Life According to Rich

"I can got to the toilet whenever I want!"..

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 17:01:00 +0000

I've spent the day in a haunted house. It was old, dark, creaky, cold and eerily quiet. The residents were elusive, ghostly figures who I saw only fleetingly at the top of stairs, flying across doorways or appearing in mirrors behind me. It was full of dark, dusty corners where no-one wants to go and even had a gloomy, damp cellar that could have housed an army of bats/rats/ghouls/goblins/any other scary creature you care to think of. It was a spooky place indeed. Why, you may well ask, was I there?

Well, I work there.

Let me expand on that a little. Surprising though it may be, I am not actually a ghost. Nor am I witch or a werewolf. I am not even related to any. So, why do I work in a haunted house? Well, it's where I teach. Yup, a haunted, old Victorian house. I don't know if it's actually haunted for real but it certainly felt like it today because there were no children around and it seemed, well, spooky. You see half-term holiday doesn't end until Monday so there were no kiddies in today when I went to do some prep for next term. It's always good to go in when the kids aren't there because you can get so much done. But I always find it a little odd. It always feels weird that I can leave the classroom whenever I want (no kids to supervise at all times to ensure they don't stab themselves in the eye with a pair of scissors or decide to dissect the class guinea pig). It's odd being able to listen to any music I want, at any volume (no need to choose soothing music to help children write or Flight of the Bumblebee at clearing-up time). And it's odd not spending the day talking. As teachers we're used to waffling on ad infinitum and to be in school in silence is bizarre. In fact I don't like it so I talk to myself (well, it's better than talking to imaginary children). Needless to say I make rather a bizarre sight on days when the kids aren't in: a dancing, singing 30 year-old man, who's overjoyed that he can go to toilet whenever he wants and talks to himself about it all day. Hmmmmm, odd indeed. Roll on Monday. I need my kiddies back...they've got my sanity.

To lead or not to lead...

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 20:25:00 +0000

So, I've signed up to do an MEd (a Masters in Educational Leadership to be precise) and now I wish I hadn't.

Well, that's not exactly true, I'm just kind of concerned about how much work it's going to be. Well, actually, having read the first module I think it sounds incredibly dull.

Well, in all honesty, I don't think I want to be a head teacher.

Oh, damn it, I don't think I want to do it...at all!

You see, I kind of love teaching. Yup, miraculous though it may seem, after 7 hard years of primary school teaching, I still enjoy it...a lot and doing an MEd in Educational Leadership seems a bit odd. The first module is all about Leadership Theory and, man alive, I've fallen asleep over the module booklet at least 10 times already. Who cares about whether or not Winston Churchill's leadership skills can be transferred to the leadership of a school? If it was all about Kermit the Frog's leadership skills, I might be a tad more interested. But it's not. Unfortunately.

It all boils down to the age-old question of whether or not head teachers should teach. (I can almost hear you now: "Oh yes, that question's been on my mind for years now"). Well, whether or not you've thought about it before, just think about it now for two seconds. There are two main schools of thought: 1) Head teachers are business managers and shouldn't waste their time teaching and 2) Head teachers are TEACHERS and should have as much interaction with their pupils as possible. I can see the argument for both sides but, as I think you've probably guessed, I am a firm supporter of argument number 2. I've worked for 4 head teachers now and only two of them taught, albeit not very much. The other two were useless when placed in front of a class and one of them readily admitted as much. Of the two who did teach, one was excellent - kind, patient, caring - he knew all of the children in the school's names. I guess if I do rise up the greasy pole, he's the one to emulate. And yet, he was still holed up in his office a lot of the time organising performance management schemes, balancing budgets and hiring and firing, preoccupied with endless other non-teaching related tasks. Did he really enjoy that or did he wish he could have fun in the classroom again?

You see, it all boils down to the fact that kids are fun to be around. OK, they can often be annoying/horrible/rude/lazy/insolent/childish/selfish/fickle/untidy/inappropriate...oops, getting a bit carried away there. But, the fact of the matter is, they can also make me laugh. A lot. I enjoy being in their company. And...they think I'm hilarious. Yes, it's true, 5-11 year olds find me rather amusing and who am I to disabuse them of this notion? It's not like I'm their dad or anything. What better way to spend a day than with a captive audience of young, active minds? Who better to try out all your latent/repressed comedy acting skills on? It makes perfect sense.

So, what shall I do? Do I pursue the MEd and climb slightly reluctantly up that giddy career ladder further away from the kids? Or do I stick at the chalkface and keep teaching a class of primary age kids until I'm allowed to retire at 68?

The decision is postponed until I've been on the first MEd residential weekend at Buckingham University in November. Only then will I be able to see what the other creatures who've signed up to do this course are like. Suauve and sophisticated, high-flying head teachers? Or young, happy primary school teachers with little responsibility but a hefty mortgage? Come back and find out what happens in a few weeks!

Chain Fiction: December 2007 Part Two

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Sat, 08 Dec 2007 19:51:00 +0000

It's back! Greg's posted the beginning of a new story. Read Part One by clicking on the link below. Then come back and read my Part Two. If you fancy adding another section yourself then feel free. Check out the rules and conventions here.

Part One @ Greg's Brain.

Part Two: 408 words.

16 years earlier...

Standing by the edge of the great frozen pond, the tall blonde-haired girl looked wistfully out across the vast expanse. She was wrapped in an over-sized duffle coat, a long multi-coloured scarf and large mittens. Her teeth chattered lightly in the cold air. In the middle of the pond an icy breeze churned loose snowflakes into great swirls of white dust. Apart from her, there was not a soul in sight.

Squinting to shield her eyes from the bright light, she moved closer to the edge of the pond, trying to follow the swirling snow patterns in the distance. They reminded her of the ice dancers she'd watched on TV every Christmas for years, spinning and jumping around, seemingly so carefree and yet so meticulously rehearsed. In a strange way they reminded her of what she had done. Could it only have been an hour ago? So calmly and thoughtlessly, innocently even, and at the same time with such premeditation. Premeditation. She rolled the word around her mouth with her tongue, liking the sound of it but hating the meaning. That was the kind of word the police used, she thought. And judges in the criminal justice system. Is that what she was now? A criminal.

