Blake’s Coffee Shop – the Saturday morning haunt of Janice and me which we habitually frequent after a hard time strolling round the town centre not buying things, sits opposite the Toppled Bollard – the public house of a certain notoriety that we frequent on Saturday evenings to partake of the weekly quiz.

Although it is not the central reason for our using Blake’s (Janice once went out with the son of Roger Blake, the owner, and as such is entitled to a discount on her donuts), we are able to view the comings and goings in the Bollard as we sit gazing onto the hustle and bustle of this little township that the Almighty has seen it fit to deliver us unto.

Thus it was that we were gazing in the general direction of the drinking establishment that is the only cause of our town’s fame, when to our total and overwhelming surprise we found ourselves not looking primarily at the down-and-out with an Alsatian who plays the penny whistle excruciatingly badly by the door of the public bar, but the figure of Mr Berlusconi, our occasional headmaster. One minute all was peace and quiet and the next Mr B himself emerged from the pub looking disheveled beyond the realms of possibility (not to mention singularly unshaven), and immediately fell over the Alsatian before (rather unwisely I felt) picking a fight with its owner.

Several minutes passed before the dog and whistle blower were separated from our Leader, who was left with a bloodied nose and an inability to get up and stay up.

Janice and I decided that it would be foolhardy to spoil the entertainment by rushing matters, but eventually, upon finishing the donuts and cappuccino took the gentle stroll across “High Boulevard” (as the pedestrianised zone at the heart of our township is known), and approached the crumpled figure who authorised our monthly pay cheques.

He looked up uncertainly, taking several moments to focus, before finally recognising us as being among his paid hands.

“Fzgrogit asietgog,” he said.

“Misbobob hartsy” replied Janice sternly.

He raised a hand as if asking us to pull him up, and after several moments due consideration (during which time a crowd gathered) we declined to help, although a visiting police officer did eventually get him to his feet, leaning him against the pub wall, next to the dog.

It was while we were considering what to do next that two journalists arrived accompanied (as is the law in our community) by a second police officer. The constable instructed us to move along quietly, while the journalists enquired if we knew who the man was. Janice told them that he was a ne’er-do-well who made money from getting his picture in newspapers and then suing the editors for invasion of his privacy.

We all looked sadly at Mr Berlusconi who stated that, “podklik naser gruddit,” before returning to the ground.

The policeman kindly accompanied Janice and I back to Blake’s where he bought us more coffee and asked if we’d like to accompany him to the constable’s ball that night. We told him we had a prior engagement, but might make it along later.

The evening in the Bollard was, inevitably, one of high excitement. Annoyingly, Dr Havoc-Blythe already had the full story of the afternoon’s events before we arrived and thus robbed Janice and I of part of the fun of relaying the tale. HB gave us to understand that there was a woman involved in Mr Berlusconi’s problems.

It was as we settled down to round one of the quiz (Havoc-Blythe insisting on sitting next to me on the grounds that “us right brainers should stick together”) that I received a text. I screeched in surprise. It was from Mr Berlusconi, and said simply, “In voew of ylur djggustong dehibbor in thy toon todoy yu r sicked. ”

I really was nonplussed but Havoc-Blythe reminded me of our quizzical duties.

“But April has been sacked you blithering twirp,” said Janice gently.

“Wait for the next text,” said Havoc Blythe. And so we did.

I refocused and took in the next question. “Which PG Wodehouse character caused the final collapse of the Roman Empire?” announced Billy The Dog, our host, quizmaster and Elvis impersonator.

“Alaric, Duke of Dunstable” Havoc Blythe and I shouted, as one. This was of course a shame, because one is supposed to write the answers down, rather than call them out, but it was good to know that our right brains were still functioning. Interestingly most people did not take our lead with the answer, despite its obvious correctness, thinking (wrongly) that this was a deliberate ploy by HB and myself to put everyone else off. As the correct answers were announced I explained, patiently, as if to a dim headteacher, that Alaric was also the leader of the Visigoths who in 410AD had sacked Rome, as well as being the friend of Lady Constance.

“How do you know all this?” asked Binky who was helping out the Eternal Elves team.

“Right brain technique” I said tapping my head, a movement that was only slightly lessened in its effectiveness by the fact that I tapped the left side of my brain.

“But have you read any PG Wodehouse?” asked Binky.

“Not as such,” I replied, and decided to leave it at that.

I heard no more from Mr Burlosconi until I awoke on Sunday and found a text message informing me that my appalling behaviour on Saturday “in the full public view” left him no alternative but to relieve me of my duties and forbid me from entering the school.

By 10.30 Janice and Havoc-Blythe were gathered in my sitting room. HB’s view was that we should do nothing and simply wait for further developments. Janice was in favour of the more direct brick-through-his-car-windscreen approach and I was somewhat inclined to this view myself,

As we continued to debate the merits of each tactic I received another text from the Leader – this announcing that any personal affects on my desk would be forwarded, and that I should not in the meanwhile attempt to speak to any other member of staff.

By noon there was not enough room in my sitting room to hold everyone who had turned up. Janice had texted everyone and the entire office staff and a considerable number of teachers were in place, giving opinions and offering support. I ran out of gin and we adjourned to the Toppled Bollard.

We were still there when I received another text, this one saying “Sropr Drbo.”

The consensus was that I should appear at work on Monday as normal and await events – but that I should put a brick in my handbag just in case.

I accepted the wisdom of the masses, there was a hearty cheer, Havoc Blythe bought me a drink, and for once – just this once you understand – I accepted.

Click on “What else” at the top of this page for details of what the School of Educational Administration does.  And when something unusual happens to you, do email me.   Much of the story comes from school administrators.  April@admin.org.uk