Why is life so painfully monotonous and dull?

It isn’t.  Not at all. Not remotely.

Granted, there are parts of the day you have to go through the motions; I’ll give you that. There are parts of the day, routine related, which are kind of depressing. Making my lunch for the following day at school is always a bit sad.  A short, repetitive chore that carries the additional benefit that it signals it’s almost time to go to bed and start the merry-go-round of going to work again.

But generally speaking, life is not dull, it’s not monotonous, it’s not repetitive and it certainly isn’t painful. My job, despite the ups and downs and the occasional scariness, is EXCITING.

There is drama every day. Not always a good thing, obviously, but it certainly isn’t dull. And there is inherent comedy in every day because some of the things we do and that they do are JUST SO DAMN FUNNY.

But never monotonous.

Let’s take an example -  I’ve been on half term this week (again, not monotonous and dull. A magnificent cycle of lying in, internet, TV, Playstation, porn and booze) – but on my final working day before this, last Friday, ANYTHING but dull...

A boy, let’s call him Mark, wanted to get into a room he wasn’t allowed in, because he was just being too dangerous. He wanted to get back into a classroom so he could clobber one of the children within.  Obviously we weren’t going to let him.

A few vain attempts to shove past us and sidle his way between us (he’s a slippery, agile thing) as we stood in front of the door trying to talk him down did not meet with success.  He became more and more frustrated, shouting and swearing and screaming as if being murdered. He slides quite quickly into what I can only call psychosis, flailing around, screaming and rasping, trying to run into or jump over fixtures, fitting and furniture. We prevented him doing himself any serious harm, but in his attempt to jump over a stair well 20ft to the floor below, he banged his knee.

Poor boy. Hah.

He really lost the plot at this point. He lay on the floor and screamed. And I mean really screamed. I will find it hard to articulate in writing -  it would be much easier to do an impression -  but imagine that girl from the exorcist. That screaming, raspy, guttural, wild, savage growling. Like a long, drawn out wildcat roar, but punctuated with word-fragments and odd, out-of-context swear words.

It was sort of terrifying, but actually quite funny too. All the adults made eye contact and it made you want to laugh a bit, because it was frankly so ridiculous.

So there he was, laying on the floor, screaming and growling and swearing in this savage, wild, demonic way, flailing around on the floor, making these horrendous sounds and I thought:

Yes – no wonder people used to believe in possession. That is exactly what this looks like.  A tiny young boy hurting himself, flailing wildly, screaming obscenities you’re surprised he knows, in this frankly terrifying demon-creature voice. It was textbook possession material. No wonder people with special needs were once under the purview of the church.

I didn't get my own way so now I'm going to do THIS! 

But as this rather unnecessary display unfolded, and I remarked to a colleague about possession and how this once would have been perceived, I remember thinking to myself- it IS exciting though, it is dramatic and scary. What was going to happen?  How could we prevent it escalating, how could we prevent him hurting himself seriously? How long would it last?  Were the rest of my class alright in the meantime?

It was more than likely he would simply burn himself out within a couple of minutes. Throwing yourself on the floor and screaming is fairly exhausting and he never usually lasts that long, so it was a fairly safe bet it would happen again.  But it was one of those situations where you walk away, back to your maths group (who haven’t batted an eyelid -  their capacity to accept and ignore complete insanity unfolding just outside never ceases to amaze me) and think – wow, my days are never dull.

5 reasons you get out of bed...

I generally get up without too much complaint. It’s hard some days, because my bed is too damn comfy and I am warm and cosy and have a hard-on I need to re-organise.

But I don’t really struggle to get up.  I just leave it to the last possible second before I do.

But in that fuzzy little bit of time where I fantasise unrealistically about phoning in sick, or going back under the covers and hiding – in that strange 10 minutes that feels like 10 seconds, I wonder about what it would be like if I stayed in bed, and then I immediately leap out of bed and get ready for school.

And here are 5 reasons why...

1) THE GUILT

You may have read fairly recently, about what happens when I don’t go to work. I have my class pretty much under the thumb now, though there are always surprises in special needs. But when I’m not there, they turn into animals. They are abusive, they are violent, they are obnoxious. And my staff will have a shocking day, and the children will have a shocking day, and their parents will have a shocking night...  all because I didn’t go to work. I am the glue that holds the class together, and without me it will be a disaster and I really can’t do that to my staff. Also, I will have to pick up the pieces when I return and it’s really just much easier if I go in and make the day work.

I should add, I’m not blowing my own trumpet.  I’m not especially skilled or amazing. It’s just the way it works in my class.  That is the pattern and always has been. I am their consistent, trusted adult, and no-one else will do. They will punish the other staff if I’m not there... as they did last week.

2) THE HASSLE

It’s not just a case of phoning in sick. It’s getting up, calling in sick, then firing up my laptop, then spending probably an hour writing cover plans for my lessons that day, then emailing them. Then contacting my staff to warn them. By the time I’ve done all that I could be at work, at my desk, listening to Radio 4 and doing something useful. It’s not practical to skip school unless you really have to.

3) THE MONEY

I’m pretty well paid these days. Everything you hear about teachers’ pay and teachers’ pensions being poor is a bit of a myth really. My pay goes up all the time, and it’s pretty generous. And the pension is REALLY generous. Don’t get me wrong, I work extremely hard. It is not an easy job most days, and we get ignored, we get abused, we get spat at... we get hurt! Often, in fact. But the pay really is pretty reasonable.  Especially for the hours I do... it’s not like mainstream where the kids are lovely but you lose every weekend and evening. The days in special are hard and scary, but you don’t have the same level paperwork of waiting for you afterwards.

I find money quite motivating. When I’m having a particularly hard day, and they’ve pushed me a little too far, I calculate my hourly rate. Then my half hourly, then how much money I’ve actually earned in the time I’ve been being verbally abused and I think “Ooh, actually, this is a bargain!” and it really helps me endure it professionally.

4) THE MUSIC

When I am struggling to get up in the morning (usually at the end of term when I have cumulative exhaustion) I burn myself a new CD. So excited am I at the prospect of playing my new CD in the car, that I happily leap out of bed and hurry to work so I can hear it. The same can be said for sunny weather and roof-down days. There is no greater pleasure than driving to work on a morning warm enough to have the roof down.

