Watching the world go by, bBy Diane Neilson,a bottomless coffee

 

Watching the world go by

By Diane Neilson

A bottomless coffee

 

I enjoy the peculiarity of people, I always have; and sit for an hour every day just to watch and imagine.

I position myself deliberately in the window seat of the café, opposite the marketplace. The library is on the corner opposite, and all sorts walk by: the breadth of humanity, from ladies to farmers, mothers with children, and at three, the school bus empties - a whole new world. I sit with a 'bottomless coffee', a genius idea that allows me to witness the world for as long as I like, unobserved, veiled in anonymity, for who would care about a solitary woman watching the world go by?

 

An unusually tall lady passes, striding purposefully. She has stylish silver-grey hair and a bright silk scarf. Her high cheekbones are dusted with pink and her lips are scarlet; I imagine her to be a 'Sophia' or maybe a'Charlotte', on her way to a business meeting; suited and booted with her shiny brown briefcase; sunglasses and pace ensuring that nobody dares stop her.

 

A small child races by, heading for the road. I tense - almost stand - and then tut quietly as his mother hurls herself towards him, grabbing his arm in the nick of time, yelling at him, her face a picture of anger rather than relief, or guilt. He bursts into tears, snot running down into his mouth as he melts into her, and I see that she is now mortified by her reaction. Its strange how we behave when scared, I think, often contrary to how we feel. I warm to her; it isn't easy being a mum.

 

The librarian trots down the steps. It must be her lunch break. She will come through the door in a moment - "Caramel latte with an extra shot please, and a chicken salad on brown." The same every day - a creature of habit. Whose business is it if she has the same every day? Certainly not mine. She looks like a librarian, Ithink: short cropped hair, large glasses. Elfish, one could say. I can imagine her shushing people politely as their literary conversations become heated; reshelving the books, quietly soothed by it's exacting order.

 

Mike from the cheese stall rushes by. He's always rushing, I often wonder why. Where is he going? Maybe he calls on his aging mother in his break; or nips out for groceries; I wonder if he smells like cheese - and if so, which one; what ridiculous thoughts I have! He's a nice looking man; short and squat with a friendly face; his smile always reaches his eyes, you know the kind.

 

Ah, the school bus! Like ants they teem as the doors open, hardly waiting for the pneumatics to drop the step to the kerb. Do they listen to each other? I often wonder because they all seem to chatter to each other at once. Maybe you can chatter and listen at that age, I can't remember. Oh dear, two of them are jostling, a larger boy knocking the smaller one's backpack from his shoulder. Jeering and doing it again and again, his cowardly little mob egging him on. The little one is almost in tears now; runs across the road and is almost hit by a car, on the other side, wiping the mbarrassing tears from his face with the back of his hand before anyone sees them. I've seen them though, and I wish I was brave enough to go and confront those boys. Maybe I will one day; I'll wait at the bus stop and knock their bags to the ground - see how they like it.

 

"Top-up Jean? Sorry, didn't mean to make you jump. Penny for them..." I am startled as the lovely Rachel brings me back to reality.

"Yes please love." She pours me another cup of kindness and squeezes my shoulder as she sneaks a choc-chip muffin onto my plate. You wouldn't know it to look at her, wouldn't guess she was an angel in disguise: tattooed arms, piercings everywhere, spiky green hair - well it's green today anyway - and those leather pants! How does she breathe?

 

The cafe door opens and a tall, handsome man walks in. Everyone looks at him. He smiles easily and asks Rachel for a coca cola, he never did grow into hot drinks.

"Hi Gran," he smiles as he bends to hug me and kisses the top of my head, "...how are you? People-watching again?"

"Just waiting for you love, that's all, and I'm all the better for seeing you."

He smiles and sits down, stretching his legs out and eyeing me curiously. "Don't you get bored coming here every day."

"Bored? Never! How can you ever get bored of people? And anyway, it means I get to have a cuppa with my handsome grandson everyday. Nothing's better than that.