The pond before her seemed suddenly like an abyss and she took a step back from it, frightened of falling. She'd done that too many times before. Her hands began to itch again and she pulled the left one out from the warmth of its mitten and began to scratch. She could feel the familiar panic beginning to rise within her. The itch became more intense and she scratched harder. Wasn't there a character in that Shakespeare play they'd read last year at school who could never get her hands clean enough? Wasn't that character going mad?

Retreating further from the edge of the pond, she forced herself to stop scratching and put the mitten back on. Swallowing gulps of fresh, icy air she began to force the panic back down inside her. Get a grip. No-one could know yet. No-one would ever know. She just needed to walk back up to the house, eat Mom's sweet potato pie and celebrate Christmas as usual and everything would be OK. And, anyway, if things did turn out bad, there was one thing she was sure of: she could always say he'd made her do it. For Jack had. Hadn't he?

Part Three...(by you?)

We had a go at this a few months ago and it was great fun. Check out my effort in that story here.

I started life as a dog...

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Fri, 07 Dec 2007 18:35:00 +0000

Greg of Greg's Brain has tagged me to write Seven Weird & Random Facts About Me. I have a feeling I've done this before, but I'm going to have a go at dredging up seven more from my somewhat Friday-addled brain because Greg tagged me in honour of my recent return to Blogdom, and that's a really kind gesture!

Here are the rules of the Meme:
Link to the person that tagged you and post the rules on your blog.
Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself.
Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

So, let me think...

1. I was born in a veterinary surgery.

2. I have never broken, twisted, strained, pulled, snapped or injured in any way that required hospitalisation any part of my body. I guess there's time yet.

3. It's only just begun to dawn on me that one day people won't call me a young man anymore.

4. The most famous ancestors in my family tree were my 2nd cousin 9 times removed and my 1st cousin 3 times removed. One was High Sheriff of Sussex and one was a magician. I'm resigning myself to the fact that I'm probably never going to beat that.

5. My secret desire is to live in every capital city in the world. So far I've managed Washington, D.C., Brussels and London. Only 190 or so to go.

Make that 189: Bangui doesn't really take my fancy.

6. In my time I have voted in national elections for all three of the major political parties in the UK. Yes, to my immense shame, even the Conservatives. I was young and impressionable.

7. I don't know how to belch. And I'm proud of it.

Well, there you go. At least I tried, eh?!

So, I have to find 7 random people to tag now. Hmmm, not sure I know seven people in Blogdom again yet. Let's see...

1. I tag Akoni at The Chaput Blog because he's a new friend of mine.
2. I tag Ingrid at Boricua in Texas because she's been kind enough to comment on some of my random postings.
3. Coffeecup at The Panic Room has also earned a tag as a result of commenting on my posts. She'll wish she never did now!
4. And sad though it may seem that's the extent of my Blogdom friends right now so I'll have to leave it there!

The Lesser-Spotted Substitute Teacher...

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Wed, 05 Dec 2007 18:22:00 +0000

So, today the class next door had a supply. Miss was sick and the supply agency had had to be called at some unearthly hour of the morning to request a willing victim. You'd have thought this might be a difficult task; finding someone at 7 o'clock in the morning to jump in the shower, grab some breakfast, cross London in rush-hour and arrive at an unknown class ready to teach they-don't-know-what, but it never ceases to amaze me that these agencies always manage to rustle someone up. Someone is the operative word in that sentence, for you can never be quite sure who's going to turn up. Beggars can't be choosers, you know.

All regular teachers know that supply teachers come in three types: the hippy-I've-gone-on-supply-because-the-real-world-of-teaching-is-way-too-stressy-man teacher; the way too keen newly-qualified-I-haven't-got-a-proper-job-yet-but-not-because-I'm-crap teacher; and the I'm-too-strict-for-the-army ultra hard bruiser (sorry...teacher).

The most common of these breeds is the NQT (or Newly Qualified Teacher or in Latin teacherius terrifdius). They are usually young women and can always be recognised by their sprightly eyes, shot through with a hint of red and a large dose of terror. They nearly always dress in sharp trouser suits, with plenty of pockets for small wandering hands to creep into and usually in a light beige, ideal for displaying the smallest of glue/paint/pen/pencil/snot marks. They begin the day with a sickeningly bouncy demeanour, which, at 7.30 in the morning, is enough to make you want to round up the roughest kids you can find and shove them in the class before she gets there. You don't, of course, because you know that that smile's not going to last long. She'll be eaten alive. The newly-qualified-I-haven't-got-a-proper-job-yet-but-not-because-I'm-crap supply teacher is closely related to the hopeless romantic and the eternal optimist.

The hippy supply teacher is a rare breed, preferring, as it does, the freedom of home schooling and experimental teaching, to the restrictive environment of the classroom, but if you're lucky enough to catch sight of one who has been lured/coaxed/forced into school, you're in for a treat. They come in a variety of colours, all worn at the same time, and their hair resembles a bird's nest recently attacked by a fox. Their clothes trail behind them in a feast of tassles, chiffon and organic, breathable cotton and their footwear, if they choose to wear any, is, somewhat inevitably, a sandal. Their voice is as distinctive as they come: a feathery-light, breathy whisper, at a pitch barely audible to human beings, and which they use to justify their less than traditional methods: Yeah, right, like I didn't do that Maths lesson. The kids were just too stressed yeah after taking the register. We just needed a break from all that academic stuff, yeah, for an hour or two. Yeah...right. If you ever meet a hippy-I've-gone-on-supply-because-the-real-world-of-teaching-is-way-too-stressy-man teacher, take a picture. You'll never see the same one twice.

The final type of supply teacher is the most common and it was one of these who walked into the class next door today. They are usually women, although sometimes, to be truthful, it's difficult to tell. This one was definitely female and I could tell she was one of the I'm-too-strict-for-the-army types when I saw her getting the riot gear out of the boot of her car. These supplies usually wear combat trousers and lead-tipped boots and she was no exception, topping off the look with a full-length body shield and a handily accessible pepper spray canister clipped to her all-purpose utility belt. This was admirable forward-planning I thought, but I could only stand back and applaud when she added a Taser to the belt - that's a woman who takes no crap. And if Miss Chalk's handshake was anything to go by (I still have my hand in ice), she certainly meant to take no crap. Unfortunately, she hadn't bargained on the class next door being the class from hell. 6 hours after arriving, several strangled cries and exactly 18 Taser blasts later, she emerged from Next Door like a bullet from a gun and pounded downstairs faster than you could say Territorial Army. She didn't stop to tell me how it had gone, but I'm sure I saw, through my wry smiling eyes, a cracked body shield being thrown into the boot of her car.