5) THE FUN

I actually kind of love my job.  Yes, when you get right down to it, they’re completely mad, but it is immensely satisfying and I’m GOOD AT IT. The reason the days (usually) go well for me is because I am getting very, very good at steering my charges through their various frustrations and misapprehensions, especially at this point in the year when I know them so well. They’re good fun, they’re endlessly amusing and I manage to build quite a lot of fun into most days. I need them to enjoy it, so on top of the maths and English and science and RE, we always find time to do something fun.

And consequently, I have fun too.

What annoys you every day?

Since my new school’s opening, certain things have changed. 

We are lucky enough to have a fresh, state-of-the-art special needs school, with first rate facilities and everything within shiny and brand new.  

We are lucky enough to have beautiful new classrooms, with individual gardens or –in my case – a gorgeous roof terrace.

We are lucky enough to have a new staffing structure, with the odd little promotion and pleasing pay-rise thrown in, for some of us.

But then there is the parking. The new building has been constructed on what was once a school field for the large secondary comprehensive next door, and now lies between said comprehensive and the large primary school on the other side. Slap bang in the middle of a residential area.

Our car park can only accommodate about one third of the staff, the pressure upon residential roads for parking, between the drop-offs and pick-ups for 3 schools in immense, and we have a polite cold-war stand-off over parking with the school next door.

We have a peace treaty with the other, however -  and they have allowed us to have a third of their rather large car park, which they have painted up with green bays for our usage.

Very gratifying.

This means however, that every morning I have to drive to the wrong school, park up, and begin the long walk to my building. Through THE GATES OF HELL.

Welcome to another week in Special Education. 

It is about 4, maybe 5 minutes walk from my car to my school now, which is annoying, but made more aggravating by the sequence of electronic gates that bar entry at regular intervals. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don’t. They have padlocks on them for when the electronic fobs fail, which are even more annoying to access.

If you are carrying anything, you cannot get through the gate.

If you are in a hurry, you cannot get through the gate.

It is always raining. And you cannot get through the gate.

It takes a ridiculously long time, is extremely inconvenient and makes me angry every day.

And the best part? If I am ever running late, I have to run this ludicrous gauntlet, bags, umbrellas, keys and fobs in hand, through a million squawking, screeching, mainstream secondary students, shouting, swearing, making out, laughing, as I pick my way through their immovable crowd.

No, they never get out of the way.

I hate the gate. I hate the walk. I hate the fact it’s just so inefficient and wastes my time every day. I hate the fact I have to put everything down on the wet ground just to get in. I hate the fact that one third of the staff can park at the front in our own car park and avoid this daily aggravation. I hate the fact that I was honest and said I didn’t need a pass for our car park because I only work on the one site, and I hate the fact that half the people who do park there don’t have a pass but just park there anyway, and I’m too honest to do the same.

I hate the car park and I hate the gate.

APOLOGISE FOR THAT!

Sorry!

I took a day off yesterday. I wasn’t well. I wasn’t well Tuesday either, but I went in anyway. I found myself texting my staff (and my boss) apologising for being ill.

Bad isn’t it? I never have time off, and yet on the rare occasions I fall ill, I feel I have to apologise.

Here’s why...

If I don’t go in, my pupils have a BAD day. I feel guilty even saying it, but it’s true. I have wonderful and very capable support staff, who work really hard and who are great with the children, but when I’m not there the atmosphere changes. It’s partly me, partly just the autism.

“You’re not my teacher... you can fuck off!” sort of thing. But times a million.

They will all behave like animals if I am ever away, or on a course or whatever. They will be rude, spiteful and often violent, but they don’t do it if I’m there. Mainly just because of my presence alone – I don’t have to DO anything.  They just keep it together when I’m around, and if they can’t, they allow me to steer them through and talk them round.  I can calm them down, pretty fast. They don’t let other people get anywhere near that stage, once they’re angry.

But I’m not all “Ooh, get me. Check me out” about it. It’s not a good thing. It means I have THE GUILT if I’m ever off.

They will all have a bad day, my staff will have a horrendous day with all the children kicking off at once, and then they will all go home and take it out on their families. The pupils, this is, not the staff.

Though they might too, I don’t know.

So it gets to a point by which 25 or 30 people all have a horrendous day because I didn’t go in.

So I just go in. Even if I’m not well. And by the time you’ve got up to phone in sick, AND spent an hour writing your cover lessons for the day, you’d be at work anyway. It’s rarely worth it, especially when you add the fall-out to the occasion.

A friend who teaches next door, who has exactly the same with his class, put it this way:

“Me at 10% is better than someone else at 100%” and he hit that nail right on the head.

It’s easier to muddle through and do some slightly crappy, fun, lazy lessons to ensure the day runs smoothly, than to try and hand it over to someone else. Because YOU have to pick up all the pieces and hand out all the consequences and sanctions when you get back. It’s a nightmare.

You feel guilty; you know you’re setting up 30 people for a rough day and you know it will be carnage when you return.

So I rarely take a day off, but my throat hurts so much! Talking all day Tuesday destroyed it, and I couldn’t face it Wednesday. So I sent my cover notes, made my apologies to all concerned and a few people who weren’t but I felt guilty about, and I went back to sleep.

And I felt tons better- I wonder what happened in my absence?  We’re about to find out. I can pretty much guess though – it’s always the same pattern.

So yes – sorry about that, staff, pupils and parents.  Sorry you got kicked and spat at and abused because I didn’t come into work.

But if I got hit by a bus, you’d have to cope, so it’s probably worth practising.

You know the funny thing?  Next year, when these kids move up a class, my presence won’t mean a damn thing to them. And the kids coming up to my class, suddenly *they’ll* start responding only to me instead of their current teacher next door, and they'll start giving everyone else a rough ride.

Did I say funny?

I meant annoying. Sorry.

Something you’ll never forget

Susie joined my class late.  Far too late.  Whilst you could never credibly argue that mainstream never works for children with special needs, there are countless examples when mainstream placements have caused considerable damage.

In Susie’s case, she had languished in a large mainstream secondary school for almost four years, unable to manage with the bustle and chaos of large classes of thirty-plus children, bells ringing, mass movements of the entire population between lessons, and the noise and confusion of the playground.  Add to this the pace, complexity of language and social interaction inherent to mainstream lessons and it is also apparent that she wasn’t able to meaningfully access any classes or learn anything.

Consequently, she had spent most of her four years not speaking, sat in a room on her own in a learning resource unit, doing one-to-one work with a teaching assistant and steadily becoming more withdrawn and anxious.