About the author 

 

"Come on you two, I'm all done."

We both get to our feets and I watch as Rachel links my boy, and walks out of the cafe, shift over."

 

They will invite me for tea and I will refuse. They need their time alone.

 

I will sit in the garden later, thinking about all the people I have seen and wondering what they might be up to on a warm summer's evening. I will admire my roses and breathe in the heady scent of the jasmine and honeysuckle and I will think of you, my love.

 

Am I lonely? Not at all. I miss you, but we had fifty years together which makes me feel very lucky.

And I have young Jack and Rachel just round the corner; maybe I will accept their invitation tomorrow.

iane is a new writer and her aim is to entertain and inform. She lives in the UK and likes experiments with a range of genres including poetry and short stories. She has released four books, and has had several stories published by Cafelit. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author the oher half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

Realisation by Diane Neilson, a couple of glasses of Merlot

Martha awoke to a startling realisation; she had absolutely no idea who she was.

She was, however, calm and stared at the blank, white ceiling, devoid of thought. Devoid of questions. ‘I could be that ceiling,’ she thought, ‘blank, featureless, forgettable.’

Of course, she knew that her name was Martha and that she was married to Tom, her childhood sweetheart. She knew that she had two lovely, if demanding, teenage girls, and she was acutely aware that she was a busy teacher, about to jump back on the treadmill that was school life. She also knew the date; that it was the last day of the summer holidays. 

But who was she? And who would miss her if she wasn’t here…poof! Just vanished into thin air. 

Martha had had a pleasant, if uneventful, life so far; uneventful, that is, apart from the things that are supposed to happen in life: an ordinary childhood, college, marriage, children, job, holidays… she should be happy. ‘I might be happy. Am I happy?’

She had no idea.

She shook her head and got up, throwing the duvet off and heading to the bathroom. As she cleaned her teeth, she stared at her 39-year-old self in the mirror: the slightly greying hair, the faint lines around her eyes, her tatty old pyjama top. “I don’t like this toothpaste!” she said out loud to her reflection.

For now, that was the only thing that came into her mind, although other thoughts soon followed.

‘We buy this because the girls will eat it.’ Whilst pouring her bowl of cereal into the bin. ‘Why do I never buy croissants’

She put two teaspoons of sugar in her coffee. She usually had none because they (Tom) had decided it was unnecessary. Unhealthy. ‘Why did I just go along with that?’

She got out a slice of bread to put in the toaster, and then returned it to the packet. ‘I don’t enjoy white bread. I don’t enjoy spreadable butter – or strawberry jam. I want a warm croissant drizzled with honey, and a caramel latte.’

Before she could change her mind, Martha dressed quickly and grabbed her bag. She marched down the street onto the main road and slipped guiltily into the trendy café. It was emptier than she had thought it would be and she placed her order, taking a seat by the window, waiting, with a feeling that could have been excitement, for her croissant and coffee. She realised that she couldn’t remember the last time she had been excited. Another unwelcome realisation. 

As I have already said, it was the last day of the summer holidays, over a month of being chauffeur to the girls and playing housewife. Tom had been attached to his work phone during their week in France and the girls had complained non-stop because there was no internet signal. 

She had just one delicious day when she could be whoever she wanted to be. Tom was at work, the girls had gone back to school the day before, and she had done all of her new term prep. She had a whole day with a blank diary. She had woken, alone, in her bed to a peaceful house, and she had liked it. The thought scared her a little. ‘Put that thought out of your head!’

But then, her third realisation of the day, she realised that she could think whatever she wanted – who would know. That led to another thought, she could do what she wanted – absolutely anything, a whole day with nobody to answer to.

‘So,’ she thought, ‘what shall I do?’ Her mind was blank. 

