Exam Time

Invigilation time again!
Deep joy, hours at a time spent being really quiet whilst watching kids sit and look bored because they’ve finished a one and a half hour paper in forty-five minutes and don’t know what to do.

Special Mechanic turned up for an exam he wasn’t supposed to do. There wasn’t a space for him and we told him but he insisted so we got a desk and chair and sat him down.
He spent a minute looking at the paper and put his hand up.
‘Yes Special Mechanic?’
‘I don’t understand any of this.’
‘Perhaps that’s why your name wasn’t down for this exam?’
‘Oh…can I go then?’
‘No.’
‘Can I have some paper to draw on?’
‘Ok, here you are….’
‘Erm…….do you have a pen or pencil?’
I walked away and amused myself for the next hour watching him trying to keep himself occupied in silence.

I was in the small room with my numpty kids (see Special Mechanic above). If I’d been in the main hall I could have at least played ‘Invigilator it!’ The idea is that you slowly make your way towards another patrolling invigilator and when you get up to them you tap them on the shoulder and say, very quietly in their ear, ‘you’re it.’
Then you wander away and let them stalk their victim. They’re not allowed to get you back, which would be too easy. Once the game’s underway all the invigilators are warily circling away from each other because no one’s sure who’s it any more. Getting called by a student is a nerve wracking experience because you’re forced to be static and you can see the ‘it’ heading towards you.
It relieves the tedium I suppose. Four weeks of this to go……….

Goodbye Mr Grimshout

Sometimes, even the most insignificant of people can have a major impact on the school environment.

A while ago a student informed me that ‘Little Charlie Bucket has been missing for three days.’ I hadn’t noticed and I didn’t really care so I strode onwards trying to shake the little informer off. He was a resilient fellow though, and he kept pace with me.
‘He walked home with Mr. Grimshout and hasn’t been seen since’ he continued.
‘Everyone is worried. Mr Grimshout probably killed him.’
I told him not to be so stupid and left him to his fantasies.

A couple of days passed and there was still no sign of Little Charlie Bucket. Everyone concerned was convinced that Mr. Grimshout had ‘rumped’ him by the canal and then disposed of the body.
Foolishly I inquired what exactly ‘rumping’ was and was told that it was a new word to described being anally raped when you secretly enjoyed it. That’ll teach me to be nosy; there are some things Man was not meant to know (to paraphrase Mary Shelley or, at least, an old Hammer film).

I did my best to quash these false rumours and moved on.
But I began to wonder……..

Now, Mr. Grimshout is a decent sort but he is very fierce with the students and they don’t like it. They wind him up mercilessly knowing that, although the volume of his ranting will rise far enough for the room and the corridor it’s in to shake, he is still essentially powerless to do anything to them for their disgusting behaviour. Eventually Mr. Grimshout’s shouting will reach a never-before-attained volume and the scumbags will have won their game. Their laughter will rise above even Mr. Grimshout and stay there until another member of staff arrives to take control.

Mr. Grimshout is certainly a volatile man who has a short fuse.
Could he have killed Little Charlie Bucket? I’ve certainly considered doing so on more than one occasion and if I was volatile……?
No! It’s ridiculous.
But still, maybe I should mention it to someone?

I find Little Charlie Bucket’s Form Tutor and explain what I’ve heard. She’s heard it too and we exchange a look. I didn’t get the reassuring denial I was expecting. She doesn’t know where Little Charlie Bucket is either. She’s heard that he was ‘rumped’ by Mr. Grimshout. She knows it’s ridiculous. But, still……….

We wonder and we wait.

Fate, in the form of Carnt B. Arsed, takes a hand.
During one of Mr. Grimshout’s rants Carnt B. Arsed stands up, points an accusing finger and shouts, ‘You rumped Little Charlie Bucket and threw his body into the canal!’

What follows is not at all pleasant; tempers are lost and Mr. Grimshout takes a bit of a break from teaching. Everyone is convinced that this is a just reward for the cruel way he ended the life of Little Charlie Bucket.

Except Little Charlie Bucket himself who turns up one morning a couple of days after the furore has died down. He was away with his family who hadn’t bothered to tell anybody.
Nobody cares, to the student masses he is a hero, he got rid of Mr. Grimshout, he was directly involved in the discovery of a new and unpleasant word and he is now famous for ever more.