She joined me at the age of fifteen, near the end of year 10, integrating into my class of eight autistic pupils who had all been together for four years, and who had been with me for four years as their teacher. When she arrived she barely spoke at all, avoided all interaction and was essentially terrified of everything. She didn’t have any friends and had no confidence in any skills, subjects or abilities.

Honestly, with just over a year before she would leave school, I kind of thought it was too late for Susie. But we never just give up-  so my work began.

I’m not going to take all the credit, as there were many adults involved across the school, but she was so anxious she basically clung to me, and I was her teacher, her ‘trusted adult’, and it fell to me to start her programme. So I was the one driving, I suppose. Equally, beyond the work I and others put in, the situational effects of just being in a calmer, quieter, smaller environment with fewer people, less-complex language and fewer confusing social interactions and expectations flying around without anyone to help unpick them cannot be underestimated. The very fact of placing her in a specialist autistic class was likely half the battle.

But it took a while to build up her confidence, to teach her to speak up, to get her to relax and enjoy school, to feel confident in her abilities (she was actually very bright) and to trust other pupils to be her friends.

Within a couple of months, however,  she was talking, laughing and having friends round after school. She added them on Facebook and MSN and talked about it in the day with them. She soared academically, developed a sense of humour, she had arguments and reconciliations, she went out (in so much as they said they were going out – I don’t think they ever actually *went* anywhere) with a boy.

She had a normal teenage school girl experience, if a little immature relative to her chronological age, but it was a real experience.

I only had a year, but I did it.  And then?  When my class finished year 11, and were all leaving school, when we had their leavers’ ceremony with readings and speeches and music and a hall full of two hundred-odd people in the audience...?

She stood up and sang a solo.

And it was pretty good.

I literally sobbed.

It was so moving and amazing and I was so proud. Of her, but also of myself.

I did that.

Yes, she did it too – of course I was proud of that.  But that makes me remember why I do this job.

That’s what I’ll never forget.

School can’t teach you...

School can’t teach you NOT TO BE AUTISTIC.

Sorry mums and dads, I know it’s my job to cure your child and make them not autistic anymore, so you can have the child you want, but- no hang on...

That’s NOT my job.

My job is to educate your child and help them manage their condition, so they can be part of the world, and achieve everything realistically possible, and participate in and experience as much as they can.  

And for some of them, that isn’t much. Some of them, by the nature and severity of their disability, are going to need care and support with all aspects of their lives for their entire lifetimes. And some of them, with our intervention, will go on to achieve qualifications and have relationships and jobs and children of their own.

But they’re always going to be autistic, even if they overcome some of the difficulties that entails.

They’re always going to have some of those wacky idiosyncrasies, strange obsessions, bizarre speech patterns and odd behaviours, even in adulthood. Some of it they’ll learn to leave behind (or tone down in given situations, given time and help) but some of it is with them for good.  And to be honest, that’s half the fun... It’s part of the charm.

You can’t cure them. You can’t make them not autistic anymore. You can’t.

AND YOU SHOULDN’T WANT TO.  That’s your child, that is! I know they’re a nightmare sometimes, but that’s part of it. We’re not there to cure them. 

We’re there to teach them independence, social skills, as well as the academic stuff,  so they can have a future with some normality, stability and – if they learn to tone it down – hopefully, some company.

This post is dedicated to the vile Mrs Thompson, who I gave up my time to meet with today after school so she could rant aggressively at me about her 13 year old child still having autism.

Sorry, son. You're just not the child I wanted.

Day 13: The story of your life in 250 words. Exactly.

The story of my life in 250 words precisely... can be read here.

But whilst I have your attention, and I have 250 entirely fresh words to kill, I thought I might go into a little more detail about some of the early days...

I liked school. I went to Leverton Junior, a fairly crappy primary school in Essex. It was quite rough in many ways; low-aspiration, low-income, low-expectation - but I did fine. My family were always a bit out of place there. In Waltham Abbey, and within school... We always did homework, attended parents’ evenings, read at home and didn’t have a satellite dish. No wonder we were outcasts; I didn’t think about it ‘til now but mummy always said she felt we didn’t fit in, and it’s only now I realise why.

But it was fine. I liked being the clever one. 

Then I went to Roding Valley, a large Essex comprehensive. Not a good school according to league tables, but I loved it. I finally found people who were a bit like me, who I could relate to, and who are still my closest friends, 22 years later. Actually, we all ended up in Brighton together. Roding was great – a real mixture of people, and some proper Essex characters.  Half of my form were pregnant by the time we did GCSEs.

The female half, presumably.

But I thrived. Academically, yes -  but more importantly I became confident and sociable; I wasn’t at primary school, though hadn’t realised at the time. Having a real group of friends made a massive difference, and despite the league tables – if you worked hard you were totally able to achieve there. 

Not many people I know remember it with any fondness, but I loved it.

There you go, 250 words precisely.

To be fair, would you socialise with this?

BEDM14 - Day 6: A Letter

Day 6: A Letter

Dear Mr Carter,
Thank you for taking care of Mark on your trip. He really enjoyed himself and we were pleased that he managed to eat some of the food whilst you were away. Only some of his packed food was gone so he seems to have managed to eat some of the food there! Could you send us a picture of Mark from the trip, as he wasn’t able to take any.
Many thanks,
Jackie

ONE. FUCKING. THANK YOU.

Three days, thirty autistic kids, no sleep, no time off in lieu – NO THANK YOU.

We gave up our own time, you see.  There is no extra pay for the fact you are essentially at work for 72 hours without a break. No “go home early” when you get back. No appreciation or gratitude at all, it seems.

I’m not surprised however. I’ve done quite a few of these adventure holidays now. ‘Residentials’ we call them. This must be my seventh or eighth. And you never really sleep, and you never get a break. You are on duty for the duration, as there is always someone crying or freaking out or whatever, even at 4am.

But you do it because it is good for the children. They need to learn to be away from home, and their parents are always grateful for some respite.

Just not grateful enough to actually say thank you.

Thirty kids, having the time of their lives (once the crying has stopped and they realise they won’t die without their mummy). Thirty kids, and one lousy thank you note.

Though that’s one more than I got last year. And one more than... 

You know?  I think this is the first parent who has ever said thank you.

BEDM Day 4: What’s the problem?

Every problem is an opportunity.  This is what we are told. This is how things are spun.

