Wednesday 8 July

Week 12! Three days to go.

We both wake at 3am; at 3.30am I take my book and go sit in the bathroom and read; at 5am I make a cup of tea fro us both; at 5.30am I eat cashew nuts from minibar as I am ravenous. I fall asleep and I guess Tina does to. I finally wake up at 9.45 and she has gone to her conference.

She is so tired she skips the last session.

I go for a “duck” tour – amphibious vehicle that cruises the water and then drives on land. Not as interesting as I hoped it would be.

I then go to Fort Canning in search of the Battle Box. If my new career as a travel writer doesn’t work out then I think I have a future as a wedding photographer. As I was climbing the steep slopes (aching with every step - my taxi driver had no idea where it was so just dumped me at the side of the road) I came upon a wedding party and they asked me to take some shots. So I framed them under an arch making sure I had balance (Martin, the feng shui wedding photographer) and hadn’t cut off any heads or feet. They were happy with the results so I guess I have a future.

Then it’s into the Battle Box which is similar to Churchill’s War Cabinet underground rooms we saw in London. I didn’t visit this in 2000 so was one of my must-dos this year.

Back to the lovely air con of the hotel room. Tina is resting (but awake). We make plans for an expensive meal at Raffles (next door) and, of course, a Singapore Sling. She says she will have a few minutes sleep. This is around 5.30pm. At 10.30pm (!!!) I go and find the only food place open in the mall and have the worst burger of my life (avoid Mos Burgers if you are ever in Singapore). Come back and I am writing this at 11.10pm and there is no sign of life. So that was Wednesday night!

PS she woke up at 11.30pm, did work emails (true professional!) and ordered chicken satay from room service!
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Again, from the Guardian, here is an article by Ian Whitwham that all teachers can relate to! It’s about parents’ nights (what we call parent-teacher interviews) and seeing where kids get it from. Enjoy.

Another parents’ meeting rolls around. I’ve been attending them as a pupil, teacher and parent. They’re not easy gigs. I was a pupil at Royal Grammar School in the 50s and parents’ meetings were no fun at all. I was scared. Mother was petrified. She’s left school at 12 and regarded my masters as Old Testament prophets. They sat in rows like crows in robes of academe. We moved along their severe patrician stares. “Tus” Shepherd – geography – gave us 10 seconds of his attention.
“Wigwam? Who? Ah! Yes! Satis! Good on Venezuela.”
“Thank you.”
“Next!”
“Chunk” Jones – French – just raged: “I would rather teach a vegetable!’
Mother thanked him for his deliberations – and had a quiet sob. We tottered off for a few more callous judgments and left punch drunk with insult.

Well, we teachers don’t scare parents any more. They scare us. Their children’s failure is often our fault. “Why is our Nigel underachieving?”
I dare not suggest that it’s because he’s a clot, idler, buffoon – or less than a vegetable. And has bonkers parents. I must be kinder. Out goes start insensitivity; in comes positive empathy. Out goes brute directness; in comes caring waffle.

I’m all for it. I’ve gone more pastoral. I’m less brutal but probably still prone to snap judgments. Here you come – harassed, single, bewildered, desperate, poor, louche, stifling, guilty, divorcing, pushy, sad, mad, smug or maybe seeking asylum. Here come the “helicopter” parents. Or the “stretchers”, spoilers, disowners, bullies. Tories in Gucci and Guardian liberals in Gap. I look at you all and make cartoons of your kids. I try not to but I do.

Most of the time I enjoy parents’ reports meetings. They are necessary and useful and I can be honest. But sometimes I must lie. I’m caught in family conflicts and cannot always be neutral. Especially with Mr and Mrs Mania and their son Dave.

I once taught Mr Mania. Well, I didn’t. He bunked. Just like his son Dave. Dave is a chip off the old block but a bit worse. Dave’s levels are more inferno than curriculum He’s begged me to “big him up”. “My dad, Sir. He’s fucking mad! He’ll kill me!! Tell ‘im I’m good!” He isn’t. Dave has lately traduced most of the received decencies of western civilisation. Still, I do a few euphemisms.
“He has energy.” (So has Satan.)
“He displays initiative” (So does Tony Soprano.)
Mr Mania still thinks I’m too soft, “’it ‘im!” he roars.
Mrs Mania looks like my mum used to. Dave looks at his boots. Then he’s carted down a corridor and walloped. Rather loudly. My fault. I have grassed him up. Poor Dave …

Or Mr and Mrs Tulip – without their daughter Echo. I’ve been dreading this. They sit before me. Daggers drawn. He is pale and wan and has a cancelled face. She is lustrous and molten and looks like Maria Callas. Echo is busy blowing her GCSEs and has been bunking off with an emo musician. I have sent messages home to this effect. Mrs Tulip didn’t get them. She’s been bunking too – with her lover.
“Why have I not been informed!” she screams at her husband at Level 11. He is, apparently, deficient in most areas – spiritually, emotionally and physically. Especially physically. Testicle-shrinking stuff. He offers me a whey-faced smile. I do a men’s group nod. I stare at a pot plant.
“I am a passionate woman!” She is now quite sulphurous. “I need serious attentions.” I seem to have become a branch of Relate (Martin’s comment after looking in Google: Counselling, sex therapy and relationship education supporting couple and family relationships throughout life). I mumble that Echo’s recent essay on Blake’s symbolism displayed considerable insight.
“What do you know! You’re like him! You’re a man! A worm!”
She storms out
Poor Echo …

Or poor Lucy Crumlin and her son Charlie. She brings her baby in a pram. She’s a single mother and has been up since dawn and is bone tired with auxiliary nursing and cleaning and her son. She nearly smiles. She’s desperate. Charlie’s in trouble. Big trouble. He’s running drugs down the Westway (Martin’s comment: look it up in Wikipedia – there’s a bleak photo, description and how the location has been used in modern songs). I gaze at his mock results. Ds and Es. I can’t tell his mother this. Charlie is bright. He must get his GCSEs. He must escape King Hell Mansions (Martin’s comment: more humourous articles can be found by putting this title into Google). He never will. Lucy begs me to help. She begs me for a bit of hope. It is all beyond her. I lie a lot. She knows this. I’ll try to see him for extra lessons. She thanks me. She has tears in her eyes. She leaves. Poor Charlie. Poor Lucy, too.

It can wear you out.

Dave. Echo. Charlie. Snapshots of terror and chaos and dysfunction. But most children survive or succeed against so many odds because of – or despite – their families.