It Shouldn't Happen to a Teacher

Some pupils have an alarming lack of understanding of consequence, or perhaps just don't care.

Pupil 1: 'Sir, my pen sucks!'

Pupil 2: 'So do you but I'm not saying what.'

The worst thing was that he said it in the same way as you might just say 'hello, how are you?'

Out he went.

Last week saw a pupil writing a horrid note about celebrating my death (should it happen any time soon). It's times like these you learn a bit about the school you work in. A bad school would probably agree that I was a 'fuckin knob', fortunately I'm in a good school so I didn't get this treatment.

The pupil who wrote it received an after-school detention and the pupils who signed the note were given a good talking to. Letters of apology have been written including from the mother of the child in question - she seemed gutted that her daughter had done such a thing.

So now it's all in the past.

Thank God.

It was another PSHE day today meaning I got to spend every lesson with my wonderful form. The theme was to design and market a new type of chocolate bar, allowing the pupils' creative juices to run freely, the trouble is some seemed to run in very strange directions.

Such as one group who decided to call their product 'sweet' but couldn't spell so were advertising 'really tasty sweats - better than any other sweat around'.

Or the group who called their's 'space chocolate' - which sounded rather too much like a type of hallucinogenic for my liking. Some of the pupils seemed like they had been on the 'space chocolate' themselves but it may have had more to do with being over-stimulated by the brightly coloured paper they were using - bless.

We had choose a winner from the form to go through to the final at assembly and present their product using an advert to the rest of year seven, with an overall winner being chosen by one of the senior members of the Key Stage 3 team. Our winner featured a remake of the Family Guy theme, some ace acting and a healthy mix of chocolate, truffle and caramel. I'm sure it wouldn't be the least but sickly.

The other groups seemed to have gone for slightly more psychotropic confectionary items. The PE NQT's form marketed a selection of sweets to make the consumer energetic or relaxed (uppers and downers), or if you could eat one that sent you on a psychadelic trip. One of the lines in the advert was actually 'are you sure these are sweets?' To be honest I'm not sure they were.

In the end I think this may have swung the judges towards our more innocent choice. Result! You could put it down to the talent and imaginations of the pupils but I rather think of myself as a 'creative inspiration'. Well, I'd like to anyway.

I don't really like going to assemblies - you spend fifteen minutes registering the form, reading out notices and getting down there and then have to listen to a load more notices, including some you read out yourself ten minutes ago. Don't get me wrong, the topics can be quite interesting sometimes but if only they weren't so much hassle.

I'm lucky because I'm only 'with' a year seven form, meaning they have a proper form tutor and I just hang around like a pleb. This means I don't have to go to assemblies but I've realised that the English NQT that I quite like (okay, yeah, fancy quite a bit) has a year seven form so by going I get to be in the same room as her, and possibly exchange a meaningful glance, which is definitely worth the effort.

I'm pretty sure that's not stalking - I mean, if you're going to stalk someone you'd choose somewhere better than a great big hall where there's nowhere to hide - eleven year olds don't offer much cover. And besides I've got to take any chances I can get because it's a big school so you can go days without seeing someone. I can't exactly go up to the English department's table during briefing and say: 'oh, hi. Is it okay if I chat up your NQT?' It's just not professional. Perhaps I need to come up with some reason for needing a dictionary so I can to go up to the English office during dinner. Like wanting to find out how to spell obsession.

It's easy after a bad lesson to give up and hope the pupils get run over by the school bus. Very easy. After a particularly dreadful lesson with year ten today where I felt completely harrassed and couldn't stand the thoguht of ever teaching them again, I looked at the register and thought about what each pupil had done in the past hour. And my conclusions were that the pupils fell into four general categories:

Perfect: Listened well and didn't give me any hassle. This is what it's all about - roughly half the class.

Chatty: A bit talkative but pleasant enough. You keep having to tell them to put a sock in it but you don't feel like throwing things at them - a quarter of the class

Dopey: 'I don't get it!' The sort of kid who frustrates you but it's not their fault really - about 1/5 of the class.