It’s not exactly true. Most problems are just problems. Something you need to fix. Or correct. Or address. Or redress.

But there is a part of me that sort of likes problems. Probably more in a work sense than in my personal life, though in some situations, even then. There is, if I’m honest, a great deal of satisfaction in facing a problem, thinking on it, tackling it, and making it right.

I find this at school quite a lot. I find myself, on something of a regular basis, telling people:

“But I like it when they rack ‘em up and I keep shooting ‘em down.”

The population with whom I work are, for want of a better word, troubled. They get angry, they get anxious, they get confused, they get abusive, they can get quite violent. It’s a pretty stressful job in many ways. People always use the word ‘challenging’, probably to be nice, but actually, they’re spot on. It is a challenge. It’s sort of exciting in a weird sort of way. They’ll explode with some crazy, semi-delusional axe to grind, and I have to find a way of manoeuvring them so

a) they don’t hurt anyone

b) they don’t hurt themselves

c) they don’t get their own way. We have to win, you see. If they lash out, cause a scene, throw a major tantrum, smash the place up and you placate them, they just learn that lashing out, throwing tantrums and smashing stuff up is a pretty easy way of getting what you want.

Or maybe it’ll be something like:

“Right, it’s time to go in now.”

“I’m not going to fucking science. I fucking hate science. It’s boring.” <pushes bin over>

After which they will remind you that ‘you can’t fucking make them’ which is technically true. Physically moving them and making them sit in a lesson and work?  Pretty tricky - they’re like... 15 and bigger than me.

So you unbuckle your bag of tricks; persuasion, consequences, rewards for good choices (like doing the fuck as you’re fucking well told for five fucking minutes), or sometimes even appealing to their better nature, if they have one; and after a few minutes they’ll be sat in science working like a lamb.

It’s very satisfying.

Especially when, once the moment has passed and they’re calm and think you’re wonderful again (because you’re not making them go to science anymore), you slip in the consequences like a knife between the ribs:

“Well done. I’m really pleased you went to science so sensibly. Now, I don’t need to remind you that you’ve lost your reward time today for swearing at me, do I?”

“No.” <glaring at floor>

“But you understand why, yes?”

“Yes!”

“Good. So all we need to do to put it behind us is go and pick up that bin, okay?”

“Okay! Okay!”

And like magic, the bin is reinstalled in its proper place, science work is completed - however begrudgingly, and most important of all, my honour is restored and he has to sit and be bored whilst everyone else gets to play computer games.

And replay this once or twice a week for a few months and by the end of the year you have a pupil who, most of the time, just does as he’s told without throwing bins, calling you a prick or punching you in the face.

He has LEARNED CONSEQUENCES.

Problems are okay. Without problems there would be no solutions...

"Come out, come out, wherever you are..."

So this week, a super hot guy came out, in a manner of speaking. Not gay, not bi, not anything so specific.  But he does guys. At present, anyway.

It’s a win for the gays. Give us that much...

It’s odd. By rights we should hate him. He’s young, good looking, fit, rich, successful, famous, intelligent AND nice. People that perfect are just too annoying.  But he’s just so hot and lovable that somehow I manage to overlook these numerous imperfections.

But it got me thinking about coming out, growing up gay and the scurrying around, hiding it that precedes all this. I’ve had people say to me, even quite recently, how lucky my generation is that they didn’t have to grow up afraid or hiding their sexuality. 

I nearly fell off my chair. I was kind of angry... partially in response to the person who was saying all this perhaps, but they would NOT accept that when I was young, growing up in Essex, kids weren’t happily coming out and leading confident, well-adjusted lives, out ‘n’ proud.

I don’t know where she got this idea from, but it certainly was not the case.

There were no gays at my school. Not a one. But boys who were a bit quiet or a bit camp or not good at football were harassed for being gay with depressing regularity. I was generally quite safe- I was confident and escaped most of this, but still got called gay all the time. But it was true, so I couldn’t really object.

Nor at college. One boy came out at college, and was subsequently hounded ‘til he quit.

It just wasn’t something that happened.  I now realise there must have been loads of gays all over the place, but every one of us was hidden. But it WAS scary. Whilst no-one was looking to out anyone; it wasn’t a case of people being under suspicion or scrutinised or anything; you did feel that you could give yourself away at any moment.

All my friends were girls, I didn’t play sports, I never had a girlfriend. I felt like everyone must have worked it out and it was frightening in a very real way. And now I wonder quite what the scary, unspoken consequence of being found out might have been...

I suppose being disowned by family, rejected by friends, hounded out of school and essentially having nothing left.  Which is pretty scary. Unfounded as it turns out, but the only mentions of gayness growing up were negative references from kids or in television drama, or the odd celebrity being hounded. There was not much positive press about homosexuality. It was a scandal, a shame, a crime or some manner of death combining all three. Whether real life or drama, it wasn’t something people accepted or celebrated.

But you gather confidence, you learn more about the world, you leave school and can select friends more similar to yourself, and you eventually see a world where they might accept you. Certainly for me, a couple of years after leaving school I was living in a world where I could imagine being honest and not hiding. And I was surrounded by people I had more confidence in trusting not to reject me. Not that I was paranoid when I was at school- my anxiety wasn’t unfounded – but you grow up a bit and I suppose you can be a bit more realistic about people’s responses.

My family, for example, far from rejecting me, have never been anything but whole-heartedly supportive. But when you’re 12 and you see gayers on telly booted out for coming out, you kind of have to wonder, don’t you...

But this is why the Tom Daley event spoke to me so much.  I only came out because I met someone, and after a few weeks, I didn’t want to sneak around any more. I didn’t see why I should have to. But prior to meeting Simon, I had no reason to upset the apple cart. Or risk upsetting it for uncertain reward.

But as I say, in a similar situation, at a similar age, I felt the happiest I ever had. A year or so before, I had accepted I was gay, I was generally happy, I had good friends, a reasonable social life, a successful career at school and college and a loving family. I wasn’t doing badly, so I just resigned myself to being single forever and wanking my nights away alone, and got on with things.

I was fairly happy with that arrangement. It was enough...

But then we met, and I had a reason to do it. Everyone else went on dates. Everyone else had partners, everyone else’s parents knew about their relationships. Why shouldn’t I have a bit of that.

And whilst the sneaking around was sort of exciting and dramatic, it was also very scary and was not sustainable in the long term. It was growing close to the time when we would tell our friends and families...