Back at home, she went through what would usually be her day, should she have one to herself, ticking off the items on a mental list: clear up the breakfast dishes and tidy the kitchen; clear the living room of all the detritus that came with two untidy teenagers, depositing it in their rooms and giving them a quick tidy too – making beds, folding clothes etc. etc. Same in hers and Tom’s room, quick shower, put a wash on, call on her mum who was struggling with her dad’s early dementia, pick up some shopping on the way home, prepare something to put in the oven later – something they would all eat – a lasagna maybe.

She would also plan to read a chapter of her book, pop down to the hairdressers to get her roots done, go for a swim – but she wouldn’t do any of those things, and her family would find her flopped on the sofa, exhausted, when they eventually returned home, questioning why she was so tired when she had had a day to herself.

No wonder she didn’t know who she was. She only existed as a small part of someone else’s life – lots of ‘someones’, actually: wife, mother, daughter, teacher, friend; or in terms of her contribution: housekeeper, cook, teacher, colleague, someone who could be relied on to run breakfast club if needed – or unblock a toilet. 

Martha was deflated. ‘Even I don’t know who I am, how can anybody else be expected to know?’

Time for a good look at herself. Martha ignored all of the chores that needed doing in the house and went upstairs to her bedroom, flinging open the wardrobe doors and staring at the hangers draped with several pairs of black trousers and sensible blouses (essential for work), jeans and jumpers, a black dress – well it could double up for either a posh do or a funeral – and, right at the end of the rail, a sparkly red sequined top which she wore every year for the Christmas do. Her chest of drawers was just as bad: grey or faded underwear, ancient t-shirts, her other (equally awful) pair of pyjamas. 

Martha went downstairs and got a roll of binbags. Everything went in, everything, that is, but the sparkly red sequined top, the only item that spoke to her of anything but humdrum routine. She drove the lot to the local tip and then carried on into town, parking up at the large shopping centre. She had decided that she would only buy things that were interesting or colourful, almost in the hope that they would make her interesting and colourful too. 

On the way home she picked up a barista coffee machine, sugar, honey, fresh-mint toothpaste and some new cosmetics. She stopped off at the hairdressers: had her grey hair dismissed with a blonde rinse and lilac highlights, her eyebrows shaped and her nails gelled in shocking pink. She called at the bakery and bought a bag full of fresh pastries for morning, and cream cakes for tea. Back home, she went online and booked an ‘orientation meeting’ at the local gym, enrolling for yoga classes and a spa session, then ordered in a curry for tea.

At last, Martha sat back heavily. ‘What have I done?’ 

She heard a key in the front door and ran upstairs, panicking at what Tom would say. She had done nothing in the house – it was still the bombsite she had woken to this morning – and had spent an absolute fortune on her spending frenzy, to say nothing of the expensive gym membership that she had bought. 

Hearing Tom’s footsteps on the stairs, she shot into the en-suite, shutting the door behind her and leaning against it heavily, her heart pounding and her mind racing.

“Martha, where are you?” 

She opened the door slowly, dreading Tom’s reaction, but was stopped in her tracks at the sight before her. Her normally bearded, slightly scruffy husband was stood in the doorway looking extremely sheepish – and extremely smart – clean-shaven, sporting a new haircut and wearing a smart pair of trousers and crisp blue shirt.

“Your hair!” they both exclaimed together. 

Tom spoke first. “I just felt I’d let myself go. Let you down, you know. I thought I’d make a bit of an effort.”

“I didn’t know who I was this morning,” Martha admitted, cautiously, “I’m afraid I’ve had a bit of a splurge – gone a bit mad.”

They stared at each other for the longest moment, then both exploded with laughter, somehow ending up in each other’s arms. 

“Well, I like what I see.” Replied Tom, when they had both recovered. “Let’s go downstairs and have a glass of wine. I’ve bought a bottle of that Merlot that you like.”

An hour (and a bottle of wine later), two confused teenagers walked through the door to a very untidy house and a pair of slightly tipsy parents, one minus a beard and one sporting lilac highlights. They looked at each other and shrugged before heading to the kitchen, their demands fired in quick succession. “What’s for tea.” “I’m hungry, are there any snacks?” 