Little Charlie Bucket is pleased he’s a hero, but a bit bemused by the whole thing and reticent about where exactly he and his family were.
Strangely, he has developed an awkward way of walking.
What if?……….

Goodbye Little Science teacher

Little Science Teacher has left us for better things. She will live on in our memories though; my most treasured memory of her will be her words of wisdom.
The most spectacular of her pronouncements in my opinion was this one:

“We know hamsters are amphibious because they lay their eggs underwater”

Not too shabby for a biologist!

The Giant Pen

The recently departed Darliquinn gave me a present of a giant working pen and pencil the other day; ostensibly so I could lend them to students with out them becoming lost.

Chance however, allowed me to put them to much better use.

The very day I received them I was sitting in Maths with Little Jimmy Thistle. Little Jimmy Thistle began to poke me in the arm repeatedly with his pen.

‘Don’t do that Jimmy’ I said, ‘it’s annoying.’
‘I challenge you to a pen fight sir.’ Retorted Little Jimmy Thistle. Truly the TA god was smiling on me today.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’ I said slowly.
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’ll lose.’
‘How will I lose?’
I reached down and drew the giant pen from my bag.
Little Jimmy Thistle stared open mouthed at the full two foot long, red and white ICBMness of the giant pen, his eyes wide with wonder.
‘Fuckin ‘ell’ he breathed, ‘it’s massive!’. His own pen fell from his nerveless fingers.
The pen fight was over and he had, indeed, lost.

This would normally have been enough to make my day a happy one and wouldn’t actually have been worth recounting had it not had repercussions the following day.

The next day arrives and I find myself in History. Opposite me is Little Jimmy Thistle, beside him is Lord Greystoke and beside me is Baby Oddbod. The table from hell, frankly.

Half way through the lesson Little Jimmy Thistle announces:
‘Sir’s got a giant pen.’
The other two look at the (normal) pen I’m holding and reply in unison
‘No he hasn’t.’
‘Yes he has, it’s HUGE. I saw it in maths.’
I brandish my pen and point out that it is, in fact, completely normal sized.
‘Yeah, see,’ chorus the others, ‘it’s noooormal’ (not a word they get to use much it must be said.)
Little Jimmy Thistle is getting confused and a bit annoyed and begins to splutter as he searches for the right words.
‘Perhaps,’ I say to be helpful ‘it was really close to you so it looked giant?’ I hold my pen close to his face so he can appreciate the phenomenon of foreshortening.
Unconvinced he sticks to his guns and insists ‘It’s in his bag, I’m telling you, I saw it in maths.’
Obligingly I show my open and giant pen-less (it’s at home) bag to everyone.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about Jimmy’ I say, ‘perhaps you dreamed it? I mean, who in their right mind would carry around a giant pen?’

The other two are shaking with barely-concealed mirth. Lord Greystoke is so red that the engorged pustule he’s been carrying around on his face for the last week looks set to finally explode. (‘When that goes we’ll be ankle deep’ was one English teacher’s opinion of it).

They bombard Little Jimmy Thistle with loud whispers of derision, mainly centering on his inability to see straight and his penchant for dreeeeeaming; this last delivered in a particularly whiny voice expertly pitched for maximum needling.

Little Jimmy Thistle retorts with suppressed cries of ‘Fuck you’ and ‘Your Mum’s a dreamer’ but to no avail. The lesson ends and they all disappear off to morning break with the verbal fencing continuing down the hall, much louder now that there is no lesson to confine them.

Petty? Well, yes, but getting the little monsters to doubt their sanity even for a second is still a victory in my book. Stay tuned, the giant pen will strike again.

Identity Theft

History may be my favourite subject but the idiots I have to nursemaid through a lesson can really take the enjoyment away.
Sometimes, though, they make it all worth while.

Today Little Jimmy Thistle snatched my photo identity card, which we all have to wear so Senior Management can remember our names, out of its holder. Not a major feat of manual dexterity but, none-the-less, it evoked cries of wonder from Lord Greystoke.

‘How did you manage that?’ he inquired with his usual slack-jawed air of bewilderment.
‘It’s easy’ replied Little Jimmy Thistle as he replaced the card and then snatched it away again even quicker.
Even at this greatly accelerated pace his action didn’t seem beyond the capabilities of most 14 year old boys. I was unimpressed.
Lord Greystoke was enthralled however and started chanting: ‘Do it again, do it again, again,again,’ like some freakish Teletubby.

