Thank God Its’s Friday

13th January 1995, 12:00am

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Thank God Its’s Friday

https://www.tes.com/magazine/archive/thank-god-itss-friday
Monday: Take a peep over the parapets and begin week with two meetings. First, preview the term. Years fly past in this job - you live about three weeks in advance of the week you’re in. Today, much discussion of February, by which time term will be half over. But we have only just begun.

Next, meet new members of staff. Drink coffee, and become acquainted - with each other and the staff handbook, the intricacies of which I explain with sign language: for the new year, an old problem - no voice.

Tuesday: Upper sixth lesson resembles Give Us A Clue, made slightly surreal by the fact that because I can only whisper, so do they, decoding my rusty board writing. Who did Edward II upset? The Queen - yes. And? The nobles - yes. AndI? Put hands together in prayer. A priest? Wave arms hugely. A fat priest? Shake head frantically. A lot of priests? Nod frantically. The Church! Right! I wilt into staffroom.

Wednesday: Back home, my seven-year-old son has chosen the first week of term to develop chicken pox. That’s all a working mother needs: no one wants to babysit a gruesome sufferer, and a sick child needs his mum. Or, of course, his dad, which is who this one gets - plus a big sister and brother - while his mum disappears on a course.

Crawl past three accidents on motorway, arrive late. My colleague has not arrived at all because she’s been taken to hospital. At the day’s end I drive in blinding rain down the busiest road in the world, which happens to lead into Birmingham. I change lanes - OK so it was late, but not actually criminal - and the transit van behind me sounds its horn for three minutes, until the traffic stops completely at the next roundabout, and the driver leaps out and hammers on my window.

I am responsible for breaking his mobile phone, which hit the floor when he hit the brakes. I am pathetically grateful he does not hit me, but it’s a near thing. He cannot hear my grovelling apology. Resist temptation to use sign language.

Thursday: Colleague has recovered for second day of course so we spend the day getting our heads round the vagaries of computer timetabling. This is like buying crackers in July.

Timetabling belongs in the balmy days of summer, with large sheets of paper and sharp pencils. Whizzing our way round computer screens - loved the Big Deletion button - is culture shocking.

Two days of speaking little - except to make apologies - has brought the voice back to a croak. Back home, the seven-year-old is recovering, but I still feel guilty. A woman’s place is in the wrong.

Friday: Glad to see today. Crushed to hear on early news that the Severn Bridge is closed. What! They can’t take the long road to school - 86 miles. School is in the middle of mocks, blissfully quiet. Reach for Department for Education statistical returns: what could it possibly be that makes me think of sign language again?

Hilary Moriarty is deputy head of The Red Maids School, Bristol

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