I also took advantage of the free time to get myself down to Sam's apartment for a second round of fun and games. And what wriggly, squelchy, bouncy fun we had.
The sixth half-term of the school year sort of petered out.
As the Deputy Head mentioned to me, basically after all of the SATS are out of the way, nothing that you do as a teacher can possibly change the grades of the children in your charge. She said that it was simply a time to enjoy yourself and to do fun things as a class.
I'm afraid that I see it as a bit of a waste of time. I can understand, maybe, why Year Six might want to do their exams early so that they can prepare for secondary school but why does every other year have to follow suit. It seems like a plan to suit the bureaucrats rather than the education of the children.
Back in the late 50s and early 60s, when I received my primary education, school was geared to end of year tests happening at the beginning of July followed by preparations for the annual summer fayre during the last two weeks. June was a bit of a slog as it was all about revision but it did mean that the final six weeks of the academic year had some sort of focus.
So, really, apart from another NUT Strike Day, the year dwindled down to pretty much nothing.
Apart, that is, for one gloriously affirming moment.
In mid July, everyone got to spend an afternoon with their new classes. I think I took my PPA afternoon at that point last year.
My colleague Josh, who had been teaching in Year Four, was moved to a class in Year Three. All of the current Year Threes who had been thinking that they might be going to have him as their class teacher looked either crest-fallen or concerned. I already knew that I was going to have a Year Four class so I did wonder what the reaction might be.
When my class was told to stand up and the children were told that I was going to be their class teacher, there was a great shout of delight and excitement. I really was knocked back on my heels. It seems like I am still a bit of a prize catch in some circumstances.
I met up with the new bad boy of the year. We clashed so I asked my TA to remove him and have a word. She did and he came back in to join us mollified. That's going to be my behavioural challenge over the next twelve months.
The school policy is to name classes by the year number followed by the initial of the teacher's family name. So, Year Four and Guy makes my classes name 4G.
That's fourgy if you get the stress wrong.
I wonder if anyone else has noticed that.
On the first proper day of summer holidays, I sat out in the back garden with a drink (alcoholic) and basked in scorching sushine. I saw four different types of butterfly in our back garden and the place is humming with wild and bumble bees.
In the 14 years that we've lived in Crosby, Ross and I have noticed a slow but steady increase in numbers and varieties of butterflies, bees and birds in our garden and in general. I'd like to think that our plan to grow wild-life friendly plants has something to do with it but I'll bet it's more to do with a change to agricultural practices around us.
I also took advantage of the free time to get myself down to Sam's apartment for a second round of fun and games. And what wriggly, squelchy, bouncy fun we had.
Sam is of Chinese heritage. He is in Liverpool as a student and his (reasonably well off) family are paying for the apartment for him. He has no specific need to prostitute himself but he told me that he has been regularly offering himself for money since his mid-teens while simultaneously conducting the usual round of teenage friendships, affairs, courtships and escapades. Goodness only knows how he found the time to study. Ha.
He likes the sport and the meeting of different people and the different types of sexual encounter. The money comes as a bonus which buys the odd luxury here and there.
He's quite short with a tight, compact body. I asked him if he worked out but I was fobbed off with a totally non-commital reply. He also has a very rimmable ass and a very suckable cock. He's wonderfully tactile and got me to cum twice - once in doggie and once with his legs over my shoulders. I'm going to have to try for another visit before school starts up again.
The World Cup in Brazil came to a conclusion. I lost interest once Columbia had been knocked out in the Quarter Finals when they lost to Brazil.
However, James-Rodriguez was awarded the Golden Boot and I have to concur with the judge's decision. He was absolutely the best player of the tournament - with or without a giant locust on his right bicep. I'm very tempted to follow AS Monaco over the coming football season. Ha
I managed a few talking books as well.
I liked The Girl who Saved the King of Sweden by Jonas Jonasson.
Maybe not as entirely delightful as the One Hundred Year Old Man but still full of quirky mayhem.
I can't remember who blew the gaff on JK Rowling's foray into murder mystery novels but she's kept the pseudonym of Robert Galbraith for the first in the series, The Cuckoo's Calling.
Much like the work that she did on the plotting for the Harry Potter novels, the writing showed all of the signs of an obsessive compulsive personality as Private Detective Cormoran Strike picked his way through a series of grizzly episodes to unlock the identity of the murderous perpetrator.
The second in the series, The Silkworm, absolutely confirmed that impression.
What made me uneasy was the way that some of the women in the narrative were treated/dispatched. If a man were to write in such a fashion then I suspected that he would (rightly) stand a good chance of being described as misogynistic.
It's a conundrum. Since it is a woman writing these narratives, do the standards change or are they viewed from a different perspective or is everyone looking the other way, unwilling to open up that particular can of worms?