Like Mary Poppins, I am practically perfect in every way.Consequently I am not inclined to enjoy myself by pointing out the flaws in lesser mortals. "Poor thing" I smirk inwardly; when presented with a grump of a busdriver,or a bristling fiend with a bad temper in The Asda;"How rotten for you to be YOU,and not lovely ME". However, not everyone shares my sunny tolerance of the faults of others. I worked with a woman once who frequently began sentences with, "The trouble with you is...." .She would then go on to deliver a long,detailed critique of the features and habits of the individual who had crossed her. This was bad enough with colleagues; but when she did it with students,it was positively hazardous. We worked in a college where thousands of enormous youths congregated to play pool and be excitable,with a sideline in pretending to study Business Admin or somesuch. She and I were the tutors for a group of (for the most part and despite appearances au contraire), delightful sweetie pies. Unfortunately there were also, as there are in every group of people, a couple of "challenging" ones. This woman, whom I shall call "Glenda" adopted a confrontational approach to discipline, which may have worked with the cowed youngsters of the Woodcraft Folk in Muswell Hill ,where she was Giant Pixie or whatever they have; but it did not wash with Tottenham. "Miss", an exasperated young chap would gasp at me.. "She don't know how near she is coming to a smack in the face". Teaching protocol demands that one supports one's colleagues, naturally. I could not say to the simmering lad "Oh darling I KNOW, and I would happily hold her down for you.." All I could do was to produce bland and emollient sentences of the "Well, Glenda works very hard and she can sometimes sound a little brusque, but just walk away if she annoys you and think about kittens.." kind.
She used to scream into people's faces. One day she turned on me in the staff room . "You! " she spat "You're always....GOING SOMEWHERE!" My face does not like being screamed into,does yours? So I took it outside and put a fag in it, and imagined some cartoon-style demises for her. "A Monty Python foot on her head would be nice" I thought "Or perhaps a sack full of adders,like the ones the Emperor Tiberius used to pop his enemies into".Sadly, sacks of adders were had to come by in Enfield, you could barely buy a pair of tights.
I took voluntary redundancy, eventually. And infuriated Glenda further (she was the Union Rep),by getting another job a day later. My Head Of Department was shaking with laughter when he told me of her reaction to this news. "We thought she was going to explode right there by the coffee machine" he chortled. She sought me out near the pigeonholes. "I believe" she began "that not only have you been disloyal enough to take redundancy,you have SOMEHOW managed to get another job". "Yes, that's right, Glenda" I trilled cheerfully "Isn't that just too marvellous? I thought you would be pleased...."Her ears began to steam. She told me why she wasn't pleased, for about twenty minutes, and climaxed by saying that she thought I "ought to donate my redundancy pay to the College Fund". That was too much for me and I started to giggle helplessly. We don't keep in touch.
All places of education in those days had libraries, which were usually staffed by real people, not swipe-card machines. Our college library was managed by a very strict Muslim lady, a tiny bearded man only seen at lunchtimes, a wild-haired crone with an obsession about other people's private lives who later developed into a fully-fledged stalker,and a sardonic,beautiful girl who was to become my best friend and partner in mischief.
She and I lived,it turned out, near each other in Crouch End,miles away from Enfield, both geographically and spiritually. She had bought her first car; a startlingly bright blue mini,which she had painted all over with daisies "To match a pair of boots I had" she explained. Neither of us had any sense of direction, and we both smoked like mad,so on this basis we agreed to be travelling companions in the Bouncing Ashtray. It really was remarkable where we ended up,in our attempts to get from E to C.E. Quite often we would give up and go to the pub for a bit, then try again. We were young, free, and reasonably single, so it didn't really matter when or indeed,if,we got home. Sometimes she would offer lifts to various workmates. They would consider their bleak bus journeys and the driving rain for a moment, and then still decline. Only the Hairdressing Department ever accepted,queerly.
Our Principal was an affable,clever man,who combined an avuncular manner with a sly sense of humour. It must therefore have amused him greatly when the College held its annual staff Fun Day, to observe the differing interpretations thereof. We would be handed a programme of various "Fun Options" put together by the Head Of Fun (staff development), a woman of impeccable refinement with a cut-glass accent and extremely stylish clothes.She had been something stellar in the world of design, but had washed up in Enfield God knows how. There were quite a few people like that,but most had been destined from birth to lecture sulky sixteen-year-olds in Child Care and Accountancy.We could choose from a menu which included "Indian Head Massage", "Aromotherapy" "Rambling" "Cake-Icing", "Bowling" and "Badminton". I didn't have an Indian Head, luckily possess little sense of smell, care nothing for cakes and I think we know about the ball-sport thing. So myself and my Crouch End Friend,assorted hairdressers,another pal, a dear boy originally from Kirkby (and still teaching in that very college, astoundingly), decided that we would Ramble. It was a lovely sunny day, and therefore we needed to find a dark pub without delay.
When we got back to base, tittering and feeling smugly rebellious, it was six-ish. We went to the staff room,congratulating ourselves on our daring. On opening the door, we were greeted by the sight of the elegant Head of Staff Development, standing on the pool table wearing a pair of plastic comedy breasts,waving a bottle and shouting the odds.Her Brian Sewell-like tones gone,she was bawling like Nancy from "Oliver".Around her were the sprawling forms of several Business Studies lecturers,one snoring with open mouth,another sleeping with open flies. Two people from Catering (or was it Kettering?) were rammed together in one armchair,snogging. The trail of bottles and brimming ashtrays told the sorry tale of revels we could only admire and respect.