And then Simon’s fucking mother comes home early from work one day and catches us – not AT it, but sort of... well, okay.  Interrupts us and everything goes to blazes for a few minutes, so we just bite the bullet and tell people.

And you know what?  Not a single bad reaction. Not really.  Not from anyone. A couple of friends who felt a bit hurt, and who, if I’m honest, I’m not sure will ever quite understand that it wasn’t keeping secrets.  Not in that respect- just something that HAS to happen when you’re ready.

But friends and family were supportive and loving, if a bit crazy and paranoid, but we were totally accepted. Sometimes I feel guilty that I’d ever feared rejection when nothing of the sort happened remotely.  But it was too scary. Too big a risk.

You have to do it when you’re ready. When you have judged it safe.

So yeah – it IS a big deal when people come out. It’s still a big deal because you never quite know what people’s response will be. People are crazy and unpredictable and you can’t take it back once you’ve said it.

So it is very brave, and it is important.

Sometimes I wonder about being a bit more open about it at school, though that’s another type of risk on another level.  And another story...

In the meantime, after all the heavy stuff that I’m not very happy I’ve articulated clearly, here are some gems from my mum after I told her I was gay:

“I don’t mind as long as you never go to a gay club. It’s not safe. People wait outside and write down your names...”

“I suppose it’s okay as long as you don’t actually do anything together...”

“It will be okay.  We can just tell everyone that you’re two bachelors that live together, and enjoy each other’s company. No-one will ever need to know...”

Dare you open... The Scary Door?

The Next Generation (of Geeks)

So, for the last half hour of each school day, we have to run enrichment clubs. These have to be fun, but enriching.  That is to say- useful, or educational or of some value in terms of life skills, social skills or personal development. Movie club did not survive long. My school radio club is going great guns, animation club was just a huge stress, but the latest addition to our selection is GEEK GAMES.

It isn’t called that officially. But that’s what I call it, and consequently, what all the kids call it.

Officially, it’s called Games Workshop, or tabletop games, or other such mouthfuls.  But Geek Games describes it entirely accurately. And you know what?  It’s a hit.

I was sort of worried about introducing it. They are not especially tolerant or patient students. When they don’t get their own way they tend to shout, swear, attack you, smash things, or conjecture about your personal life and the legitimacy of your heritage. Geek games are not electronic, have no flashing lights or online multiplayer modes – I wasn’t sure they’d go for it, and then I’d be locked into MAKING them endure it every week for 6 weeks because we can’t change it just because no-one wants to do it.

You can’t let them use their behaviour to blackmail you and dictate terms. Which is why I try to present them with options of my own choosing that I know will work – that’s half my job really. So I was a bit worried they wouldn’t run with it.

Now all I hear is “Yessss! Geek games!  Sir, sir- can we play it again tomorrow?  Go on sir!!”

And I love it. Basically we get to play Hero-Quest! Only the best 80’s fantasy geeky board game EVER! My brother and I used to play this all the time, until he didn’t want to anymore and I could no longer persuade him. And now I get to do it all again. It’s just brilliant.  It’s like I’m 9 again.

 

And they SO LOVE IT. And they say things like. “Yeah – this is the best game EVER! You can’t even get it anymore!” And we basically roll crappy dice and run around killing skeletons and casting spells and talking utter bollocks for 30 minutes every Tuesday.

So I am cultivating the next generation of geeks and teaching them turn-taking and social skills and how to defeat undead wizards at the same time.

I’m so glad I took it into work with me. Some staff of approximately 30 are also starting to sniff round with excited, nostalgic looks on their faces too, which is quite amusing. I have also introduced my class to Fighting Fantasy books too, which they are kind of loving. Add to this our Ten Minute Marvel Super Movie Marathon we have whilst waiting for taxis at the end of each day and you can see why our class theme tune is...

“GETCHA GEEK ON. GETCHA GEEK ON. 

GETCHA, GETCHA, GETCHA, GETCHA- GETCHA GEEK ON.”

Obsessive Compulsive Order

Why would you call it DISorder?  The order is built right in.

I am a bit uptight. Not ridiculously so, but enough to make my friends roll their eyes. I’m uptight about my house. White sofa, white furniture, white curtains... who wouldn’t be. I’m a bit protective.

But I can laugh it off (mostly) when people spill, and tone it down and make a good show of not caring and not being too fussy. I wouldn’t want to look that crazed.

But at school?

At school I am SO fussy about my classroom.

  

People are in awe. I have a reputation as craziest insanely tidy teacher in the building. In BOTH buildings. Even my class are in insanely tidy habits now.  Everything has to be reset at the end of each lesson. Everything returns to default ready for whatever’s next.

Basically because:

A) It’s an autistic class, and we’re supposed to be plain, low-arousal, distraction-free and spartan.

B) I don’t have ANY clutter on any surfaces. Everything has a draw or cupboard so there is no need to leave anything out.

C) I like the kids to know that whatever happens- it doesn’t matter. If they freak out and chuck a table over, or throw a chair or whatever, when they return it will look exactly as it looked before, and it’s no big deal. And if they trash it not because they’re distressed, but because they’re being an arse, then their tantrum has no effect. Everything remains the same- their sulk is irrelevant and pointless and futile.

D) I’m very obsessive.

And you know what?  It makes for a really orderly, successful classroom. When the Head comes round, she’s always really pleased that at least someone is keeping her shiny new school tidy, and best of all- it drives everyone else nuts.

And that’s really what it’s all about... isn’t it?

NO PIZZA FOR YOU!

Today I got paid for eating Domino’s Pizza and watching The Amazing Spider-man.

Jimmy came in in a foul mood and refused to do any work all morning (and it’s end of term, so for ‘work’, read maths games/colouring in/gentle, undemanding, semi-educational activities punctuated by treats and end of term reward events. Like DVDs. Or pizza).

To try and help him recover his day and get out of his foul mood, I tried to persuade him to come and choose his pizza toppings.

“Don’t want stupid pizza. It’s boring!”  (He’s been talking about nothing else for days)

“You’ll be sad if you miss having pizza.”  (He will)

“I hate pizza. It’s boring.”  (It’s not. It’s his favourite thing in the world)

“Well, you need to make a good choice now if you want pizza.” (He does)

“Don’t care. Don’t care. Don’t care. DON'T CARE. DON'T CARE!”  (He blatantly does)

“Okay then. I’ll have to order you a school dinner...”  (I do)

Time Passes.