My colleague next door was certainly ill enough for one day off school, possibly two. I secretly hope she will be off again tomorrow. Not because I wish her any ill, but if she is sick again, you never know, if I'm really lucky, I might just get to catch a glimpse of a hippy-I've-gone-on-supply-because-the-real-world-of-teaching-is-way-too-stressy-man supply, and, for a closet Supply Spotter, that's an opportunity too good to miss.

Santa's on vacation...

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Tue, 04 Dec 2007 18:54:00 +0000

According to the British Royal Mail, letters to Father Christmas must be sent to the following address:

Father Christmas, Santa’s Grotto, Reindeerland, SAN TA1

The Americans, on the other hand, seem to know something we don't, offering a service whereby parents can write a reply letter from Santa and then have it postmarked The North Pole by a post office in Arkansas.

I ask you, talk about shattering dreams and destroying innocence. What's the point of sending your letter to Reindeerland if he's on holiday in Arkansas? Guess I'll have to send mine off again.

Christmas is coming...

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Mon, 03 Dec 2007 20:42:00 +0000

Kingfisher Class Hoop (read: cheap Christmassy tat - the best there is!).

And the winner is...

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Mon, 03 Dec 2007 19:54:00 +0000

So, the clock has ticked its last, the fat lady has sung, showered, brushed her teeth and gone to bed and the hoops saga has come to an end. Thank goodness.

Don't get me wrong - I love Christmas, just not the horrendous manic build-up to it that is a primary classroom in December. I'm not kidding you - it's hellish. As the final day of term draws ever closer, the classroom makes the transition from serene learning environment through tackiest Santa's grotto imaginable to, finally, explosion in an elf-run tinsel factory and I, in a matter of days (about two to be precise), make the transition from serene educator to the person who planted the bomb in the elf-run tinsel factory. Maybe you can tell - it's always a little bit stressful.

The most joyous part is the Christmas party. I actually love the Christmas party, mainly because the kids love it. They're so easily pleased it's great. Whack on a cheap Christmas hits CD from PoundLand (usually to be found on the Bargain Basement half price shelf), play some outdated parlour games that they wouldn't be seen dead playing in 'real life', throw in a few sausage rolls and sugary cakes/sweets/biscuits/drinks and you'll have 'em eating out of your hand (or from paper plates if you prefer). Honestly - it's that simple. If a chimpanzee could work a CD player and knew how to play Pass the Parcel or Musical Chairs, then even a monkey could do it. Whatever people say about kids these days and the loss of their innocence and youth, my experience is that, wherever you are, inner-city Britain or posh Brussels - the capital of Europe, kids can still make their own fun at the annual Christmas party.

So, I'm looking forward to this year's, especially as it'll mark, very nearly, the end of my time at this school. So, the kids will be happy (they'll be too distracted to be crying over my departure...hmmmm) and I'll be happy. Happy kids, happy teacher - a magical combination. Suddenly, it's starting to feel like Christmas!

Oh, by the way, despite the skullduggery of my fellow teaching professionals, we finished our class hoop and it's hanging as I write in the Lower Hall, a piece of resplendent tat, worthy of any Santa's grotto, or, at least, a PoundLand window display. Check it out above.

Jumping through hoops...

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Sun, 02 Dec 2007 15:02:00 +0000

So, there we are at the top of the stairs - my class (read: rabble), my T.A. and me. The silent high-five has passed between us and the game is afoot. As if in a flash, the plan lurches into motion. My T.A. dives up the stairs, heading for the Resources Room and I, suddenly transformed into some kind of art and craft maniac, slowly open the door from the stairwell to the corridor. I'm about to poke my head around the door to check out the lay of the land when I'm hit by a wave of nerves and I shove a kid out in front of me. He says the way is clear - no-one else is up from the playground yet. "Right kids! Run!" And with that eloquent cry, I herd my children (read: gaggle) into the classroom and slam the door shut behind me, my heart racing and my breath coming in short gasps. Either the adrenalin is kicking in or I really need to cut down on those anti-fit-person pies.

What follows can only be described as pure and simple chaos. Shrieking, running, shouting, excitement coupled with horror...and that's just me. As for the kids, they listen intently as I divulge the genius plan. Some had already noted the T.A.'s unusual absence and seem, if I do say so myself, somewhat impressed by the two-pronged approach. We clear away the handwriting books (who likes handwriting anyway?) and lie low, waiting for the return of the tinsel and card-laden T.A. Time seems to stretch on for hours. Every footstep past the door makes us look up and then, in a flash, the door swings open and in staggers my T.A., bruised, battered and, most distressingly of all, empty-handed. She seems dazed and slightly confused and is babbling in a more than usually incoherent way. I manage to sit her down and she explains, between gasps, that she made it to the Resources Room alright and that she even made it to the Holy Grail - the tinsel and glitter shelf - before she noticed an icy chill in the air. Turning to find the source she caught a glimpse of raven hair fleeing the room and, between the locks, there was definitely a flash of glitter. Her mind racing with who it could have been, she turned back to the shelf to be met by an avalanche of boxes and card, tumbling from all around her, burying her up to her neck. It had taken her several minutes to dislodge herself and then she had come straight back to the classroom.

Pacing the room, there is only one thought on my mind: how are we going to make our hoops now, when the last remaining glitter in the school has just been snatched from our grasp by Miss Black, the evil raven-haired supply teacher from the top floor? Looking at my watch, panic begins to set in. Time remaining: 10 hours. There's nothing for it: we'll have to make our own glitter. I run to my computer and google how to make glitter. 5,310,000 hits stare back at me. Deep inside I know that none of them are going to help me. I feel the elusive title of Best Class Hoops slipping away from me with every second.

Then the epiphany comes: I'm leaving this school in two weeks so I don't give a damn who wins Best Class Hoops. With that my panic, along with my sudden transformation into the James Bond of the primary school art and craft world, come to an abrupt halt. The handwriting books come out once again and order is restored. Let the evil raven-haired supply teacher from the top floor have her glitter. It's no skin off my nose.

