Weekend

Went to see my dad on Saturday, gave him a full update, and as always he listened attentively.  “You have,” he said after hearing me out, “an unnerving ability to disrupt any organisation into which you are placed.”

I told him that I completely agreed.

“Get a job which values such abilities,” he said, and he went on to remind me of my last job where Janice and I worked for the National Nuclear Power Authority.

“They closed it,” I said.  “And besides it was never officially acknowledged.”

“And now you are a school administrator.”

“It’s a good job,” I told him.  “I know you think I should be bringing down foreign governments, foiling drugs racketeers, exposing paedophile rings, defeating the arms industry, ending the power of the Taliban, closing Guantanamo Bay, stopping the surveillance of parents by local councils.  But we have ended the dental crisis – the ten Latvians in the head’s study are working flat out, and if you want a dentist you can get one.”

“And what of all those estate agents begging you for the use of your cupboards?” he asked.

“That is a problem,” I conceded.  “But I have sorted out the parking problems in my road sorted out.   That’s something.”

I think he wants me to take over the government or something, and I said I’d think about it.

As I drove home I reflected, and not for the first time, that there was something rather special about my dad.   It doesn’t matter what I do, he is supportive and finds something positive.  And as he always says, there is something strangely satisfying about exposing the silliness that exists inside organisations.   But I’ve never seen a job spec that says, “Young woman wanted who can disrupt organisations and entire governments on a worldwide basis.”

But I decided to keep a look out, just in case.

By the time I reached the outskirts I imagined myself as Super Administrator, hired by organisations to get a job with their competitors, wreck the joint, and then move on, collecting a double salary as I moved around  the country.   It seemed appealing.

I stopped on the way back to call Janice, and she said that the quiz night was going ahead as usual at the Bollard, so I parked outside my house (and I was right, the parking problem was resolved following our activities earlier in the month,) and walked to the pub.

Janice, Havoc-Blythe, Binky and me wiped the floor with all the other teams.  In fact Binky really pulled her weight by answering the question on what Gibbons saw as the two central causes of the decline and fall of the Roman Empire (the Praetorian Guard and the rise of Christianity).   Eventually Havoc-Blythe confessed that he had lent her a copy of his right brain book.   I looked at him, and the way that he was sitting very close to Binky, and wondered if I hadn’t been mistaken about him and Janice.

In the interval I gave them a run down on my father’s support.  Havoc-Blythe nodded in that annoying way he has, and said, “He’s spot on.” 

“And why are you working in our school?” I asked.   He smiled in that even more annoying way he has, and got in the next round of drinks.  I’ll say this for Havoc- Blythe, he never stints on the drinks.

Sunday

Janice phoned and asked if I didn’t think it odd that each of us had all this amazing knowledge in our heads.  I reminded her of the book about using your right brain, and she said, “Is it that simple?”

I said I guessed it was – all I had done was read the book and then practised letting my right brain take over and sending my left brain off to sleep.

“That’s what I did,” said Janice, “and now Binky does it.  But do you really think it works?”

I said I thought it probably did.

“So why don’t we tell all the kids at school.  In fact, why do we have school apart from to tell them to get their right brains in gear and stop buggering about?”

“Because we’d undermine the entire system of education in the United Kingdom?” I asked.

“And put 250,000 teachers out of work,” added Janice, “not to mention quite a few administrators.”

“Even so…” I said.

We decided to try somewhere different for lunch.  I certainly didn’t want to see the head falling out of a pub again, and I didn’t really want to see Havoc Blythe either.  We went to the Creationists Bar.

I like the place, with its huddle of philosophers at one end of the long room, and the mirror that goes all the way down one side – reputedly the longest mirror in a pub in the UK.

The tactic of avoiding the head and Havoc-Blythe worked, but my satisfaction was somewhat overtaken by the fact that a couple came and sat at our table, told us that they recognised us from the school’s web site, and that they wanted their children to get into the school.

Janice, less annoyed at having our chat interrupted, asked why our school in particular should be the focus of such attention.  “I know we are good,” she added, “but there are other schools around…”

“But next term’s results are amazing,” said the man.

I told him to state that he was Latvian and his profession was “dentist” and he would be in.

He didn’t express any surprise at this, and the couple went back to their table.

“Next term’s results…” I said to Janice.

She shrugged.

Is it me, or is everything getting a bit strange?