‘Lord Greystoke,’ I said, ‘you seem to be captivated by the simplest of things.’
‘No I don’t.’ He replied huffily.

I looked at him for a moment before covering my eyes with both hands. As I whipped my hands away I gave out a resounding ‘peek-a-boo!’ in that annoying condescending voice used to communicate with babies and senile old folk.

Once again cries of ‘Again! Again!’ rang out from Lord Greystoke as he giggled away to himself and rocked back and forth in ecstasy.

Very small things, it seems, do indeed amuse very small minds…

Let’s get Ready to Ruuuuumble!

This is what happens when I can’t make it to my After School Club:

“My name is Eduardo and I’m writing to apologise of the incident that happened on 23-1-2008
Me and another friend went to the roof of the school to get a ball and after that me and that friend went to the library where Ali, Ricardo and Zeb were already there.
Zeb and Ricardo were messing around in the library and then Zeb and Ricardo had an argument so Zeb turned Ricardo’s PC off and then Ricardo turned Ali’s PC off and Ricardo ran outside swearing at my mum then because I thought swearing at his mum was wrong so I swore at his sister. And he got pissed of and then he started spitting at me and I spat at him back. And then Ricardo walked of to the car park and saw a metal pole and he picked it up and started chasing me and Zeb with it while Zeb was teasing and making fun of Ricardo. Then Ricardo calmed down a bit and started walking home then I said ‘come and talk my Italian friend’ and he must have heard it wrong because then he dropped his bag and ran at me at full speed. I took my bag of and tensed up. Then Ricardo grabbed the pole again and chased me towards the grass patch with a small wooden fence around it. Ali said ‘drop the metal pole and go home’ I grabbed him and the pole and I said ‘can we talk about it’ then I grabbed the pole of him and chucked it away. And then he grabbed a big piece of wood and he was about to hit me with it when I quickly grabbed a glass bottle and threatened him with it but I wasn’t going to hit him with it. Then Ricardo grabbed the metal pole again and threatened me with it so I grabbed the pole of him and he grabbed the glass bottle of me and he hit me in the left eye and my eye went red. Ricardo calmed down and went walked home and then a car picked up Ricardo and he went home.
5 minutes later me Zeb and Ali were walking down the corridor when Ricardo’s older brother came inside the school and he shouted at us he pointed at me and said are you that Eduardo prick that keeps on annoying my brother. And I said I’m not Eduardo.
And then he told Ali to fallow him home and Zeb and I went upstairs room.
Where I meet Miss Smith at 16.08 and then I went home”

The Unexplained

How strange that magic should rear its mysterious head on the very day that we were covering witchcraft in history.

Lord Greystoke lost control of his pen and it rolled along the desk to stop in front of me.

‘Fetch Sir’ demanded Lord Greystoke so I picked up his wayward pen, and in the spirit of his own canine reference, pretended to throw it past him whilst actually keeping hold of it.

His head snapped round in the direction the pen would have travelled in and he began searching the window sill behind him. He even checked that the window was closed in case the pen had fallen through it. Once his searching became frantic I attracted his attention and showed him I was still holding the pen.

His jaw fell open and his eyes became as wide as saucers ‘How did it get there?’ he breathed as if actually speaking the words would invite further magical intervention.

I smiled in what I hoped was an enigmatic way and handed him his pen which he accepted rather gingerly.
‘Sit vis vobiscum’ as they used to say.

A Day in Hell Part 3

The climax of the day was heralded by Oxbridge One and a megaphone. She explained to everyone present, loudly and clearly with her megaphone, that the last event of the day was being set up. She explained, loudly and clearly with her megaphone, that everybody was to stay where they were until they were told to enter the hanger. She explained, loudly and clearly with her megaphone, that if anyone entered the hanger before they were told they would be prevented from taking part in the last event. Finally, she explained, loudly and clearly with her megaphone, that this event was really, really exciting and the winner would get the grand prize.