Our pizzas arrive. Staff and students. It’s a pizza party and the mood is euphoric. Every pizza is labelled with the appropriate pupil’s name. They locate and collect their pizza and take it to their seat.

“Where’s my pizza?”

“You didn’t want one, remember? You said pizza is boring and you hate pizza, then you started shouting at me.”

“I was only joking. Can I have my pizza now?”

“There is no pizza for you.  I didn’t order one for you because you didn’t make good choices.”

“But I want it now.”

“It’s too late now. You need to be good when I say, otherwise you don’t get nice things.”

Jimmy sulks and refuses to eat his school dinner, which- to be fair- looks questionable, though he’ll literally eat anything. I saw him try to eat a shoe once. If I’m honest, he could stand to skip a meal or two, so I let him sulk and refuse to eat.

Perhaps meanly, I also make a point of saying to everyone as we eat our pizzas:
“Is everyone enjoying their pizza? Good!  Well done- you all made GOOD CHOICES so we get to have a pizza party. Mmm- delicious pizza!  Mmmmm!”

But we have to do that to make sure he connects the dots.

He totally does.

After about 20 minutes, once his school dinner is nice and cold and the baked beans are all disgusting and congealed, he sits down and starts sheepishly eating it.

It doesn't look very nice.

Maybe next time he won’t be such a little bitch about it...

Activity Week

Such a funny term.  It really doesn’t describe what it is at all.

At the end of the year, we have Activity Week at school. A week where we go off timetable and do... well, activities. Fun things, trips, games, visits, etc- under the umbrella of ‘enrichment’.

Activity Week was last week.

And what a week it was.

I’m earning quite well these days. I got my nice promotion in September, I’ve gone through the pay threshold this year and I’m doing quite nicely at present. So it feels a bit bad that I’m paid a not insubstantial amount of money to spend my week basically playing.

On Monday we went to Knockhatch, an adventure park In Hailsham. I spent the day rowing on the boating lake, sliding down the avalanche slide, jumping off the demon drop, bouncing on the giant pillow, racing round the go-kart track and zipping down the zip-wire. It was amazing fun, and I got paid to do it. On Tuesday we went to the Sovereign Centre in Eastbourne- a long way to go for a swimming pool, but they have a wave machine. So another hard day’s labour.

Wednesday we did a scavenger hunt, an egg drop competition a quiz and giant Pictionary, followed by Laser Quest on Thursday, which is probably the most fun anyone has ever had. There is something immensely satisfying about spending the day running around in the dark, under UV lighting, shooting your colleagues in the back. Then on Friday we watched Despicable Me 2 at the cinema  and had Dominos Pizza.

All in all not a bad week.

AND WE GET PAID TO DO IT.

Pretty well paid, too...

It does kind of make up for the verbal abuse, the kicks, the punching, the spitting and the general lack of respect we get the other 29 weeks a year.

I know.  It wasn’t a typo. THE OTHER TWENTY-NINE WEEKS...

Dissertation Complaints Service

I handed my MA dissertation in a month ago. A month before the deadline, I hasten to add. It has since been forgotten and life is good, calm and relaxing again. 

The Guilt is gone.

But now they write to me asking for my feedback on the dissertation supervision process. 

And what a can of worms they have opened.  This isn't, I should add, what I sent them.  This is what I wrote whilst writing my dissertation, every time I received any feedback for a chapter I'd just submitted to my supervisor. This is what I wrote in preparation for the day I would be asked to comment on the process. My actual response is a lot kinder...

10 problems with the dissertation supervision process.

1) Your sentences are too long:
You insist that 'mixed SEN classes' has to be changed to ‘classes of pupils with many different special needs diagnoses’. ASC pupils has to be changed to ‘pupils with a diagnosis of autism spectrum condition’.
If you make me write long sentences then ALL MY SENTENCES WILL BE LONG!

2) Canvas vs. Canvass. 
I want to canvass staff opinion.  Canvas is old sacking.  Please stop telling me to write about old sacking.

3) Avoid grouping pupils by SEN. Consider them as individuals.
THIS IS WHAT MY DISSERTATION IS ABOUT. In my teaching, of COURSE I consider pupils as individuals.  It’s not about diagnoses. But this dissertation is about a stereotype in labeling and in grouping of students. I am trying to explode a myth about pupils with autism and with EBSD.  It is VERY hard to do that if you aren’t allowed to a) USE THESE TERMS, and B) Consider the pupils as groups.

4) Your dissertation needs to be about that.
No. YOUR dissertation might be about that.  Mine is about this. Please stop trying to change what I’m actually investigating long after the research has taken place.  You agreed to the research at the very start.  You said it was interesting. You said it was brave. You said it was new. Now I’ve actually done it and I’m writing about it, stop telling me to change the focus and talk about pupil emotions and treating pupils as individuals, on the understanding that “this will be more interesting”.  That is NOT the focus of my research. A consideration, perhaps, but not what all the research is working towards.

5) Underlining terms used in school.
STOP UNDERLINING THINGS LIKE ‘SEN teachers’ and ‘ASC department’. The school has an ASC department.  I know in your out-of-touch, ideal, self-indulgent world of research, we don’t separate ASC pupils.  Sorry- pupils who have a diagnosis of Autism Spectrum Condition. But this is a case study. In a school. Where I have been allowed to conduct research. They have a department for pupils with ASC.  It is called the ASC department.  I really can’t do anything about this when I’m writing about the school. Please stop underlining it and suggesting that I change the wording to something your dippy dreamland researchers like more.  That is what it is called.

6) Commas
Yes, I overuse commas sometimes. And many of your corrections are valid.  But once in your stride in removing excess commas, an excess of zeal has led to the obliteration of nearly all the commas in my meisterwerk. Seriously. You eliminated all the commas in an entire paragraph and now it reads like a children’s book.

7) Repetitious repetition
Constant comments about taking care not to repeat. Duly noted.
Followed by ENDLESS requests to reference a comment that was referenced in a previous section. “Use a reference to discuss pupil voice”. Terrific... I refer you to the ENTIRE CHAPTER I wrote on that, full of interesting, relevant references. Should I just repeat myself? Or would that be repetitive?

8) Trust your own judgement.  And then don’t.
I suffered prolonged conversations about how my view as a practitioner IS relevant, and how my own observations and views carry weight. Followed by constant requests to back up my views with documentary evidence and references.  There is no evidence. There are NO references. These are my views.  The ones you just asked for.

