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.