Everybody was convinced and stood, waiting, with baited breath. Everybody? No, not quite.
Out of the crowd burst Lord Greystoke, running into the hanger as fast as he could, determined to be first, knowing that the previous instructions were meant only for others.
Miraculously Oxbridge One was barring his way. He stopped, confused.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked him.
‘I’m going in there in I.’ replied Lord Greystoke, indicating the beckoning darkness of the hanger with a waving paw.
‘Oh no you’re not.’ said Oxbridge One, ‘You’re staying out here and not taking part because you can’t follow instructions’.

Automatically Lord Greystoke’s defence mechanisms came on line.

Standard Response One initiated….
‘What about them then?’ he whined, swaying his arm through the air behind him.
‘Who?’
‘Them, all of them what was running too.’ still indicating the space behind him.
‘There’s only you’ Oxbridge One pointed out.
More confusion as this sunk in, Lord Greystoke’s face ran the gamut from perplexed to more perplexed; surely he had been at the head of a howling mob of excited boys? Surely everyone was as anxious as he to get started and only his inherent speed and agility had kept him ahead of the pack?
He looked behind him. Instead of the howling mob there was only an empty expanse of runway. Several yards away stood everybody else, waiting where they’d been told. From the midst of this group I had an urge to wave to him.

Standard Response Two initiated……
‘Well I never heard you say not to go in.’
Oxbridge One looked at him, then at her megaphone, then back at him.
‘Go and stand over there.’ She said, indicating a lonely spot by the hangar door.

Everyone else was allowed in and they streamed past a dejected Lord Greystoke laughing and excited. Nobody stopped to listen to his lament about the unfairness of life.
The Teacher in Charge and I stood near him and exchanged smiles.
‘An important life lesson has been learnt today’ remarked the Teacher in Charge and I nodded agreement, we were both doing our best not to laugh.

Since the final event involved rummaging through a huge haystack trying to find the keys to the limo a couple of asthmatic students were not allowed to participate and they came and waited with us. The Teacher in Charge promised that they would be included in the ‘friends of the winner’ who share the prize if one of our students got the keys.
‘What about me?’ asked Lord Greystoke.
‘No.’

A short time later, Oxbridge Two handed out Frisbees to the non-participants as a consolation prize. Lord Greystoke got given one too by mistake. While he was still confused by this, the Teacher in Charge took it off him without a word and put it in his own rucksack explaining to me; ‘I love Frisbees.’
Lord Greystoke may have been about to react to this but he was cut short by the final event starting.

‘Three…two…one….GO!!!’ Screamed the announcer and everyone dived into the straw.
Within seconds a lucky winner was holding the keys aloft.
‘A winner in record time.’ Said the announcer, ‘What’s your name son?’
My blood ran cold as I saw it was the main rumour monger from our morning in the hall. Not him, anyone but him, is there no justice in life? Just for a moment my faith in the universal laws of karma were shaken.

The limo arrived, there was a quick interview with the host of the show and then Rumour Monger was swept away by the magical car as everybody applauded and the cameras rolled. He looked so happy.

Then the car stopped and the Director ran over to it. There was a conversation with Rumour Monger and then everybody came back.
‘We’re going again, he hasn’t won.’ said the Director and everybody got ready for another take. The excitement level of the participants rose to a fever pitch.

Rumour Monger sat on the sidelines looking as dejected as dejected can be. On the opposite side of the hanger a small child from another school was doing the same. I went over and spoke to the teacher consoling the other boy.
‘What was all that about?’ I asked.
‘Squealer here found the keys and that boy,’ she pointed accusingly at Rumour Monger, ‘took them off him.’ Squealer snivelled agreement. ‘Of course Squealer reported this and they had it all on film so there was no argument, Squealer knows what’s right. Apparently the other boy may have got a hand to them too so it’s not been awarded to Squealer automatically.’ Squealer howled his despair at this. ‘The Director offered to let Squealer try again, but as you can see, he’s too upset.’
‘Oh that is a shame’ I sympathised and backed away quickly before I started dancing or something.
I reported my findings to the Teacher in Charge and he observed that yet another important life lesson had been learnt today. We were both very happy. I waited for Rumour Monger to start crying but he managed not to. Oh well, you can’t have everything.

Some other kid finally won and we could all go home. As the winner was driven away I managed to remark to Rumour Monger ‘That was so nearly you.’ I tried to sound sympathetic but he wasn’t convinced. He gave me an evil glare so I smiled at him.