9) Anecdotal evidence that is widely published and scientifically validated.
My dissertation- as advised, is about exploding a myth. Or perhaps supporting it, depending on outcomes. This is based on ANECDOTAL evidence. On staffroom hearsay and even hyperbole. There is no material evidence for this. My dissertation is the first time this has been explored. As far as research shows, this has not been written about before. Please stop asking for evidence of this anecdotal evidence. I already told you it is anecdotal.

10) This will be more interesting.
This is a little repetitious of point 4, but we will proceed as it deserves some exploration in its own right. Having accepted, sanctioned and seemingly understood my dissertation project and the focus of my research, you now keep skewing it, pushing it in different directions and telling me to focus on something else that you prefer because “it will make it more interesting.” This is annoying and unreasonable. I can’t change the focus of my research now. It’s nearly March. There is no time, and the research is essentially finished. But what is more annoying is you saying that YOUR ideas are more interesting, and that YOUR research likes to focus on this, that and those. That is YOUR research, based upon YOUR interests.  I am interested in autism and EBSD, and how hard it is to co-educate these pupil groups. It’s fascinating, really! It really isn’t very helpful or professional to keep trying to push my investigation of pupil behaviour in different conditions into some fluffy, flowery rhapsodising over pupil emotions and individuality just because that is what YOU are interested in.  It doesn’t interest me remotely. Which is fine, but I haven’t burst into your office and ordered you to change your research into something more in-keeping with my own interests and preferences.

Kettering is...

Apparently nothing.

Even Google won’t auto-complete with anything interesting or amusing.

KETTERING IS OFFICIALLY BORING.

On Wednesday, I have to get up at 4.30am, pick up two colleagues, then drive for 3 hours to go to Kettering. There is nothing nice about Kettering. If you haven’t heard of it, there’s a reason; if you have heard of it, it’s because it somehow manages, simultaneously, to be both horrible and boring.

I am to go to a TEACCH course.  This is a course to teach you all about how to teach children with autism. Something I know a little bit about- I used to be an advisor on autism for mainstream schools one day a week. The other 4 days were spent teaching children with autism.

Not to say you can’t learn more... but looking at the programme- it doesn’t bode well.

“Did you know, some young people with autism don’t like changes to their routines?”

Well fuck me with a brick- I *did* know!

But I am being sent nevertheless. It wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t

a) Miles away

b) Starting at 8.30 in the morning

Also, some friends went and did the same course a while back- said it was good, but they were there in a little group. I’m going with two old ladies.

It is going to be BORING.

Three days!?! 

And after getting up so early and driving for 3 hours (which always wipes me) I’m so going to be zoned out for the first day anyway.

Why can’t they just run the course in London like normal people?

I’m going to have to take secret hotel booze and secret hotel porn with me to get me through the week. Then explain to my old lady colleagues as to why I have no interest in sitting in the dubious Holiday Inn lounge drinking tea because I have massive amounts of pornography to watch.

I don’t want to go to Kettering. 

I want to stay at home and sit on my massive sofa and watch Game of Thrones and drink cocktails.

What do you do?

What do you do with a boy who hasn’t been to school in 8 months?

What do you do when he’s sent to your school, to your class, to get him back into school routine?

What do you do when he pretends to be sick, to be sent home, to avoid being in school?

What do you do when he has done this successively, for 8 months?

And what do you do when his mother colludes with him? When she is too soft, too weak, and allows him to be off school for so long? Ignores the faking, collects him from school, keeps him home for months on end, with one pretend illness after another? When she is afraid to challenge him?

What do you do when he starts crying, wailing and whimpering that he’s going to be sick, that he’s so unwell, that he has to go home, that you must ring his mum? When he’s been in your class for a day and a half?

Here’s what you do...

TAKE. BACK. CONTROL.

I didn’t accuse him of lying as such. Not initially anyway. He has used this as an avoidance tactic for months, years even, taking control of his home environment completely, and using feigned illness to completely opt out of school. He’s an anxious boy, and we need to build his confidence and make him happy and comfortable in my class.

But I’m not having that. Not after a day. A DAY!!

So I let him splutter, cry, wail and retch. I let him refuse to eat lunch. I let him moan and whimper and cry. I let him beg and plead to call his mum.

But he still stayed in school all day.

I even said I’d call his mum, but that I would be advising her that he was fine, that he was anxious and was making himself feel sick, and that we should see the day out.  He refused to eat a thing.

I said fine.

And then I spoke to mum. I said he was faking it. But I said it tactfully.... I said it was an avoidance tactic, and that he was anxious and that we really should not give him control of the situation so immediately, as this is where things went wrong in his previous school. I said that I advised we keep him in school, and that she collect him at the usual time, and that we would keep a close eye, but we should stay strong at this point and make the placement work.

And then she surprised me.

A parent actually took my advice.

So he stayed.  And you know what?  As soon as he knew the gambit had failed, and that he was staying right where he was, he settled down, his anxiety lowered, he joined in, he had a successful afternoon.  He even enjoyed himself, a little grudgingly.

It was a power struggle right from the start. One where he’d always won in the past, because the school and the parents had caved so quickly. All children look for control of the situation, lots of them find ways of getting it and keeping it.

But once we took back control- for him and for mum, he just got on with it.

Fuck me, what child wouldn’t rather be at home? I know I would.

But if you give them a tactic that works, they’ll use it to control everything.

Day 23: Things you’ve learned that school won’t teach you (#BEDM).

1) CRUSHES ARE FLEETING.

It isn’t love, dear gays. It is infatuation. You may well feel that, after a week going out with a guy, he is perfect. That you are beautiful together. That no-one has ever felt like you feel.

You may even feel the urge to share this with others. To proclaim your love, and how amazing he is, and how perfect your new relationship is, and how no-one else could possible understand.

But I would advise against this, for the following reasons:

a. It makes you sound like you are a 12 year old girl.
b. Your relationship will likely be over in a further 3 weeks, when you remember that you can’t handle the commitment.
c. You went through this entire process 2 months ago, with a previous perfect guy. It was horrible to listen to then, and it is horrible to listen to now.

By all means enjoy yourself, and fall in love, be soppy and romantic and talk about it. But do not overstate what you have. It’s been a week, it’s not unique to you and it may not last. Crushes are fleeting. Infatuation *feels* amazing, but is not sustained. If you are lucky (or careful about how you play it) you may end up in love for real, which is nice. But this takes time...