“You’re having a curry,” Martha replied, “Me and your dad are going out.”

The girls returned to the kitchen doorway, and stood there gaping. 

“It’s a school day tomorrow. You can’t go out on a school night.” Spouted Clara, in a perfect imitation of her mother. “And where is my netball kit? I need it tomorrow.”

“Never mind that,” smirked Emily, “who are you, and what have you done with our parents?” 

“Well, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it. If we run into them, we will let you know.” said Martha, mysteriously. “Oh, and by the way, before your curry arrives, you can both give the house a tidy and put a wash on.”

A little later, and pleasantly full of pizza, Martha exclaimed to her husband, “I really didn’t know who I was this morning. I’m still not sure, but I definitely prefer this version.”

“Me too,” replied Tom, “and I can’t wait to see what other surprises are in store for me.”

Martha eyed him keenly, with a twinkle in her eye, as she leaned in. “Be careful what you wish for. You haven’t seen the bank balance yet.”

About the Author

Diane is a new writer and her aim is to entertain and inform. She lives in the UK and likes experiments with a range of genres including poetry and short stories. She has released four books, and has had three stories published by Cafelit.

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Hope by Diane Neilson, cloudy lemonade

"What would you like for Christmas this year?" The gentleman asked the child.

He watched as the child's eyes lit up, just for a moment, before dulling at the memory of his reality.

            The child spoke, carefully, for this was important. "For safety," he said with certainty. "For a home I can be sure I will be returning to. For a bed of our own, my brother and I. For quiet, all through the night."

          He thought again and spoke slowly, deliberately. "That my father will return and my mother stop crying. That there will be enough food and clean water. That the fighting will stop.

" I miss my school, my friends, the books. New things for my mind to wonder at. Knowledge of a world where things can be different, where we are all accepted."

 

The man asked, "What about gifts? A new toy, clothes?"

          The boy was incredulous, unbelieving of the man's naivety."What is the point of new shoes when there is nowhere to walk in safety? Who would play with a toy when there is no playfulness in their heart? What good are things when there is fear and hunger?"

 

The man looked at the boy, wise beyond his years. "What you say is true, but you must always have hope. There may not be a way for you, but you can be the difference, the way forward, to forge a better future for your people."

The boy contemplated the man's words."You are right. I don't know the way forward, but I will look for the path. The future starts with me, and people like me, who will believe in a future of safety, peace and humanity. That is what I want. Maybe not this Christmas, but one Christmas. Maybe not for me, but for the children of the future."

 

About the author 

 

Diane is building momentum as a writer and her aim is to entertain and inform. She likes to experiment with a range of genres including poetry and short stories, and has released three books, a travel memoir, a book of poetry and short stories, and a children's picture book. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Money For Old Rope by Diane Neilson, ginger hemp tea

Bert Marrison sat in the cave mouth on a rickety hazel stool. It was 1970 and he was 85 years old; too old to be a rope-maker any more, with his gnarled and deformed hands, but not too old to fend off the returners. In fact, his age – in this role – was a definite advantage, as even the roughest and most foul-outhed of the lead miners would stop short of hurling abuse at an old man – especially Mr Bert Marrison.

 

Bert was born in the cave. He had spent his early years exploring every nook and cranny of the caverns, screeching ghoulishly at the visitors to elicit coppers, and exaggerating the local folklore, just for fun. One time, a tourist called Carl Moritz had labelled Bert’s home ‘an abode of silent horror’ after being shown the Devil’s Arse  – out of it, a trickle of water, fondly regarded by the inhabitants as ‘The Styx’, disappearing towards the cave opening. It wouldn’t have been silent if the water level had dropped; God only knows what Moritz would have made of the unfathomably human sound that came from  the Arse, had that happened.