Mission: hoops. ABANDONED.
Time remaining: Who cares?

To be continued...check back tomorrow to see what my class eventually produces.

So, this is goodbye then...

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Sat, 01 Dec 2007 17:40:00 +0000

So, ever had to tell your class of 30 seven and eight year olds that, despite having only started as their teacher in September, you would be leaving at Christmas? No? I have. Yesterday, in fact.

You see, I returned from Belgium in July and began teaching at a school in London (which shall remain nameless) where I very soon realised that I was not happy, mainly because...I wasn't very happy. As someone who believes that life's too short to be unhappy, I resigned within just a couple of weeks and got myself a new job at a much better school. Job sorted. Except in the British education system you cannot leave a school until the end of the term (in this case, Christmas), so I had to stick it out for a further three months until I could escape. Now, as Christmas approaches, the time of my departure is getting close and the children have had to be informed.

How do you tell 30 young children who you have spent three long months moulding, forcing and threatening to behave whilst they have exasperated, annoyed and fatigued you, but at the same time amazed, amused and flabbergasted you, that you're leaving them in the lurch with a new teacher after the holidays?

Happy Christmas kids. I'm off! By the way, Santa doesn't exist.

Perhaps not. I opted for the simple, plain-talking approach and told them that after Christmas I had to be somewhere else (anywhere else) and that the most important thing for them to remember was that it wasn't anything to do with them.

I'm not sure what kind of a reaction I expected. Looking around the little faces dotted around the room, I caught sight of one girl who was almost crying. My heart lifted and I could have danced. Not that small children crying is something that normally gives me joy, but it was nice to know they cared. Moving my gaze around I caught sight of another tearful girl, oh, no, she was sneezing. OK, OK, not to worry, she was probably sneezing in shock. Moving on, I caught another child's eye. Was that a tear on his cheek? How sweet! Oh, no, just a pencil smudge. Casting my gaze a little wider, it became apparent that most of the little faces in front of me were not the faces of crushed, tearful young children. On the contrary, one girl was postively beaming (I never liked her that much anyway). Half of them were still fiddling with their pencils/workbooks/noses and those who weren't seemed more interested in the fly buzzing around the ceiling than what I was saying.

Where were the tears? The heartache? The impassioned pleas for me to stay? The wailing?! The gnashing of teeth?! Nowhere to be seen. But then, had I really expected all that? Not for a minute. I've taught primary kids for long enough to know that fickle is their middle name. Yep, every single one of 'em. As fickle as they come. One minute you're the best teacher ever and the next you're a washed-up has-been on the dung heap of My Last Teacher. And it's for that reason that I have no worries about leaving them after so short a period of time. They aren't going to be crying over me until Easter. The only one who's likely to be scarred by all this is me, not them. Kids are resiliant and, let's face it, I'm only their teacher, not their favourite Pop Idol contestant. I'm moving on. They probably already have. Simple as that. That's the joy of working with kids. Always keep you on your toes.

Fully poseable Jesus...

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Fri, 30 Nov 2007 22:24:00 +0000

Available now!

Fully poseable, talking Jesus.

[In the current highly charged religious-toy-naming climate, the producers would like to point out that any resemblance to Jesus of Nazareth is entirely coincidental]

The heat is on...

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Wed, 28 Nov 2007 19:39:00 +0000

So, there I am standing in the staffroom, a somewhat bewildered look on my face and my colleague's word ringing in my ears...I'd love to help but, you know, walls, ears..., when a tinsel-covered elf flashed past the staffroom door. Realising my children were still standing (read: wreaking havoc) in the playground, I leapt through the door, half desperate to get the children (read: devils) into the classroom and half intrigued to find out what a small fantastical Christmas creature covered in tinsel was doing in our school. Disappointingly, the creature turned out not to be a small renegade helper from the Claus fraternity but, rather, Brenda, a teaching assistant from the Infants, and the tinsel, it transpired was in the process of being half-inched from the resources room, in an underhanded attempt to sneak enough down to Year 2 whilst all of the teachers were in the playground. Noting this classic teacher skullduggery, I jumped down the stairs 3 at a time, realising that the making of Christmas hoops was clearly going to require a certain amount of ingenuity on my part.

A quick conflab with my own teaching assistant on the stairs over the heads of my raucous children (read: aliens) and we had a plan: at the top of the stairs we would divide, she taking the other staircase up to the top floor, diving into the resource room, before anyone else had made it up there. Her wish list: green and red card, tin foil, tinsel, PVA glue and glitter. Clearly she wasn't going to be able to transport this amount of stuff surreptitiously down a corridor, so our plan involved a two-pronged approach. On her return I would leave the classroom with a pupil, supposedly on our way to change their reading book. Leaving the child as a guard outisde the resource room with strict instructions to cry hysterically should any other teacher or T.A. approach, thereby detaining them long enough for me to nab the choicest of resources, I would make a clean sweep, stuff the merchandise up my jumper and make my way sharpish back to class. It seemed like the perfect plan and it had to be. Primary teachers are wily, sneaky and, sometimes, clever. When it comes to acquiring and hoarding resources, they can be downright evil. The hoops had to be complete by Thursday and there's only so much glitter a school can hold. The master of the hoops was surely going to be the teacher left holding the glitter and the PVA glue after the smoke had cleared and I knew it.

As I reached the top of the stairs with my T.A. and my children (read: rampaging hoard), a silent high-five passed between us. We knew the battle was afoot and the heat was on. We split into two: T.A. going one way, teacher and class the other.

Mission: hoops.
Time remaining: 11 hours 45 minutes.

To be continued...

I could tell you but then I might have to kill you...

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Tue, 27 Nov 2007 19:08:00 +0000

The deadline for hoops is this Thursday. Make sure they're ready for then!