Horrible: The sort of pupil who you want to kick out of the room the moment you see them walk in the room. You can't do that of course because you've got to give them a fair chance, but they'll blow it anyway by making comments like 'you're rubbish' or 'I am facing the right way!' (yes, if we were looking at the display on the back wall you would be facing the right way). Thankfully there are only two of these in the class.

The problem then isn't how to sort out the class so much as how to focus on the good kids and ignore the bad - if only they could be quiet pains-in-the-neck.

When you've had a bad week at school and are sick to death of adolescent girls the last thing you want is to come across a group, no wait, gang of them when you're on a bike ride, especially going up a steep hill on your way home.

As I ride past them one waves so I politely wave back but that's not enough for them - they have to yell out 'let's chase him'. Oh, I'm really not in the mood for this. I hammer down on the pedals like it's the last stage of the Tour de France - but with no drugs in me, except for the remaining alcohol in my blood stream from the previous night. 'Can I have your number?' is the next cry. I pedal faster, though I suppose the quickest way to get rid of them would have been to stop and actually give them my number. That would probably have turned the tables rather quickly and had them running all the way home.

In the event they give up the chase, being no match for my powerful legs turning the pedals as though I were Lance Armstrong attacking on the slopes of a giant col. Though I don't remember him ever having speed bumps in the way.

On Wednesday I heard of a note detailing one of my year eight's plans for the event of my death. On Thursday I discovered it. They were getting other pupils to sign it, the trouble is they got greedy and foolishly tried to add to it during their lesson with me. Hearteningly they'd written:

'I h8 maths. Mr [me] is a fuckin knob. If he dies I will go to his funeral to celebrate and have a party afterwards.'

What i like about that is the 'if' I die bit because it leaves open the possibility that I might be immortal.

On Friday there came the fall-out.

Before registration one of my year eights who had signed it came to see me with her dad. Apparently she hadn't slept a wink all night because she was so worried about it and had been crying all evening. She'd even written a letter apologising for signing it. Seeing as this girl is one of the ones in the class I actually get along with I wasn't going to make a fuss and told her to not worry about it.

I discussed the note with the form tutor of the girl who'd written with it - one of the scariest and loudest teachers in the school.

The repurcussions of this would come at breaktime, but until then I had to get through my year 10 lesson which was another lesson horriblious. One pupil I sent out for saying that I must have got out of the wrong side of bed this morning, during the process of getting rid of her she told me to fuck off and said she was going to go to the head about me. She keeps saying this so I'm getting very bored of it - she mioght as well say that she's going to get a machette and cut off my head because it's all bluster.

As if this weren't bad enough I caught two of them using their phones in class. One even had the temerity to lie and claim he hadn't been using a phone. I couldn't have been more flabagastered if I'd turned up at school and found it had been turned into a giant strawberry. I gave them a choice - they could hand over the phones or stay in at break. They chose neither so ended up in the Isolation Facility at lunch.

Breaktime arrived, along with a stream of crying year eight girls. 'We're (sob) really, really (sob) sorry'. The head - he's going to be sick of me - had gotten involved, and parents were being rung. No wonder they were sorry. Though I imagine they felt more sorry for themselves. They also completely turned on their friend absolving themselves if all blame.

'We didn't know what we were signing.' From my own experience as a schoolkid if you sign something without knwoing what it is you're usually agreeing that you're a twat or offering someone a million pounds. I hope they learned their lesson.

After all this my year nines seemed relatively tame even though in reality they were pretty rubbish, with one boy staying in at dinner. Both myself and the head of maths watched over him but unfortunately neither of us remembered to dismiss him so when I went back to the room at the end of dinner he was still there. Whoops! Mind you it probably deserved him right for being such a pain.

All-in-all it wasn't my best day in teaching - anything that puts you on the radar of senior staff can't be good. But the positives are: my immortality, the fact that half my year eights will be afraid to breathe next time I see them, and the sweet letter of apology in which I was called 'a good teacher' - could someone please tell senior management that?

There are some pupils who you aren't really sure if they're evil or just a bit dumb. A girl in my year eight class said today that some people were passing round a note for people to sign saying that they hoped I would die so they could go to my funeral and celebrate.

Thanks for telling me that. Thank you so very much. That's really made my day. On the plus side at least it will be well attended. And besides, I've often thought that some of my pupils were so loud they could wake the dead, so perhaps I could get the last laugh.