 

‘The Cave’, was a natural cavern and had the largest open entrance in the British Isles, although Bert wasn’t aware of that when he was a lad. It was just home, work and play; a hundred-metre-long, twenty-metre-high and thirty-five-metre-wide space where thirty or so families made up the Derbyshire rope-making community, spinning local grown hemp into ropes for the local miners.

It was a tough working life, from your eighth year ‘til you were ready for your coffin, and carrying no passengers; even the little ‘uns – the under 8’s – being responsible for the animals, feeding them twice a day and mucking out as needed, the main priority being fattening the pigs to ensure a supply of the tallow needed to proof the rope. The kids were also expected to scare the visitors ‘good and proper’, thus ensuring that plenty of coinage was thrown to chase away the perceived spirits.

Once you were eight, though, it was on to proper work. The lads would split the hemp, holding tallow candles, made from the pig fat, in their black-lipped mouths. It was intricate work requiring deft fingers and good eyesight, but not pleasant as you can imagine, with the candle heating the hemp and the stench of the tallow coating their nostrils; the lads would have been as high as a kite most of the time.

The girls had to tread the walkways, winding the hemp back and forth up to three hundred yards at a time, between the three-pronged-cog at one end and a single hook at the other, before the older lads would work in pairs to turn the cog to twist and braid the rope, inserting a top  to keep the strands apart until they came together to close the rope. Turning was a tough job, requiring both strength and stamina, whilst the walker would load the sled and inspect progress, halting and restarting the process as necessary to ensure the best strength and consistency. Once finished, the rope would be hung with rocks overnight, this stretching important if they were to get the best price per yard.

As if birthing, feeding and raising a large family was not enough, the womenfolk would also be kept busy spinning the raw hemp in preparation for twisting and braiding, then dipping the finished ropes in molten tallow to give it further strength and make it waterproof.    

Each family had their own walkway, and was responsible for preparing, making and selling their product, so it could get competitive. Large families were necessary to ensure a strong workforce, and living conditions were less than ideal, with families of up to eight people inhabiting a tiny hovel beneath the cave floor: one room with two purposes - sleeping and making new rope-makers.

Bert had never married. He had been born and lived in the cave his whole life, working the walkways alongside his uncle and in time, becoming an established craftsman. When his nephews and nieces married, they all received a rope washing line made by Uncle Bert, and he was also respected by the miners who appreciated an invention of his ‘The Marrison loop’ – an intricate knotting method, which involved splicing an ‘eye’ through taut rope and re-threading or looping the rope end back through itself creating a loop which could be attached to the miners’ belts, a safety feature that made the dangerous job of lead mining a little safer and saved many lives.

The world was changing though, with new modern technologies being developed. Soon there would be no room for artisans like himself and the cavern would only echo with the memories of the hustle and bustle of the rope-makers. Bert could remember when they were the ‘next big thing’. A curiosity. Indeed, he remembered his uncle talking of visits by royalty. Of Queen Victoria, no less, coming to see the caverns. In fact, the cave name had even been changed to Peak Cavern to save her blushes – well nobody would have been willing to welcome royalty to the Devil’s Arse now, would they?

Just like all the other visitors to the great cave, the Queen had been pushed by rope-makers into the large chamber beyond, lay in a straw-filled box resembling a coffin.

With a short, tallow candle on her chest (what could possibly go wrong) she was manoeuvred under a low archway into the vast space beyond, into the magnificent cathedral-like cavern, the enormous space lit only by candles, and silent apart from the ‘drip, drip’ of water from the ceiling.

Bert’s uncle had told tales of other visitors whose straw coffin-boats had been set alight by the flame of the candle, or who had been accidentally tipped into the water as the rope-makers tried to navigate the deep water and low ceilings. Almost without exception, the candles, made deliberately short, would have to be replaced – at a cost of course – several times during the journey. Well, a rope-maker has to find ways of making a living doesn’t he.

Roused from his reminiscing, Bert watched as a noisy gang of lead miners approached the entrance to the cave.