This was the battle-like cry I heard at staff briefing today, as I sat in the staff room drumming my fingers on my knee, totalling up the days, hours and minutes left until the Christmas holidays. Hoops. The word was bounced around the staffroom a few times - enough to wake me from my dreamland, enough for me to realise I didn't have a clue what on earth the Head was talking about. Hoops? Was this yet another government education initiative - an acronym so beloved of the British Department for Children, Schools and Families? Helping Out Other People in School? Hitting Out at Other People in School? Was it an important form I needed to fill in? A referral for a troubled pupil, involving social workers, ed psychs and other agencies? A piece of information I needed to prepare for the parents of the children in my class? Whatever it was I had to find out quickly. Today was Tuesday and Thursday was fast approaching.

My mind racing with what it was I had, yet again, managed to not do, I rushed to my colleague and pinned her down in the few seconds we had before the bells went and we had to collect the children from the playground. "What are hoops?" I gasped. "Tell me! I need to know now!" In a dramatic voice, preceded by an even more dramatic pause, she looked over her left and then her right shoulder, then leant in a bit closer, causing me to do the same, opened her mouth to speak and then looked back over both shoulders. "They're...Christmas decorations." she whispered.

"Christmas decorations?" I repeated, somewhat redundantly and, apparently, somewhat too loudly.

"Shhhhhhh!" she shusshed me. "These walls have ears."

"Christmas decorations?" I repeated again, even more redundantly but far more quietly.
"Yes, each class takes two P.E. hoops - hence the name - decorates them with tinsel and numerous other things and then hangs a decoration made by each child from them. They're then hung in the main hall until Christmas." She told me this as though she was divulging secrets that could bring down the Pope, all the time looking shiftily over her shoulders, tensing at any sound that could have been the door opening.

"Well, what are we going to get the kids to do then?" The high-pitched cackle that emerged from my colleague's mouth caught me unawares and I jumped like a startled rabbit. "I can't tell you that!" she whispered through clenched teeth. "I wish I could but, you know, walls, ears." And with that, she was gone.

The staffroom suddenly seemed empty and I realised everyone was outside, collecting their children. I hurried out of the room, wrapping myself up warmly in my coat, taking one last glance at the eary walls on my way out. My mission: hoops. Time remaining: 12 hours 19 minutes.

To be continued...

Some like it hot...

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Mon, 26 Nov 2007 21:24:00 +0000

There’s no doubt about it – the world’s warming up. It’s on the news everyday. We can’t escape it. Some of us, of course, have known about it for years. People of my generation will remember, back in the day when a carbon footprint was a nasty stain on the carpet, Janet Ellis solemnly telling us on Blue Peter about the “o-z-o-n-e” layer, demonstrating, with the aid of an inflatable Earth, ice-cubes and some sticky-backed plastic, how by the year 2007, the ice caps would have melted and we’d all be living in stilt houses and travelling to school in boats.

Well, they might have been out by a few years on the stilt houses but it looks like those soothsayers at Blue Peter had it right – the globe is definitely warming up and, if truth be told, I’d really rather it didn’t.

I can think of a million reasons why I’d like things to stay the way they are, not the least of these being that I don’t like buildings on stilts and I can’t sail a boat very well. I know some Brits look on global warming as an opportunity for warmer summers, but I feel they are somewhat missing the point. Rushing for the beach when the hotter weather hits might seem like a great prospect now but I suspect it would be somewhat of an anti-climax when we met the sea rushing the other way to meet us as sea levels rose around the world.

I am no eco-warrior, but it has begun to dawn on me lately that I’ve been hearing about the holey “o-z-o-n-e” layer for quite a while now and yet I don’t seem to be doing anything to fix it. When I first heard about it I thought we actually could fix it, but, nowadays, I know it’ll probably take more than some sticky tape, a toilet roll tube and a pair of your mum’s old tights to do it.

Perhaps I’ll have to do something else. I take plane journeys and contribute to the burning of fossil fuels and a significant part of me doesn’t want to stop doing those things. But maybe, just maybe, one day I’ll have to. And if that doesn’t work? I’ve got a good supply of sticky-backed plastic and egg boxes in the cupboard. I just need Janet Ellis to tell me what to do with them.

The first Pussy of the United States...

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Sat, 09 Jun 2007 18:39:00 +0000

So, Greg at Greg's Brain tagged me to write eight random or interesting facts about myself. I decided quite a few years ago that I would have one random fact that I would keep in my memory for ever and ever so that I would always have something to roll out when people said "What's your most interesting fact?" and so I'll start with that one. That leaves me seven more to think of. I'm not sure I'm interesting enough for seven more...

The Rules
Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

1. When living in America in 2000, I had a private tour of the White House and stroked the First Pussy of the United States.

2. The Pussy belonged to Hillary Clinton. [Not really a separate interesting fact about me, I know, but it sounded more dramatic when I gave it a number all of its own].

3. Hillary had named her Pussy. It was called Socks and was about 9 years old. He wasn't very happy to be in my arms. He was a cat.

4. Also when in America, I once went to a frat party with a bunch of marines and was introduced as Hugh Grant all night. This annoyed me greatly.

5. Leaving the US behind, I recently discovered that I suffer from Oral Allergy Syndrome. I am allergic to raw fruit. This is also somewhat annoying (though not as annoying as being confused for Hugh Grant).

6. Before I came to live in Belgium, I didn't know that Brussels was its capital.

7. I am 50% Channel Islandish.

8. I have a strange habit of subconsciously creating ridges in the fabric of my clothes/bed linen and holding them between my fingers. When I think about it this is a little bit weird.

Well, they were my eight random facts. If reading them was the highlight of your day you'd better go and have a stiff drink.

I gather I'm supposed to tag 8 other people. Being as I don't really know anyone else in the blogosphere, I'm going to have to choose quite randomly. Sorry if you don't like random fact games. There's not much I can do about that.

1. The Real Mother Hen (because she left an amusing comment on my last post).

2. why paisley??? (because we once wrote parts of an interesting story together and I hope to do so again some day).

3. Marilyn's Nonviolent Planet Newspage (I don't think this kind of post would work on her site but I'm running out of people already).

4. Tom's Hideaway (because he told me that the post I'm most proud of was "cool" and he's running for US president).

5. The Things I Like That I Think You Might Like (because I once wrote two of Ben's favourite ever sentences).

6. The View from Here (because Mike is a writer and I want to be one but don't have the patience yet).

7. Little Aussie Cynic Blog (because the author is Australian and I wouldn't mind being Australian but I don't have the beer gut yet...only kidding...).

