Angel

I sat quietly in the staff room catching up with some marking.

I’d done one school patrol and unless I was called

on the radio, I didn’t need to do another one until

the next lesson commenced.

The school had failed its last OFSTED inspection in

dramatic fashion and I was one of the few

survivors from the previous staff who had passed

muster with the ‘New Broom team’ brought in to

turn things around.

All the solid wood doors in the school had been

changed to semi glazed,  these were named Vision

Panels, woe betide anyone who referred to them

as a window!

The idea was so whoever was on patrol could see

how the class was behaving without entering the

room.  If there was any trouble brewing the person

on patrol could step in and help.

Another change was that all the students were

now addressed by their title and surname.

Suddenly my radio burbled into life ‘Would the

patrol officer please go to Room 1 in the Churchill

block’ I picked up my radio and responded ‘On my

way’.

Typical! Churchill block was at the farthest end of

the site.  I set off, wondering as I went which

particular miscreant I would be collecting today.

Pupils who were disrupting lessons were removed

to what we staff referred to as the ‘Sin Bin’ though

its official name was the Quiet Room.

The Quiet room was presided over by Mrs Grove, a

teacher with many years’ experience who had a

real soft spot for some of the more troubled and

troublesome students.

As I approached the Churchill room I could hear

someone singing the current number 1 single in

amongst the general noise, oh well, at least I knew

who I was dealing with. I entered the class room,

smiled kindly at Mr Smith, he was an NQT and

showed great promise as a teacher, but this

particular child would try the patience of a saint.

Both her parents had attended this school, her

father Martin had been a bit of a handful and could

always be guaranteed to get caught out in

whatever mischief he was up to.

Her mother, Julie,was what we called NBD (nice

but daft). There was not an ounce of malice or

common sense between them.

‘Miss Yarde’ I bellowed, to make myself heard

above the ruckus, most of the class quietened

down, apart from the main culprit, who had a boy

twice her size in a headlock and the boy in the

headlock who was screaming like a banshee.

‘Miss Yarde’ I repeated, this time I was closer and

she heard me. She grinned, ‘Hello Miss’

‘Miss Yarde please release Mr Walker’

‘But Miss, he was rude to me, I told him I was

going to audition for the X Factor and he I sounded

like a strangled cat’

I have to admit that I had some sympathy with Mr

Walker, like many hopeful pop stars, Miss Yarde

did seem to feel that volume was more important

than talent.

‘I’m sure he’s very sorry now’, ‘aren’t you Mr

Walker’ he let out a strangled cry that could have

passed as an apology and Miss Yarde released

him.

I couldn’t help thinking, as I escorted Miss Yarde to the Sin Bin, that her parents had been wildly optimistic when they had named her Angel!