I'm writing this in school, immediately before Dave takes me for a lavish meal in advance of me screwing up his choir rehearsal with my under-practised piano playing.

Another anecdote about the school filtering software, which might be amusing if it wasn't so tragic. The school network will allow me to look at this page, despite the fact that the word "fuck" appears dozens of times. I cannot, however, update the blog properly from school, as the filter blocks the blogger.com main page, which, as far as I can see, contains not one instance of four-letter swearing. So I'm having to type this up in Hotmail and send it to myself so that I can post it to the blog when I get home at about eleven tonight. I might not be arsed, so there could be a double entry tomorrow.

Just had jazz practice, and I'm a bit worried about Sab. Transpires today that she spent Friday night at the Nixons, having failed to work out a way of getting herself home from Club M. So she was stranded in a next-to-nothing dress with no money, drunk - on Teesside. Nice one, Sab. Good job Matt was there to rescue her. This afternoon she was moaning about him being moody. I also find out that earlier that same evening she'd been waving around bits of her anatomy that demure young ladies should not wave around in public. Why? In exchange for a tab. Now, I'm not exactly a puritan, but that's not good. I'd talk to her, but I doubt she'd listen. Suggestions on a postcard, please.

I've discovered the diarist's dilemma. It is this: one has the most time for writing long entries when there's not much happening. When lots and lots of interesting things are going on, there's jack-all time to write the long entries needed to do events justice. I've therefore come to the conclusion that all diarists are frauds who make up most of their stuff. There's no way Pepys was wandering the streets of the City as the Great Fire got going - he'll have been running around burying his valuables, checking his insurance and hosing down his mistresses. All the stuff he says he saw must be pure invention.

So, yeah, there's been a lot on. Last Friday was the sixth form Christmas do - Karena and I were the entertainment, along with DJ DMD and his (slightly dusty) wheels of steel. Then a most enjoyable Saturday was topped off with tea at my parents-in-laws' place, and all I've done today is play the piano in prep for helping Dave with his choir practice tomorrow night.

Oh, Richard Anderson got his job back. So the BGS governors were either (a) merely stupid to sack him in the first place (possible); (b) right to sack him, then craven enough to cave in under pressure to reinstate him (possible in similar cases - not in Richard's); or (c) stupid enough to believe (wrongly) that they were right to sack him *then* craven enough to cave in under pressure to reinstate him. To my mind (c) is by far the most likely option, as with one or two honourable exceptions they're all small businessmen and/or Tory councillors who have that wonderful combination of small-mindedness and anxiety for their own miserable hides that makes the governance of small towns so thoroughly incompetent.

Apologies, all round, for not updating for a few days - I’ve been shattered.

Last week progressed in the usual frenzy of report writing and entertaining kids as the term staggers to an end. If you’re an English teacher, doing this sort of thing is easy. First resort is library lessons, until the librarian realises that the first years are in all the time and must therefore be doing no written work. Second option is showing videos of even the most vaguely educational sort. The kids, of course, know that this is all filling time until the blessed release that will be the 15th of December. Most of them are quite happy to connive, and will even bully into submission the odd goody two-shoes who seems to think we should be doing written work.

Last week, everyone was getting Michael Hoffman’s version of Midsummer Night’s Dream - the one with Michelle Pfeiffer and Calista Flockhart, and Kevin Kline as Bottom. I didn’t like it first time I saw it but it’s grown on me. It was obviously made for the "Four Weddings" fans who like drama pretty and easy but sufficiently highbrow that it makes them feel clever. So the establishing shots seem to have been cut out of a catalogue of Tuscan holiday villas, and the sound editor has just shoved “Now That’s What I Call Opera! 48” in the CD player and hit “random”. But for all that it’s pretty engaging. Stanley Tucci is Puck. He looks like me in certain lights. (Um... complete darkness).

Friday night I was front-of-house on Ewan’s Under Milk Wood. I had Toby Cooper - the history student - helping me. Very nice bloke. Anyway, rather against expectations the play was really, really good. Robin F*lconer was a superb First Voice. And here was me saying it was going to be shite. I eat my words with pleasure.

Last night was jazz band Christmas dinner. As expected, they all turned up pretty much wasted, and proceeded to get more so. Good fun had by all, especially when Molly provided the between-courses entertainment with her “watch me shag the cushion” trick. Sab then really, really annoyed me when she left by jumping in her car and driving home, despite being well over the limit. I know it’s only 30 seconds down the road, but drink-driving is drink-driving, and there are at least some things I’m old-fashioned about. No need to tell me, then, that

We are not wholly bad or good
Who live our lives under Milk Wood -

The other thing that's happened this week is that Richard Anderson has lost his job from BGS. Alleged to have thrown a bag at a pupil, he was kicked out by a group of governors who have had it in for him for a while. They must be mad. Even John Neal, the Head, apparently advised against it. There's not a lot of love lost between Popeye and him, but he knew that trying to give the bloke the push would be suicide. So the kids are having sitdown protests, the parents are signing a petition, thousands of us are writing to the governors, the unions are fighting it - even the Daily Mail has been in on the act, covering the story sympathetically. Oh, and the more right-thinking members of BGS have apparently given the kid involved a good shoeing. Such is the fate of grassers - especially those who grass on someone as well-loved as Richard.