I would like to say that this "icebreaker" heralded a glad new dawn of bonding and social hi-jinks.But it did not. Everything settled back into dull normality and inter-departmental memos. Like "Brigadoon",it only happened once a year, and after that hard-to-top occasion,our dear old Principal retired and we got a vile new one. She was an 80's Ballbreaker,straight from Central Casting, complete with power-shouldered navy blue Next suiting, and bursting with the desire to tell everyone exactly what the trouble with them was..
I was a Head of Department by then, ( living proof that the retiring Principal saw the funny side..) and would have had to go to many many meetings with her,so I ran away and joined a circus. It was the NHS,but that is,as ever,another story.
She used to scream into people's faces. One day she turned on me in the staff room . "You! " she spat "You're always....GOING SOMEWHERE!" My face does not like being screamed into,does yours? So I took it outside and put a fag in it, and imagined some cartoon-style demises for her. "A Monty Python foot on her head would be nice" I thought "Or perhaps a sack full of adders,like the ones the Emperor Tiberius used to pop his enemies into".Sadly, sacks of adders were had to come by in Enfield, you could barely buy a pair of tights.
I took voluntary redundancy, eventually. And infuriated Glenda further (she was the Union Rep),by getting another job a day later. My Head Of Department was shaking with laughter when he told me of her reaction to this news. "We thought she was going to explode right there by the coffee machine" he chortled. She sought me out near the pigeonholes. "I believe" she began "that not only have you been disloyal enough to take redundancy,you have SOMEHOW managed to get another job". "Yes, that's right, Glenda" I trilled cheerfully "Isn't that just too marvellous? I thought you would be pleased...."Her ears began to steam. She told me why she wasn't pleased, for about twenty minutes, and climaxed by saying that she thought I "ought to donate my redundancy pay to the College Fund". That was too much for me and I started to giggle helplessly. We don't keep in touch.
All places of education in those days had libraries, which were usually staffed by real people, not swipe-card machines. Our college library was managed by a very strict Muslim lady, a tiny bearded man only seen at lunchtimes, a wild-haired crone with an obsession about other people's private lives who later developed into a fully-fledged stalker,and a sardonic,beautiful girl who was to become my best friend and partner in mischief.
She and I lived,it turned out, near each other in Crouch End,miles away from Enfield, both geographically and spiritually. She had bought her first car; a startlingly bright blue mini,which she had painted all over with daisies "To match a pair of boots I had" she explained. Neither of us had any sense of direction, and we both smoked like mad,so on this basis we agreed to be travelling companions in the Bouncing Ashtray. It really was remarkable where we ended up,in our attempts to get from E to C.E. Quite often we would give up and go to the pub for a bit, then try again. We were young, free, and reasonably single, so it didn't really matter when or indeed,if,we got home. Sometimes she would offer lifts to various workmates. They would consider their bleak bus journeys and the driving rain for a moment, and then still decline. Only the Hairdressing Department ever accepted,queerly.
Our Principal was an affable,clever man,who combined an avuncular manner with a sly sense of humour. It must therefore have amused him greatly when the College held its annual staff Fun Day, to observe the differing interpretations thereof. We would be handed a programme of various "Fun Options" put together by the Head Of Fun (staff development), a woman of impeccable refinement with a cut-glass accent and extremely stylish clothes.She had been something stellar in the world of design, but had washed up in Enfield God knows how. There were quite a few people like that,but most had been destined from birth to lecture sulky sixteen-year-olds in Child Care and Accountancy.We could choose from a menu which included "Indian Head Massage", "Aromotherapy" "Rambling" "Cake-Icing", "Bowling" and "Badminton". I didn't have an Indian Head, luckily possess little sense of smell, care nothing for cakes and I think we know about the ball-sport thing. So myself and my Crouch End Friend,assorted hairdressers,another pal, a dear boy originally from Kirkby (and still teaching in that very college, astoundingly), decided that we would Ramble. It was a lovely sunny day, and therefore we needed to find a dark pub without delay.
When we got back to base, tittering and feeling smugly rebellious, it was six-ish. We went to the staff room,congratulating ourselves on our daring. On opening the door, we were greeted by the sight of the elegant Head of Staff Development, standing on the pool table wearing a pair of plastic comedy breasts,waving a bottle and shouting the odds.Her Brian Sewell-like tones gone,she was bawling like Nancy from "Oliver".Around her were the sprawling forms of several Business Studies lecturers,one snoring with open mouth,another sleeping with open flies. Two people from Catering (or was it Kettering?) were rammed together in one armchair,snogging. The trail of bottles and brimming ashtrays told the sorry tale of revels we could only admire and respect.
I would like to say that this "icebreaker" heralded a glad new dawn of bonding and social hi-jinks.But it did not. Everything settled back into dull normality and inter-departmental memos. Like "Brigadoon",it only happened once a year, and after that hard-to-top occasion,our dear old Principal retired and we got a vile new one. She was an 80's Ballbreaker,straight from Central Casting, complete with power-shouldered navy blue Next suiting, and bursting with the desire to tell everyone exactly what the trouble with them was..
I was a Head of Department by then, ( living proof that the retiring Principal saw the funny side..) and would have had to go to many many meetings with her,so I ran away and joined a circus. It was the NHS,but that is,as ever,another story.
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