I had an awful lesson with my year sevens today. I had to send two of them out because they wouldn't shut up and put a further three in detention. And I thought the littluns were supposed to be easy to manage.

One boy put his hand up and asked: 'why is maths so boring?' Gee, thanks. On the other hand it's nice that he said that rather than: 'why are you so boring?' Which I was sorely tempted to say to the class after they kept chatting/shouting out again and again.

Then there's the girl who smirks everytime I tell her off - though she was like that with her mum at parents' evening so I don't think I'm getting special treatment.

Further characters are: the boy who laughs at absolutely everything - including answering to his name in the register, the girl who asks to go to the toilet every lesson because she can't go at breaktime because there are too many people about - I never realised girls could get stage fright, we also have the girl who shouts out about anything/everything in the middle of explanations - it's like a politer version of Tourette's, then there's the girl who drew a picture of a 'poo' on the envelope of the Christmas card she sent me, and the boy who has such an aversion to looking at the board to the extent that I'm beginning to wonder if it isn't actually the sun, and to top it off there's the boy who likes saying 'cheese' every five seconds.

Needless to say I usually feel quite frazzled by the end of the lessons.

I'm slowly but surely falling for the English NQT. I can tell because whenever I see her I have the urge to hide so that I can avoid saying something stupid. It's a strange kind of logic but I think I have a better chance with women the less I actually see of them because there's less chance of me blowing it. You know the story... boy meets girl, boy falls for girl, boy makes a prat of himself, girl breaks his heart, boy crawls under a rock and wants to die.

I first realised what was happening when I saw her talking to another male member of staff a couple of weeks ago and I felt the overwhelming urge to throw very sharp things at him - a sure sign of romance if ever there was one.

The terrible thing is that the more you fall for someone the less coherent the things you say to them become. It was okay a few weeks ago - talking about general NQT stuff or Christmas stuff but when I saw her in the staffroom today I started babbling about photocopying and how many credits the maths department got through, and - ha - how I probably accounted for half of them. All of which delivered at one hundred miles an hour. Give me a few more weeks and I'll be wowing her by listing my favourite shades of grey.

So I've come up with a plan - I'll push these feelings deep down inside of me where they can't do any harm. No one needs to know. If only she wasn't so lovely...

Sigh.

Thursday: As busy as Wednesday is, Thursday is my 'quiet' day featuring two PPA's (Planning and Pissing About) Lessons. This gave me opportunity to mark the test my year eights had done the previous day. Unfortunately they were pretty shocking - 8/50 anyone?

After my year sevens were working hard to impress ahead of parents' evening they were back to their old tricks Thursday afternoon and I had to kick one of them out for being a pain in the neck - he's one of those pupils who remind you of natural fibres: irritating. As it happens he takes part in the Warhammer club I run. I was under the impression that by forming a bond with pupils via after-school clubs can help you in the classroom, but it just means an extra couple of hous each week where this year seven pisses me off. He's now banned for a week from the club after he was scrapping with another pupil in the corridor during Friday's club-meeting - there I was thinking that the idea of Warhammer was to let the little metal figures do the fighting.

My higher ability year tens were on top form on Friday afternoon:

'Sir you can't put me down as late because I'm here before twenty-five to.' That's great, but the bell went ten minutes ago. I can't believe they even try to pull such tricks - how stupid do they think I am?

There's one lad in the class who goes out of his way to have a problem with me. On Friday he was up to his old tricks, firstly by wearing his coat, even though he knows the rules full well. Next of all he threw a pen at one of the girls in the room. '[pupil's name], I thought you said you wanted to do well. Throwings things across the room isn't going to help you do that'.

His response: 'I wasn't throwing things, it was just one pen, so that's 'thing', not 'things''. It's nice to see that he can cut through to the important details.

Then he had lynx deoderant out and when I confiscated it accused me of discriminating against him. True, I do tend to tell off the pupils who cause trouble.

Last lesson of the week was my other year eights doing the same test the first group had done. This time I was rather generous with giving hints - 'sir is the answer to question six 38?' 'Did you say 28? [nodding with an encouraging smile on my face]' - detemined to avoid a repeat of Wednesday's demoralising disaster. Well, it was Friday after all.