“Lads.” He greeted them touching his cap.

             One of the younger men approached him, visibly flustered. “Bert,” he replied, shuffling from one foot to the other and struggling to meet Bert’s eye. “No disrespect intended, but we want our money back.”

              Bert eyed them quietly for a moment.

“What’s this all about lads? Money back for what?”

“It’s not waterproof. We’ve had two ropes fail this week. Could have caused a nasty accident.” Sounding braver now, the lad continued. “The boss has sent me to ask for replacements or we’ll go elsewhere.”

Bert laughed and patted the lad on the shoulder. ‘Go where?’ he thought. They were the only rope-makers this side of Manchester.

“Don’t be so serious lad, it’s probably just a damp batch of hemp. Bring ‘em back and I’ll sell you another batch for half price.”

Obviously relieved that a confrontation was not going to be necessary, the lad started to breathe easier, and an hour later, returned with the box of ropes.

Bert took payment, at half price, and handed him the new box, sending him on his way with a smile and a twinkle in his eye.

Turning into the cave, he summoned his youngest nephew.

                “Johnny, take this box ‘o’ ropes and re-tallow ‘em. When they’re dry you can put ‘em in the store with the new ‘uns.”

               Sitting back down on his hazel stool, he adjusted his cap and lit his pipe, laughing to himself.

                “Money for old rope,” he said to himself, “Young ‘uns, they’ll never learn.”

 

 

About the author

  

Diane is building momentum as a writer and her aim is to entertain and inform. She likes to experiment with a range of genres including poetry and short stories, and has released three books, a travel memoir, a book of poetry and short stories and a children's picture book. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

The Report, by Diane Neilson, single Jack Daniels

All Saints and Martyrs School Annual Report

Name:   Sebastian Jackson
Form:     6JS
Term:     1983 Summer

Curriculum Report

Mathematics
A disappointing year. You clearly have an impressive mathematical brain which you can use to solve quite complex problems quickly, and this is apparent in your previous achievements. Unfortunately, your communication and personal skills are seriously lacking and you repeatedly fail to impart methods and strategies in a meaningful way. This needs to be addressed if you are to be successful in the future.
Overall judgement: unsatisfactory

English
Although you are clearly well read, you fail to appreciate that others may have different opinions about the texts we have read this year. Particularly, I feel that you over-emphasise the importance of the main characters, and fail to see the nuance and depth which lesser characters add to give depth in fictional prose.
I am disappointed at your apparent lack of interest in non-fiction, and do feel that addressing this would provide you with different perspectives during class discussions.
Overall judgement: unsatisfactory

Science
You have led discussions well this year, particularly when discussions have been biology based. Your thinking linked to physics and chemistry is less clearly explained, and some revision of basic concepts is required.
Practical work is competent, but methodology and illustration could be more creative in written work, in order for you to clearly communicate your thinking.
Overall judgement: unsatisfactory

Religion
You clearly have quite fixed values regarding religion, which I have found surprising, and somewhat worrying.
You do need to broaden your knowledge, understanding and acceptance of the main world religions beyond Christianity, as this is an important characteristic of the modern world.
Overall judgement: unsatisfactory

History
You have an impressive knowledge of ancient history, particularly Ancient Egypt and The Roman Empire, and you impart this knowledge with an enthusiasm that is quite infectious.
I can tell that you are not as enthused with British History, but you do try hard to maintain a positive attitude during these class discussions, and I was very impressed with your impartiality when you chaired the debate about Henry VIII.
Overall judgement: satisfactory

Geography
An impressive knowledge, well explained. Your diagrams showing the formation of ox-bow lakes showed a detailed understanding of water erosion in rivers.
I could tell that you found the topic on natural disasters exciting, and you managed to show a huge amount of empathy regarding the impact of these events, whilst still maintaining a high level of technical vocabulary; that was well explained.
Overall judgement: excellent

German
Did you even want to be in the classroom?
A shocking attitude to learning, illustrated by constant lateness and a disregard for your peers and the wider school community. I think I speak for the class when I say that your disruptive and sometimes explosive disposition resulted in very little being learned by anyone this year. Must do much better.
Overall judgement: unsatisfactory.

