We are officially a SATs  school – meaning that we have SATs results.  They started arriving by courier, special delivery, another courier, the same courier as the first courier but with a different driver (who was quite nice, wore an interesting hat and asked me out to the pub for a drink – which I declined, on the grounds that us secret service agents need to keep a cool head), by first class post, second class post, and a little man on a bike who said that one bundle had got delivered to his home address but he wasn’t a school, honest, and didn’t want the police coming round.   I asked him why he didn’t want the police coming round, and he looked at my in a shifty manner, pointed at Mrs M. and said, “ask her”.  I did ask her but she just shrugged while Janice fell off her chair.

Rather as we expected, none of the SATs papers were ours.  Some were for a school in Chicago, and we read those papers with interest, noted the curious spelling and the high level of violent imagery and sexual content among the papers by the 6 year olds.  There were also some degree finals papers in physics, and the manuscript of a book about a woman who keeps finding herself in 1910, which was rather disconcerting.

We were still working through them when the deputy head walked in and said, “ah school office.”

Janice replied “ah deputy head”, and on cue Mrs M, Deborah and I said, “ah….”

Binky came in and said, “ah…” and then looked at us all expectantly.

We got a very strange look from Mr Fixham, before he said, “cashless catering,” turned and bumped straight into Havoc Blythe, always on the spot when not required, just to the right of Binky..

“Cashless catering?” said HB.  “These good ladies know all about that.”

Now there are some people I can take being called a “good lady” by… no actually there is no one who can get away with calling me a good lady.  And the doctor is not one of them.  (I am not sure if there is not a double negative there, but what I mean is, if HB says that once again I am personally going to put him in the next bag the couriers deliver and pack him off to the bread shop in Caracas from whence he came.

The deputy head stood in the doorway, uncertain of what to do.

We went into a huddle and ultimately confessed that our knowledge of the issue was, on a scale of one to ten somewhere around minus three., largely due to the fact that no one would tell us anything about it, although, Mrs Marchmount helpfully added that her new boyfriend was a restaurateur. 

“That little fellow who came in on the bike with the SATs?” asked Janice.

“That was yesterday,” said Mrs M derisively.   Today is a new country.”

“We have SATs results?” said the Deputy Head, surveying the wreckage of the wrapping paper and test booklets.

He took a semi-step into the room (an ancient measurement, equivalent to 3.7 inches).  “Why,” he asked, adopting a tone of voice that I have heard him use with year 7 classes before they tumble him, “do you think you will lose your jobs?” 

“Because,” Janice told him, copying the tone precisely, “we are the ones who collect in the dinner money, count it, allocate it, bank it and chase up non-payments.  Take that away and you take away quite a chunk of what we do.” 

The deputy head looked at Janice, and then at everyone else in the office.  Then he left. 

A minute later he was back.   “What,” he said slowly, “do you know about the DfES?” 

“Don’t feed Energetic Seals,” said Janice. 

“Doris feels Extremely Silly,” I said. 

“Dover and Fenchurch Engineering Society” said Deborah who comes from the south.

“Ultimately replaced by the Department for Cushions and Soft Furnishings,” I added.

“Who organise SATs” said Janice.   

He turned and left.