8. A Baby Boomer's News, Reviews, and Observations (a random blog I chose from BlogCatalog because I really have run out of people and Angela seems friendly. I hope this doesn't qualify as blogarassment).

A true Brit...

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Wed, 23 May 2007 16:10:00 +0000

According to the BBC, Lonely Planet has launched a new and updated guide to Great Britain. It is full of the usual fact and fiction about the cities and towns of the UK, praising some as being cool and some as being boring but it also includes a rather crazy description of what British people are like. It describes Britons as being "uninhibited, tolerant, exhibitionist, passionate, aggressive, sentimental, hospitable and friendly". What kind of a person is that?!

A true Brit (according to Lonely Planet): Someone who is passionate about exhibiting themselves in public and is happy to see others doing it, can become violent when questioned as to why exactly they like doing it, loves whiling away the hours reflecting on exhibiting experiences from their past, opens their home to all people of the same persuasion and will talk to anybody about it.

Remind me not to socialise with any Brits when I move back in a month's time.

It's the little things...

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Wed, 23 May 2007 15:09:00 +0000

So, being a teacher and it being the end of the academic year (well, nearly), I have been busy these last few weeks beavering away writing reports about the 25 children in my class. I have completed about 14 of them and, bearing in mind that they are about 6 pages long (each), that's quite a good achievement.

This morning I was feeling fairly pleased with myself as I sat at my school computer at 7:30, typing away at my 15th report, until I realised that something was wrong. No, it was not the fact that it was 7:30, although anyone being up and about at that time is fairly wrong in my book. Nor was it the fact that I had managed in my running around haste this morning to put on one stripey brown sock and one black. No, it was far worse.

I was writing my reports on the wrong report template, which meant that every one I had done so far would have to be transferred bit by painstaking bit to the correct template, thereby tripling my workload. This mistake was in no way my own fault. I had found and used the template saved under Reports 2006-2007, which seemed to me a logical place for it to be saved. This, however, was obviously a hilarious joke on the part of Senior Management, as the correct template was saved under 2006-2007 Reports, a subtle, but important difference I hope you can see.

Now, I am a very calm and collected person most of the time. It usually takes a lot to make me angry. I have been sworn at by children in my class (in the UK, I hasten to add, not in my nice Belgian school), been sworn at by the parents of children in my class, had my car broken into outside my house 3 times (that was in Belgium), had my car stolen from outside my house and been mugged in the street twice and through it all my sang froid has remained intact. Rain or shine, good times or bad, I can usually remain fairly positive and see things clearly and lucidly.

I did say usually, didn't I? I don't know whether it was the early hour, the fact that I hate writing reports, or what, but discovering this morning that I had typed all of my reports into the wrong template was enough to send me over the edge and turn me into a writhing mass of anger. I was seething, fuming, boiling with rage. Spitting anger welled up within me at the injustice of it and I could have thrown the computer at the wall. I wanted to cry, scream, shout, grab the nearest chair/table/small child and shake it until I ran out of energy. I was mad! Being a calm person and thoroughly British, of course, I showed none of this anger, fixed a smile to my face and went and had a cup of tea.

Dancing Biscuit Number 12...

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Mon, 21 May 2007 16:44:00 +0000

So today we began rehearsals for the end-of-term production. Being musical and drama-minded I love doing plays. I've been in a few myself and I sing a lot. I enjoy this greatly. This does not normally involve any children. The end-of-year production does. Lots of them. Nearly 100 to be precise.

That's 100 eager little children for whom we need to find a part (preferably speaking or Mummy and Daddy will not be happy), teach numerous songs to, find costumes for, encourage/tell/threaten to speak louder, teach to dance and give actions to. No mean feat I can tell you.

The allocating of parts for these kind of productions is always something of an amusement. No matter how hard you try, it is very difficult, nigh on impossible, to find a substantial speaking role for 100 children. Someone will, inevitably, have to play Third Flower from the Left or Wounded Soldier 15 or Dancing Biscuit Number 12 Right in the Background Because She Can't Dance and We've Run Out of Room on the Stage (Not to Mention Patience). Breaking the sad news to the I'm-going-to-stage-school prima donnas that, yes, they are going to be playing a mute slug can sometimes be difficult...but not often. The slug is a choice role, you tell them. A really interesting challenge. Imagine trying to find your motivation in Scene Two when you slide gracefully across the stage pursued by a worm with a saltpot. What fun it will be! With that kind of build-up, the tears don't usually last long.

And so it was today as we began rehearsing our Victorian music hall production and I had to take one of my little darlings aside and explain that their key role would be manhandling the cardboard cut-out elephant across the tightrope (non-speaking and unseen - the role that is, not the tightrope). Luckily the promise that they could make as many elephant noises as they wanted when crossing the stage was enough to put an enormous smile on their faces. No tears. A good day.

Teacher-speak...

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Fri, 18 May 2007 12:59:00 +0000

I rose this morning tired. This is the second day of my holiday from school and the second day I have been writing reports for my class. 13 done. That leaves 12 to go.

Rather than revel alone in the joy that is report writing, I thought I might share with you some of my choicest teachers' report phrases, complete with translations. Here are my top ten:

1. Bobby has this year made some progress in Maths/Science/English.

Translation: Bobby has this year made no progress in Maths/Science/English.

2. Bobby would benefit from listening to instructions more carefully before beginning a task.

Translation: Bobby doesn't know the meaning of the word 'instruction' or 'listening'.

3. Bobby always ensures that his voice is heard as much as anyone else's.

Translation: Bobby never shuts up and monopolises all class discussions.

4. Bobby is not a natural artist.

Translation: Bobby has no artistic ability whatsoever.

5. Bobby has a quick mind and enjoys sharing his opinions with the class.

Translation: Bobby is a smart alec and nobody likes a smart alec.

6. Bobby finds some aspects of the curriculum difficult.

Translation: Bobby finds all aspects of the curriculum difficult.

7. Bobby participates enthusiastically in the practical aspects of Science lessons.

Translation: Bobby is a maniac in Science lessons and scares the life out of me when handling scientific equipment.

8. Bobby enjoys playing with the younger pupils in the school.

Translation: Bobby acts like a 3 year old.

9. Bobby is a quiet and conscientious worker.

Translation: Bobby who?