Art
I appreciate that art is a talent and one that not everybody is blessed with, but I feel that it is not talent that you lack - but direction.
Your insistence to pursue classic oil depictions and portraits is misguided, and not where your talent lies.
However, you show passion and skill when working with textiles and photography; maybe this is where you should direct your focus in future.
A good level of effort was shown in all disciplines, however, so I have enjoyed spending time in the studio with you this year. Good luck for the future.
Overall judgement: satisfactory

Music
At the beginning of the year, I felt that your performances were timid and your choices hesitant. However, as the year has progressed you have grown in confidence and shown an ability to control an ensemble - particularly during orchestra and choir practice.
You do not need to be told that your mastery of the saxophone is superb, but does this need to be showcased in every lesson?
Overall judgement: satisfactory

Physical Education
You have demonstrated an excellent knowledge of physiology in theory lessons, especially of the Musculo-skeletal and Respiratory systems linked to sport science.
You have also enjoyed success in tennis and badminton, showing a good understanding of the rules and etiquette in these games, and always insisting on good sportsmanship.
Your performance in team sports is however a little lacking, but maybe this is just not your strength. We can't all excel at everything.
Overall judgement: satisfactory

Summary
It has been a year of mixed success and experience, and as a result the learning experience has varied from subject to subject as you can see, and I am sure that I speak for the whole class when I state the following:

It is clear that Mr Hughes (Mathematics) has a brilliant brain; one that is possibly better suited to his previous position as a government statistician.
Mrs Grey (English) is clearly passionate in specific genres but does not deliver a balanced curriculum. Neither does she appreciate differences in preference or opinion from her students. Maybe she would benefit from some pedagogical support through ongoing professional development.
Mrs Jameson (Science) is very good at explaining what she understands, but one out of three disciplines is simply not good enough; the world also needs physicists and chemists.
Mr Croft (Religion) really needs dragging into the 21st century or he is going to get himself into trouble. I know it’s a few years premature, but maybe a gold clock is the order of the day - sadly I can't see him changing.
The history and geography curriculums are well planned, balanced and generally well taught with enthusiasm. A quiet word of praise for Miss Smith and Mr Davies would be well deserved and, I'm sure, appreciated.
Mr Berry (German) requires immediate support if he is to continue with his teaching career. He also may benefit from therapy for anger management and you should know that he is often half-cut.
Art, as I'm sure we all agree, is difficult to critique, but the class all agree that Miss Spencer's strength is in textiles and photography, not painting or teaching. Maybe a lesson observation is overdue.
Music provision improved throughout the year; I just think that the transition from orchestral saxophonist to high school music teacher has been somewhat difficult for Mr Evans.
And sadly, Miss Clare (Phys-Ed) was an amazing tennis player, but will never be a teacher. Maybe she should consider a future in physiotherapy - her anatomical knowledge is excellent!

Note to the headteacher
You, Mr McKay, are a man who is respected and loved by staff and students alike, but unfortunately this is not enough.
Students at All Saints and Martyrs School deserve a broad, balanced and well-taught curriculum. They deserve knowledgeable and enthusiastic teachers who are at the top of the game and want to be in the classroom.
Overall judgement: unsatisfactory

PS: you may need to reconsider the name of your school.

PPS: if you need a stiff drink, Mr Berry (German) keeps a bottle of Jack Daniels in his desk drawer.

 

Sincerely yours,

    Sebastian Jackson

About the author

Previously a teacher, Diane is building momentum as a writer and her aim is to entertain and inform. She is enjoying experimenting with a range of genres, including poetry, experiential writing and short stories, and has recently released a travel memoir, ‘Everybody should Walk a Camino’.

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)