We gathered for a final roll call in the marquee. Oxbridge One found Rumour Monger and handed him a ‘No Girls Allowed’ t-shirt so he wouldn’t feel too bad about having the grand prize taken away from him. The look of disgust on his face as he held the shirt really was the icing on my karma cake.

As we boarded the coach Lord Greystoke found me and mentioned that he had lost his Frisbee. Did I know what had happened to it? I pleaded ignorance and settled down for a long, hot ride home.

School trips, you gotta love ‘em……….

A Day in Hell Part 2

Finally we arrive at the disused RAF base that is the location for the day’s momentous events. Anticipation on the bus is reaching pants-wetting proportions as we slowly cruise past the assembled go-karts, the paint splattered Paintball arena and what looks like a couple of rally cars, just waiting to be hurled round some muddy corners.

We pull up between another coach that’s just arrived, a school from Fleet were forgotten in the coach booking fiasco as well, and the limo. The limo is today’s grand prize; the lucky winner and three friends get driven home in it, there’s a PS2 in the back (with a pitifully small screen) to keep everyone amused. We had been promised an X-Box but nobody was surprised at finding the lesser option was actually the one available. I wonder if anyone noticed that the PS2 can only handle two players at once, unlike the X-Box’s four?

Off we get, marshalled into a small marquee by a young lady with an Oxbridge accent. She is indistinguishable from the other young ladies with Oxbridge accents that dot the place, must be a TV thing.
One little genius, brighter than all the rest, pipes up: ‘She’s a fucking girl! It says No Girls Allowed, they’re having a laugh.’ Grumbling assent rumbles through our seething mass of pond scum, threatening to erupt into full scale rebellion. This is instantly crushed by the Teacher in charge, who, tired and hot as the rest of us, reverts to type and gives a good indication of how his Voor Trekking ancestors were able to subdue the troublesome Zulu.

The marquee is remarkable only for the fact that there aren’t enough chairs and it is very hot. Obviously both these shortcomings would have escaped my notice if I wasn’t being constantly reminded of them by the assembled horde of muppets. I try to look grateful each time I am told about them and pray that little tongues will shrivel and fall out in the heat. No such luck.

‘You missed a couple of things’ Oxbridge One informs us, ‘but don’t worry, there’s loads more to do after lunch.’
Lying bitch.

I and the rest of the staff eat our lunch, the kids don’t because they’ve all consumed theirs on the journey down. Once again I don’t share.
Bottles of water are provided and everyone is told to hang onto them because they won’t be replaced but can be refilled later. I take five.

Oxbridge One and Two provide footballs so everyone can get out of the stifling heat of the marquee and into the stifling heat of the hottest day there’s ever been. Outside has the benefit of a scorching, unrelenting sun. I watch as several of my little charges begin to smoke like vampires in the sunlight and continue to eat my lunch. Because I am bored I start to count how many water bottles are being discarded as they become empty. I lose count around 20 and begin to look forward to later when refilling time arrives.

Spongebob finds me and whines for food. I am feeling kindly towards him because he is better behaved than the rest so I offer him an apple. He looks hurt and remarks that he doesn’t eat green apples. He seems to think we’ve discussed this previously but of course we haven’t.
I present him with a Mini Baby Bell by way of compensation and he skips off proclaiming ‘Oh, I’ve always wanted to try one of these.’

Football ends and we return to the marquee. I make sure I get a chair and Spongebob sits next to me. I ask him if he liked the Mini Baby Bell.
‘It tasted like wax’ he replies.
There are times when it’s best to say nothing so I say nothing.

Oxbridge One organises teams for ‘Frisbee Mayhem’. This takes forever and then ‘Frisbee Mayhem’ is cancelled. A lot of bored kids tell me how bored they are lots of times so I escape and find the portaloo.

The portaloo is mock Georgian which is nice. However, the cubicle is very cramped and the bowl is nearly full which isn’t nice. I flush before I sit down and am horrified to see the level in the bowl just rises. Oh well, nothing else for it, I get the business done quickly.
As I stand up I reflexively flush again. Realisation dawns a millisecond too late and I frantically race to dress before the unpleasant flood begins to seep over the seat top and onto the floor.
Thankfully I just make it.