10. Bobby has a unique perspective on the world and can often make very perceptive and imaginative comments that can take a class discussion onto an entirely different plane.

Translation: Bobby is weird.

Disclaimer: These are just examples of what some teachers might write. I would never use phrases that meant something else, of course. Ever.

Translation: I use these phrases all the time.

The definition of boredom...

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Thu, 17 May 2007 14:36:00 +0000

I have two days holiday from school. Fantastic.

I have to write 25 six page reports for the children in my class during these two days. Not so fantastic.

I have been writing them all day and only managed to do 5. They are beginning to drive me insane. I have become so bored that I have started taking parts of them and pasting them into BabelFish to see what this free, online translation service would make of them. Here's an example of a report I wrote in English, translated into French and then back into English (the name, of course, does not refer to a real person).

Jane is a young delicious injury and an absolute pleasure to teach. It always has a merry smile and a pleasant word for of the same adults and children at the school and this merry disposal gained his/her much friends in the class. Jane has impeccable ways and is always very useful and polished. It works well in any group which it is put inside and always takes part with enthusiasm in the lessons. Jane has the very good qualifications of organization, which it puts at correct use while having to produce work with a deadline. The work of Jane is always accomplished per hour and is always of a very high level. I could not have asked Jane to function harder than it has this year. It should be very proud effort which it put in its education this year. I completely had pleasure to teach Jane and do not have any doubt that it will continue for exceler at its next school and over there. Jane made good during one year fantastic and better of the chance in the future.

I don't know about you but I think it has a certain ring to it.

Chain Fiction One, Part 3

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Wed, 16 May 2007 15:44:00 +0000

I came across a cool writing experiment at Greg's Writing Blog . It's called Chain Fiction and involves Greg writing the opening to a short story and then anyone in the world continuing it in sections on their own blogs. Links from section to section mean that people can follow the story wherever it goes on the web. Just so happens he posted the introduction to a story yesterday, so I thought I'd have a go. I've written a Part Three, so to read the beginning of the story you need to follow the two links below before reading my effort.

Part 1 @ Greg's Writing Blog
Part 2 @ why-paisley

Part 3 (492 words)

11:51

Dave Fisher had never before had such a lucid perspective on life. Never before had he been in such a strange position, though. And, despite his terrifying predicament, he was surprised to find that, initially, he wasn’t scared. All he could think about was what had led him to end up here.

Ever since he’d met Cleo he’d known she was the one. She’d bumped into him at a friend’s party and hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him all night. Must have been five months ago now, although it felt like yesterday. He’d never thought it would be so easy to meet someone so perfect. An accidental bump. A chance encounter and that was it. Everything was in place.

He’d known she was right straight away as they’d left the party and taken a walk through the park. It hadn’t taken long to convince her he was right either. A few lies here and there and she’d become putty in his hands. Could a plan ever have worked so perfectly before?

Well, until this precise moment, that was. Until the two shadowy figures who’d been trailing him for the last three weeks had approached him in the hotel lobby, pressed a gun into his back and forced him up the stairs to the roof. Until the two shadowy figures with the gun had beat him around the head with it, demanding that he hand over the key. Until the two shadowy figures with the gun that they’d used to beat him around the head had kicked him to the floor, grabbed a leg each, dragged him to the roof’s edge and hung him over it. On reflection, perhaps, there were plans that had turned out better.

The lucidity brought on by the initial shock of hanging over the edge of the roof disappeared rapidly as blood from Dave’s legs rushed to his head. Panic set in. Although muffled by the thumping blood in his ears, Dave could still hear the men demanding the key. As if he would have been stupid enough to carry it with him! OK, he’d told Cleo he’d have it but she had to think that. The two thugs didn’t. He spun his arms around wildly, trying to find something, anything, to grab onto, but there was nothing. Blood throbbed behind his eyes. His mouth was dry and he was struggling to breathe. Panic turned to terror when he opened his mouth to shout and nothing came out. The grip on his legs loosened.

Suddenly, everything seemed to go quiet. No more muffled shouts from above. No more voices rising from the street. All he could hear was a car pulling into the hotel car park below. Looking down he saw a battered, blue Honda, a blonde woman at the wheel. Cleo. She was here and on time, of course. Suddenly the tightness in his chest vanished. He could breathe again. He was falling.

Part 4 @ why-paisley

Nothing like feathering your own nest...

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Tue, 15 May 2007 17:58:00 +0000

Announcement in an 1890s Directory for Worthing, UK.

No wonder you never see any ostriches there.

Farewell cool pool...

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Mon, 14 May 2007 16:29:00 +0000

So, today, after school, I set off as usual to my gym, which is about 10 minutes' drive from my house in the centre of Brussels, and about 25 minutes from school. I joined back in March 2006 and have only used the gym three times. Yep, you heard right, three times. I pay just over 100 Euros a month for the privilege of using this gym, so, to date, those three gym visits have cost me about 500 Euros each. Pretty steep for a bit of lumbering on the running machine and for riding a bike that didn't even go anywhere (and my headphones didn't work!). Have no fear, however, as there is also a swimming pool at my gym and this I do use on a much more regular basis. On average twice a week, although I always aim for three times. The pool is a delight (it should be for the price I pay), with underwater lighting, poolside sunloungers (the pool and the loungers are inside, but it's a nice thought) and jacuzzi. It is usually fairly warm and, if you time it right, it can be fairly empty.

When I joined my Brussels gym I was overjoyed to be able to say that long gone was the local, municipal pool I used to swim at in Hillsborough, Sheffield in the UK as a newly-trained and, therefore, fairly poverty-stricken, teacher. Gone was the manic shoving to find a place to swim in the 5 or 6 metre wide strip of pool that did not have curvy, yes-you-are-really-swimming-in-the-Caribbean edges. Gone was the manic battling to keep swimming in a straight line when the wave machine came on every 15 minutes. And gone was the hurried diving to bottom of the pool every 15 seconds when children from my class caught sight of me. Brussels was cool. Sheffield was not. I was a member of an exclusive gym (even if I only used the pool).

