced bun? And, no, I do not need one kept by for after school, thank you, staff. Taking one final look at my particularly jaunty attire, and checking for ill-tied knots or loose shirt-tails, I decide to make a bee-line towards some "in" Year 6 types. I look them full in the eye, as much as to say "take that, fashion victims". Sophie and Kathryn are there of course, so they waste barely a moment in spotting tell-tale icing on my left cheek. Vanquished, I reel away, but will return...

David Boland is a primary teacher in Gloucester

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