Back at Hell’s antechamber, or the marquee if you prefer, everyone is being herded together so Oxbridge Two can lead us to the excitement at last. Dutifully we troop off.
Seconds later we arrive at a piece of runway where some paddling pools and a collection of footballs await us. The two teams take their places and everyone else stands in a group in the designated audience area.

The game involves kicking footballs at the pools, if a football goes in then the pool explodes with a satisfying ‘BOOM’ and a 150 foot high plume of water.
It’s mildly entertaining, but there are only four pools, so only four ‘BOOM’s.
It’s all over very quickly.

Next is the final event, the scramble through the hay for the limo keys.

What about the go-karts, the paintball, the rally cars?
Oh, they were all done this morning before we arrived. We get four exploding paddling pools and a haystack with a key in it. Whoop-de-fucking-do.

My despondency is lifted a little by the arrival of the fresh drinks and I fill my bottles. I am further cheered by the whines and moans of the discarded bottles brigade who’s complaints fall on deaf Oxbridge ears ‘You were told to keep hold of your bottles’ she reminds them and it’s all the more insulting for her perfect enunciation. I actually snigger, and I’m not alone, the Teacher in charge finds it funny too. He’s after payback for his troubles and it’s starting to arrive.

Little did either of us know, just how good it was going to get……..

A Day in Hell Part 1

This was it, the once-in-a-lifetime trip that everyone had been building up to for months. Today we were off to take part in a TV program where the boys from Year 7 and 8 that were chosen to go would get to do all kinds of interesting things with cars and explosions and stuff.

Only the good ones were allowed to go and even the most disgusting sub-humans that infest the darker regions of the lower school had managed, for the most part, to behave a little more like human beings and a little less like the faecal polyps they really are. Some tried in vain though and didn’t make the cut. Hehehe, retribution time and the first in a series of life lessons that would be visited on the assembled youth during the course of the day.

Everyone gathered at 7:30, eager to board the coaches which were due at 8:00 and be whisked away to paradise.

By 8:30, when it was clear that no coaches were coming anytime soon, the inside of the stiflingly hot School hall wasn’t as exciting as it had at first seemed. The hottest day in recorded history and I was in a hall with eighty twelve year old boys who insisted on telling me, in their best whiney voices, that ‘it’s too hot’.

Channel Five hadn’t booked the coaches, but don’t worry, they’d sort it out.

In the meantime I’d had to keep a huge bunch of whining children amused without killing them. Some watched the malfunctioning dvd that wouldn’t transmit its soundtrack to the speakers and filled the oppressive silence with cries of ‘There’s no sound!’ ‘It’s too hot!’ ‘I can’t hear it!’ All of this was very encouraging to the head of IT who was in the room trying to get the speakers to work.
I could see her smiling as she worked.

Others moved amongst their colleagues, whispering words of dissent and warning that the trip had been cancelled and they just weren’t being told.
We’d told them all we knew of course and it was very hot so this made me cross and I shouted at the main rumour monger and dragged him out for a talking to. I felt better afterwards but not much. Little did I know what fate had in store for him later in the day….

Finally, at 9:30, word reached us that a luxury double-decker coach would be with us in half an hour.

It arrived at 10:45. Oh well, it was a luxury double-decker and was guaranteed to have air conditioning (you’re ahead of me here aren’t you). Obviously there was no air conditioning, there was furnace-hot air blasting from ceiling vents and, joy of joys, a medley of Friends episodes playing on the TV loud enough to drown out my mp3 player. I fucking well loathe Friends more than any other television program ever.

The journey took over an hour and a half, during which time I was frequently reminded that it was ‘too hot’ and that coach journeys were ‘boring’.

I amused myself by refusing to lend any of them my Nintendo DS, or to share my food and drink, or to let them hear what I was (trying) to listen to. I was, apparently, ‘Bang out of order’.

I refined this technique later in the journey by sparingly loaning the DS to just one student and giving a couple of sweets to another. The apoplexy this raised in the rest that missed out was wonderful to behold.

‘Give me some’ (note the politeness) this was usually accompanied by a filthy paw being waved in my face.
‘No’ (as I put another experimental Milk Jelly Baby™ into my already full mouth.)
‘Why not?’ (Whining)
‘I’ve run out’ (stuffing in another experimental Milk Jelly Baby™.)
‘But…’ meaningless babble followed about me having ‘loads left’ which I ignored as I ate more.
The day was looking up…….