In which there is an overabundence of commas and a dearth of semi-colons
One of the many diverse inhabitants of the interdimensional rift also referred to as my school is a small twelve year-old boy named Beans. Nobody is actually sure whether Beans is his first name or his surname or his nickname or even his codename; it is quite possible that, like Tintin, V, Pythagoras and God, Beans is so phenomenal that he only actually has the single name. He is small and round and blond and smiling, and the overall impression is that of a cherub in a blazer and tie who has just been given his very own TARDIS. He has an infectious smile, eclectic music tastes and a voracious appetite for culture: this is a boy who not only went to see Titus Andronicus but who also read the play for fun. Beans is awesome.
This lunchtime, I walked past Beans and several of his compatriots engaged in a lively game of imaginary tennis. As I walked past, Beans called a let.
I think I have found a new god.
---
Directly after encountering Beans, I visited my fourth-form. Or rather, a very small portion of it, because most of them were away on the geography field trip or the CCF AGI acronym fest, and most of those who were still in school turned up late. When I arrived, there were only two people in the room, and I had a very nice time nattering and talking about A-level choices and helping Akash choose which title to do for his English coursework and helping him plan it by giving him lots of ideas of points to make. I would feel very guilty about this if it wasn't for the fact that I haven't actually read Macbeth.
As their teacher was also away at the acronym-fest, Miss Clifford, who is a new-ish and young-ish geography teacher, came to register. I like her: she has a great sense of humour and a very good memory. She also people-watches; I know this -- and the memory fact -- because she addressed me by name, and the only way she could possibly know who I am is by having paid attention when she covered our English lesson on Thursday. I'm glad I'm not the only person who does that.
(Further proof of this, in fact, comes from a conversation that I'm having with pleezpleezme at the same time as writing this: she ran into a big bunch of people from my school -- as it happens, the run-off from the toy-soldier acronym fest -- and was able to tell me who four of them were. My friends are cool like that.)
---
As I mentioned above, my school is inhabited my many interesting creatures. These aren't just limited to pupils and teaching staff, but also include a bearded poet-in-residence, a diminutive, efficient-looking man with glasses and a clipboard who seems to scurry around the place making notes in a slightly sinister fashion all day and the lung-destroying, queue-supervising troglodyte known as Mr Smith who claims to have invented the wheelbarrow, the flowchart, the comma and the resistor and in fact has only really done far more mundane things in his lifetime like grow potatoes in his garage, train as a classical ballerina and throw out Stephen Hawking's hand-made binary computer.
It also contains several librarians, under the hawk-like eye of Mrs Jex. I am, as some of you may be somewhat surprised to learn, something of a regular visitor to the library, and Mrs Jex and her disciples, despite coming into contact with a high proportion of the student body on a near weekly basis, do not need to ask my name when I sign out a book or ask to use a computer, and often even address me by it. I, however, cannot always return the compliment, because I do not know the names of Mrs Jex's colleagues. One of them is new, and so this is permissible. The other, however, is a charming lady who has worked there for at least the last two years and with whom I have had many conversations about a staggering array of books. I suddenly realised the other day whilst transcribing a comment in my notebook for posterity that I didn't know her name, and felt terribly guilty about it. I felt guilty enough to actually ask the members of my English class if they could enlighten me. They couldn't either -- and neither could Mrs Graveson, who is generally a very reliable source of both esoteric knowledge and biographical information. "Ask Mr Murray," she suggested, "and please tell me when you find out." So I did.
Mr Murray is also an English teacher. He is also the teacher with responsibility for the library, and his desk is directly in front of the science bookshelves. If anybody knew the identity of the mysterious librarian, it would be him.
Of course, he didn't. It seems that the only person who can unravel this mystery -- aside, of course, for the enigmatic librarian herself -- is Mrs Jex. I shall ask her on the next occasion on which I am able to do so without alerting the subject of my inquiry of my ignorance.
Quests rule.
This lunchtime, I walked past Beans and several of his compatriots engaged in a lively game of imaginary tennis. As I walked past, Beans called a let.
I think I have found a new god.
---
Directly after encountering Beans, I visited my fourth-form. Or rather, a very small portion of it, because most of them were away on the geography field trip or the CCF AGI acronym fest, and most of those who were still in school turned up late. When I arrived, there were only two people in the room, and I had a very nice time nattering and talking about A-level choices and helping Akash choose which title to do for his English coursework and helping him plan it by giving him lots of ideas of points to make. I would feel very guilty about this if it wasn't for the fact that I haven't actually read Macbeth.
As their teacher was also away at the acronym-fest, Miss Clifford, who is a new-ish and young-ish geography teacher, came to register. I like her: she has a great sense of humour and a very good memory. She also people-watches; I know this -- and the memory fact -- because she addressed me by name, and the only way she could possibly know who I am is by having paid attention when she covered our English lesson on Thursday. I'm glad I'm not the only person who does that.
(Further proof of this, in fact, comes from a conversation that I'm having with pleezpleezme at the same time as writing this: she ran into a big bunch of people from my school -- as it happens, the run-off from the toy-soldier acronym fest -- and was able to tell me who four of them were. My friends are cool like that.)
---
As I mentioned above, my school is inhabited my many interesting creatures. These aren't just limited to pupils and teaching staff, but also include a bearded poet-in-residence, a diminutive, efficient-looking man with glasses and a clipboard who seems to scurry around the place making notes in a slightly sinister fashion all day and the lung-destroying, queue-supervising troglodyte known as Mr Smith who claims to have invented the wheelbarrow, the flowchart, the comma and the resistor and in fact has only really done far more mundane things in his lifetime like grow potatoes in his garage, train as a classical ballerina and throw out Stephen Hawking's hand-made binary computer.
It also contains several librarians, under the hawk-like eye of Mrs Jex. I am, as some of you may be somewhat surprised to learn, something of a regular visitor to the library, and Mrs Jex and her disciples, despite coming into contact with a high proportion of the student body on a near weekly basis, do not need to ask my name when I sign out a book or ask to use a computer, and often even address me by it. I, however, cannot always return the compliment, because I do not know the names of Mrs Jex's colleagues. One of them is new, and so this is permissible. The other, however, is a charming lady who has worked there for at least the last two years and with whom I have had many conversations about a staggering array of books. I suddenly realised the other day whilst transcribing a comment in my notebook for posterity that I didn't know her name, and felt terribly guilty about it. I felt guilty enough to actually ask the members of my English class if they could enlighten me. They couldn't either -- and neither could Mrs Graveson, who is generally a very reliable source of both esoteric knowledge and biographical information. "Ask Mr Murray," she suggested, "and please tell me when you find out." So I did.
Mr Murray is also an English teacher. He is also the teacher with responsibility for the library, and his desk is directly in front of the science bookshelves. If anybody knew the identity of the mysterious librarian, it would be him.
Of course, he didn't. It seems that the only person who can unravel this mystery -- aside, of course, for the enigmatic librarian herself -- is Mrs Jex. I shall ask her on the next occasion on which I am able to do so without alerting the subject of my inquiry of my ignorance.
Quests rule.