The school is awash with new technology after Richard Dick’s visit to the SETT exhibition in September, as part of his rectorial commitment to continuing professional development.

He was clearly inspired by some sharp sales talk from a whiteboard manufacturer and decided (after a five minute presentation, according to Richard Broadbent, our recently appointed depute head) to dissipate the lion’s share of our information technology budget on “a whiteboard for every department and the other 12 to be distributed to the principal teachers who make the best bids!”

Alas, the competitive edge to which he was clearly making appeal is in little evidence among Greenfield Academy’s middle management, for most of whom the arrival of coloured chalk and Banda machines marks the most recent development in educational technology.

“Whiteboards?” queried George Crumley at morning interval as he read Mr Dick’s offertory newsletter. “Is that part of the Scottish Executive’s anti-racist initiative?”

Jim Connolly, our assistant principal teacher of computing studies, sighed and embarked upon an explanation. Frankly, he could have saved his breath.

Alternatively, he might have been better employed in the dining hall at lunchtime, where Mr Dick (unusually on lunch duty) was just in time to prevent our janitor from screwing one of the newly acquired electronic whiteboards to a wall by the doorway.

“What in God’s name are you doing, Mr Dallas?” I heard him bellow from the corridor as I sat down to my flan and custard.

“Ah wis jist pittin up yur new noticeboard, Mr Dick,” protested the worthy menial. “Then ah wis gaun tae put the prices oan, like Mrs MacLetchie asked me tae.”

“It’s a whiteboard, for God’s sake, not a wipeboard: pound;2,000 worth of equipment and you were about to screw it on to a wall!

“Put your tools away, please, and take it back where you found it.”

Mr Dallas looked crestfallen and I thought such a public dressing-down to be quite out of order.

I have to admit, the idea of a newly-acquired electronic whiteboard secured to the wall with heavy-duty Rawlplugs, and with black felt-tip pen inscriptions offering chips for 80p and burgers for pound;1.20 gave me certain ironic amusement. Alas, it was not to be.

Tuesday

I have arranged to meet Janet Rich on Friday evening. Gail is under the impression that I am meeting up with some old school pals and I have not sought to disabuse her.

In a sense, it’s true: Janet and I were very closely acquainted in fifth year at school. Our recent re-acquaintance on the Friends Reunited website has, in one sense, simply provided the opportunity to renew our friendship and catch up on each others’ lives.

And that’s the story I’m sticking to, if only my heart would stop beating extra quickly every time I log on to Friends Reunited and catch sight of my very first girlfriend’s name. But then, they do say that the first cut is the deepest.

Wednesday

Davie McManus continues in his crusade to challenge Mr Dick’s non-smoking policy in the school. Today, he had the effrontery to light up in front of his Standard grade biology class and proclaim it a practical experiment in diffusion technique, or some such casuistry.

“I think you’re sailing pretty close to the wind, David,” I cautioned gently at lunchtime. “It was probably against fire regulations what you did, never mind health and safety ones.”

“Ach be quiet, Morris,” he counselled. “As far as ah’m concerned, it’s the best stress reducer evur invented, and this moarning with 4K, ah needed it.”

I told him that I thought he was over-emphasising the degree of stress that could be induced by teaching Standard grade biology. “To my mind,” I said, “I think this whole stress thing’s over-exaggerated in today’s society.”

And then I opened my payslip.

Such an action used to be a simple matter. When I started teaching, the aforementioned document simply outlined the gross pay, net pay and taxation reductions that had been effected to allow my own financial solvency and the local authority’s continuing ability to provide the basic public services upon which we all depend.

Alas, no more. Today, tearing the edges of a pay envelope precipitates a deluge of promotional literature, among which my pay details are but a minor element. Insurance discounts are on offer, loans are on offer, holidays are on offer, counselling services are on offer. And there is also a bold warning on stress.

“Stress has become one of the most serious health challenges facing employers and employees,” the literature proclaims. “The council is holding events to promote stress awareness and is fully committed to providing a supportive environment to assist employees in minimising and controlling stress. Please return the enclosed pro-forma to indicate your interest in attending such events and avoid the debilitating effects that stress could provoke in your life.”

If I wasn’t stressed before reading it, I certainly was afterwards.

Thursday

Alas, Mr Dick’s various investments in new technology do not seem to have been as well directed as the council’s financial auditors would have wished. Not that they will ever investigate it, of course, but it does stick in my throat that we have poured incredible amounts of money down the maw of several technological white elephants, with whiteboards the least of our problems.

Today I attempted to enter our school intranet to update Kylie Paterson’s file and review that of Joanne Grieves (this as the result of a recent confidential police report on certain extra-curricular weekend activities in which the girls have been indulging).

Alas, my password was declined on two occasions and when it was finally accepted I could only access address and examination performance details before being informed that “a fatal error” had occurred, which necessitated switching off my computer and rebooting it.

A third and final attempt to log on to our school network was eventually abandoned. In the end, I decided that we might have spent pound;500,000 on a network system for Greenfield Academy but it was still quicker to walk down the corridor and ask for a pupil’s records on paper than it was to share them on the hard drive.

Plus ca change, as they say.

Friday

Our resident school social workers have been causing a certain degree of friction in the staffroom, especially after they set up an assertiveness training programme for pupils’ parents who are uncertain of how best to approach their children’s teachers.

“And who do you think’s signed up for it so far from our parent cohort?” blasted George this morning. “I’ll tell you who: Donny McIntyre’s mum, Karen Porter’s mum, Tony McManaman’s mum (and dad, but at a separate time) and Simon Sheridan’s mum.”

“But isn’t it good if parents are given the chance to open more communication channels with their I?” I started to protest, only to be interrupted with a vituperative blast.

“Don’t start, Morris!” he thundered. “That lot - especially McManaman’s mum - needs assertiveness training like a Rottweiler needs training on how to bite!

“It makes me sick to death, frankly, having social workers in the school trying to undo every bit of discipline we try to instil in them. My God! The next thing you know, we’ll have policemen in the playground!”

I was about to acquaint my obsolescent colleague with some recent initiatives in that particular field, but decided against it.

Instead, I went to check whether the school intranet was working yet, so that I could update my guidance records. Alas, our IT problems continue. It appears that we have been assailed by some kind of computer virus (in common with half the schools in our authority, I might add).

In short, it appears that this particularly virulent computer disease picks two names from my e-mail address book and sends an e-mail to one of them, purporting to be from the other. Thus, I have received (since yesterday) four messages from Miss Tarbet with subject lines of “Hi, Morris, Honey” and two from Mr Judge (technical) proclaiming: “I think you’ll enjoy using this tool.”

More seriously, the virus appears to randomly attach a file from my hard drive to any outgoing mail. This would probably explain the angry exhortation from our esteemed headteacher in response to my otherwise innocuous e-mail concerning work experience for the fourth year.

“I can’t begin to imagine why you chose to attach a file entitled ‘Mr Dick’s dickhead proclamations’ to your e-mail, copied to all the staff,” announced his ‘Reply All’ e-mail. “Perhaps you’d like to visit my office and discuss this matter before you go home for the weekend.”

I decided that discretion would be the better part of valour and chose to ignore the invitation (such is the beauty of e-mail).

Instead, I switched off my computer and visited the staff toilet, where I splashed some aftershave around my cheeks and sprayed myself with Lynx body spray, ready for my meeting with Janet Rich. When you’re going to meet an old flame, it’s best to be as positive as possible about personal hygiene.

Next month: Seven years after marriage, will Morris start to scratch his itch? Plus, more innovative approaches to CPD from the staff of Greenfield Academy.