2) PASTA BEFORE BED KILLS HANGOVERS.
It’s true. Hangovers are horrible, but they are easily avoided. Simply cook yourself a meal when you get in from clubbing, comprised mainly of pasta, and you will awaken the following morning feeling fine, if slightly full.

3) QUALIFICATIONS DON’T EQUAL SUCCESS
At least, not necessarily. We tell you all the time that you need qualifications to get on in life. And most of the time that’s true. Sometimes though, it’s just down to luck. Most of the rich, smarmy fuckfaces you meet are super-stupid. They just somehow defied the odds and managed to wangle a highly paid job without having to demonstrate intelligence AND managed to not get run over by ice-cream trucks during their formative years despite their alarming stupidity.

And all whilst brilliant young teachers with incredible qualifications and sky-high IQs toil in obscurity.

4) YOU WERE RIGHT ALL ALONG. YOUR PARENTS REALLY DO KNOW NOTHING.
All children say mean things about their parents. At school we combat this, making vague but supportive noises about how they have your best interests at heart. But you’re actually completely right. Your parents really ARE stupid. They had you on a whim, because babies make cute noises and are fun on television. But they were not qualified to do this, and they are really just guessing their way through it. Consequently, only about half of the decisions they make have any likelihood of being remotely correct or appropriate regarding your upbringing.

Hurts doesn’t it?  Your entire childhood is really just up to chance, and things they may or may not have seen on Supernanny one night when they were having their dinner.

5) EVERYTHING IS DECAYING AND WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE.
We try not to dwell on it in school, but it’s true. 

Day 22: Rant about something. Get up on your soapbox and tell us how you really feel (#BEDM).

WHERE THE ACTUAL FUCK DO YOU GET OFF TALKING TO US THAT WAY?

I refer, gentle reader, of course, to parents. PARENTS!

There was a time, long ago, when teachers were respected in their local communities. When their word was valued, their knowledge esteemed and their input prized.

THOSE DAYS ARE GONE.

Now, parents suffer the delusion that they have rights. That their opinion is worth something on account of the fact that they managed to screw for 15 minutes, then squirt out a child.

THIS IS NOT A QUALIFICATION. ANYONE CAN DO THIS. IT DOES NOT MEAN THAT YOUR OPINION IS OF ANY VALUE.

And yet... AND YET... I get these STUPID letters. These RIDICULOUS phone-calls. These LUDICROUS complaints about the most bizarre nonsense on a daily basis. Today’s example:

‘I am disgusted that you would show a 12A certificate film to my daughter. I know she is 14, and it’s technically allowed, but she is very vulnerable. In my work as a youth worker, I have learned that children progress at different rates and some are not emotionally ready for films at the same time as others. I am disappointed that she was exposed to this film at school, as it is not a film we would watch as a family.’

This is especially stupid, given her constant letters about how her child is so mature, and should be treated like a normal teenager, and should be encouraged to be grown up and pursue grown up interests.

MAKE UP YOUR FUCKING MIND, LOVE.

Also- Youth Worker? Wow- that requires.... no qualifications. I bow to your wisdom and experience in all matters pertaining to this subject you clearly know nothing about.

But it’s not the letters of complaint and baseless opinions I mind, however mindless and over-frequent.

It is the RUDENESS. They talk to us in such an unpardonably offensive way. No manners, no please, thank you, sorry or beg your pardon. Just rude, aggressive rants, and never a word of thanks when we BEND OVER BACKWARDS to do something to help them out, even when it’s nothing to do with school and everything to do with helping them claim benefits, manage their child at home, or resolve family conflicts.

Awful, AWFUL people.

And we are expected to just smile, be professional and TAKE IT.

If they could hear themselves, I bet they wouldn’t even be embarrassed.

Parents have no shame, are completely self-absorbed and are unforgivably rude.

Parents are nasty, nasty people.

They shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near impressionable children.

Day 15: A Day in the life.

A day in quotes, in chronological order.

“Oh thank you. Thank you for coming, and at really short notice.  We really do appreciate it. I hope we’re not keeping you from something important.”

“Sorry about that meeting this morning.  People are so negative about anything new.”

“Can I go on the computer?”

“Hello?  Oh okay. Thanks, I’ll tell him. Thanks, byeeee... No Nicky today... *YESSSSSSSS!*”

“Can I go to the toilet?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Well...  now.”

“What’s for lunch today? Spinach b...?”
“It’s spaghetti bolognese.”
“Alright! I don’t know, do I? I’m fick! I can’t help it!”

“Again? He’s faking it. He was on x-box live this morning.”

“Can we do no work today instead?”

“It’s a weird fruit day today. Look!”

“Can I do my work in Loser’s Corner?”

“End of the lesson.”
“Not yet.”
“Now end of the lesson.”
“Not yet.”
“Now end of the lesson.”
“Now end of the lesson, yes.”

“There was cake in the staffroom, but now it’s all gone.”

“He was just being an idiot, so I made him sit in Knob’s Corner.”

“Don’t sit on that chair- that’s the poo chair.”

“That’s not a poo chair, but I still wouldn’t sit on it.”

“But have you actually ever worked with any children who actually lick windows?”

“Lucy in Chestnut Class licks the railings every play time.”

“As you all walked nicely, you can go straight up for lunch.”

“I’m not taking it home. My whole family don’t like quiche.”

“Well, he wanted to eat his quiche now, and I said it wasn’t ready yet. So he called me a fucking twat and that’s why he’s in for playtime.”

“Aooww!  It’s borin’. Do we have to?“

“It may look like a weird penis, but it was actually just... an aeroplane. Well done.”

“He actually said it! Oh my god! Did you hear him say penis?!”

“Can we do that again?  That was my favourite lesson ever.”

“If you don’t like it, why did you choose it?”
“I don’t know!”

"He's been touching us all day today."

“Everyone has to leave through the side door today.  Someone is being very unsafe at the front of the school, so we’re all going to go to the hall.  You all need to be extra sensible and extra helpful, okay? Just to make sure everyone stays safe. Okay – let’s go.”

“You’re all going to have to vacate. This room is double booked...sorry.”

“Right- let’s move on-  we still have 3 more items and AOB  and we’re supposed to be going in... 30 seconds.”

“Are you staying late?”

"Fuck that."

"No, I'm not. I just thought you were."