Well, as I get ready to leave Brussels in July, I'm going to have to say goodbye to my friendly, cozy, cool pool. For someone who didn't grasp the whole swimming lark until much later than he should have done, it's been surprising how well I've stuck at it. As soon as I arrive in London I shall be searching for another place to swim. Somewhere cool, friendly, cosy and a little bit luxurious would be excellent. But with the cost of living in London being about 7 trillion times higher than in Brussels, I'm not sure I'll be able to afford another Aspria. Does anyone know if you're still allowed to swim in the Thames?

God bless the Maltese!

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Sun, 13 May 2007 12:38:00 +0000

So, last night I went to a friend's house here in Belgium for a Eurovision party. Everyone was assigned a country from which to bring a dish and I was given Italy. Somewhat disappointed as I was upon discovering that my assigned country was not actually in the Eurovision Song Contest this year(!), I opted for the easy option and bought pizzas from the supermarket as my contribution. Alsatian pizzas made in Brussels, they may have been, but they looked Italian.

On arriving at the friend's house I bought two tickets for the sweepstake and managed to pick out Bulgaria and Finland. I wasn't holding my breath about romping away with the prize money. As the familiar strains of the Eurpoean Broadcasting Union (what else do they do except put on Eurovision?!) drifted down from the upstairs living room, we all decamped up there to watch the contest projected onto one of the walls.

The Eurovision Song Contest for those who don't know is an annual contest in which countries from across Europe enter one song, culminating in a continent-wide phone vote to decide on a winner. It started as some grand let's-bring-Europe-together idea back in 1956 and it is now an annual joke. Well, in Britain at least. In typical British fashion we deride the contest every year and laugh at our European neighbours, whilst secretly wishing we could win it again. The last time we did was in 1997 and it doesn't look like we ever will again. If there was ever a good indicator of how the rest of Europe views us, it was this. Last year the UK received no points whatsoever. None. Nada. Diddly squat. This year the Irish gave us 7 points (probably all of the ex-pat Brits over there voting for the motherland) and Malta (I've always loved the Maltese) gave us the maximum 12 points. Apart from that, we received no points from anyone else. That's 40 other countries who didn't see fit to award us anything.

These countries did see it fit, however, to award points to their closest friends and neighbours. Therefore, we saw Belarus, Armenia and Estonia give 12 points to Russia; Cyprus (as ever) give 12 points to Greece and Bosnia-Herzegovina, FYR Macedonia and Croatia all give maximum points to Serbia, who went on to win the contest with their bizarre but well-sung (by a female Harry Potter impersonator) song. I never cease to be amazed by how these votes turn out. Do people in these countries genuinely think that their neighbour's song is the best? (You cannot vote for your own country). Is it really, like some people argue, that people from similar regions like similar kinds of music and therefore will always vote for each other? I don't know. But what I do know is that it is not fair. Britain has no friends in Europe (apart from dear old Malta), so if we're all going to be voting for our best buddies then we won't ever win again and that's not fair. I know that most of the time the UK arrogantly sits aloof from Europe and only dips her toe in when she feels like it, but that's no reason not to play with us on the playground. We're nice people too. Well, some of us.

So, it'll all be in Belgrade next year and I'll be back in the UK and in a position to influence the UK's votes. For all my talk of unfair voting on political and friendship lines, I know who I'll be voting for. My douze points will be going to Malta, of course. Well, we friends have got to stick together.

A real British dilemma...

noreply@blogger.com (Rich) — Fri, 11 May 2007 16:35:00 +0000

So, there I was today, 7.20am, standing in the rain, ageing digital camera in hand, taking photos of my car as it stood cooling down in the school carpark. As you can see from the background vehicles in one of these said photos opposite, getting to school at the unearthly hour of 7.20am does not, surprisingly, guarantee that you will be alone on the campus, and I attracted a few strange glances from fellow teachers as I stood in the middle of the road snapping away. As my senior school colleagues walked past I could hear their muttered mumblings of "Oh, it's Richard. It's OK - he's a primary teacher" accompanied by pitying waves and never mind eyes. Inclined to strange and often curious behaviour though primary school teachers are, my early morning photography actually had nothing to do with school. I was photographing the car because I have to sell it. I return to the UK in less than two months and I need to get rid of it. Quick. The photo will help me do just that.

You see, at my school there is a board, an ordinary-looking, rather humble board attached to the wall by main reception. It is not really walked past and is never on the must see list of anyone visiting the school, and yet it is the hub of some major activity. Advertising Board (as I like to think of it) is perenially festooned with flyers, posters, photos and messages of all descriptions, advertising everything from dog waxing services to bonsai trimming, with cars for sale coming somewhere inbetween. This is where I will be marketing my car - the 2001 Renault Twingo that has pootled me around to school, to the gym, to the UK and to Germany for the last two years. It is here that it will find its new owner...or so I hope. A few days ago, aware that time was beginning to run short I made a surreptitious reconnoitre of Advertising Board to check out the compeitition. Not the cars on the offer, you understand, but the posters. Never before have I seen such an array of advertising techniques on one simple board. There were posters with mulitple pictures, posters with multiple photos and clipart, posters with the little tear-off tags at the bottom, posters in multiple languages, A3 posters (!), laminated posters (in case of rain?), posters on coloured paper...just about everything you coulod imagine and more besides. Needless to say, this began to trouble me somewhat as it began to dawn on me that unless I produced a poster with a 3D pop-up model of my car complete with moving parts and working headlights on it, making my car stand out might prove to be harder than I had initially thought. Anarchical sabotage options began to float through my brain like momentary wisps of smoke. I could sneak in in the middle of the night and take down every other poster, leaving just mine sitting proudly smack bang in the middle, or I could paper Advertising Board with my poster so many times that it covered every other advert, but these were perhaps too risky. There was nothing for it, I would have to take a drastic step: I went and had a cup of tea. I am British after all.

By the time I was slurping the dregs of tea from the bottom of my cup, everything had come back into perspective. I would make a simple poster on plain, white A4 poster with one simple picture and no clipart or 3D moving model. I would stick it unobtrusively in a small space on Advertising Board and sit back and wait for the offers to come flooding in. Not for me this ostentatious multi-photo, multi-coloured, multi-dimensional postering. I would stick with the plain and simple. Well, I am British after all. (And if the poster doesn't do the trick? I'll set up a stand with leaflets, a megaphone, a virtual internet tour of the interior and free lollies. That'll get 'em).