7am: Arrive at school - cut, stick, plan, photocopy, and so on.

910am: Year 9: A relatively sensible lesson from a sometimes insane class.

1010am: Year 7: The impending parents' evening still loomed large in front of them keeping them under control.

1110am: Duty in the dining hall. I hate this part of the week, if I wanted to bark out instructions with no-one paying the slightest bit of attention I'd go yell at a wall. The other teacher - who the pupils are actually quite scared of - is usually late, leaving me to fend for myself. We have a rule at school that the pupils aren't allowed to wear coats inside, which as you'd expect they seem to forget every five minutes and need reminding. So half my time on duty ends up being saying 'coats off' with the other half being 'sit down' and 'stop throwing that you little shit' (or very nearly).

1130am: Year 8: the not-so-great group and they lived up to the billing. I ended up keeping about half of them back for detention, with one pupil actually walking off out of the room because I was picking on him, meaning I wouldn't let him continue his conversations whilst I was talking to the class, wasn't happy with his lack of work in the lesson and his ill-concealed copying of another pupil's work. This is as well as two other pupils in the class accursing me of picking on them. Surely it's only 'picking on' someone if you single them out - when half of them are stuck in detention surely that's completely consistent? Sigh. Confiscations: One mobile.

1230pm: Warhammer club (a.k.a. futuristic toy soldiers) It's geeky and terrible - I know - but somehow I got roped into helping out because I used ot collect it myself. Bizarrely the teacher I replaced used to run it and the head of key stage suggested to the kids that I might like to help out without even knowing I had an interest. Weird. The poor behaviour of my year 8s meant I hardly saw them today though as I chased things up and bashed my head against my desk repeating over and over, 'why won't they shut up? why won't they shut up?'

120pm: Five minutes before my year ten is due to begin and someone comes along to replace the broken window in my classroom - great timing. In all fairness the pupils did well at getting on with their work regardless of all the bash-smash-crash involved. The only notable incident was a pupil throwing a hissy-fit and flinging his coursework onto the floor after I put him down as late.

230pm: Year 8: the nicer version. They were doing a test so there was no chance for them to piss about. Though on boy did try his best, turning round and grinning at the others whenever the opportunity presented itself. This was coupled with moaning about not beign able to do the questions every five minutes and asking for help. How about shutting up and listening in lessons for once? At one point I thought he was going to cry, or at least I was hoping he would.

430pm: Year 7 parents' evening. I was quite nervous about this after one boy had said his mum was going to 'batter' me - I presume this meant some sort of beating rather than a threat of deep-frying me. As it happens only the parents of nice pupils turned up so I was able to say how wonderful their children were. Generally this is quite disarming for them and I sent them away with big smiles on their faces. I was even in luck as I was able to finish early.

710pm: On the drive home I run over a dead badger - it even squelched. Yuck.

530am: get up have breakfast, etcetera. I mentioned this yesterday and it isn't going to change for the rest of the week so I'm just going to skip it. But just because I've skipped it don't assume I've magically woken up at school because I probably won't have, that would be weird. Though I now realise it would have been quicker to simply talk about breakfast and driving to school but for future reference that's what I do between 530 and 700am.

7am: At school - planning lessons and such forth.

835am: Arrive at briefing five minutes early for a bit of a sit down.

848am: Bump into loud year eight girl. 'I'm going to be really good today sir!' Say: 'Excellent!', Think: I'll believe it when I see it.

850am: Registration

910am: Year 7. Play a version of 'Simon says' involving turning around by different angles. Result: Some very dizzy eleven year olds. It's Parent's evening for year seven tomorrow so I have a useful stick to keep them under control with.

930am: 'My Mum's gonna batter you at parent's evening'. Oh joy. Obviously this boy's inability to sit still/shut up for more than five seconds, along with his inability to do homework or turn up to deentions are all my fault. Still if his height and build or anything to go by I shouldn't be too worried.

950am: The class are working well, meaning a rare case of going further than I planned. Maybe we should have parent's evening every week.

1010am: First year eight class, a.k.a the 'nice ones'. The pupils work well, and, hey, I'm not even seeing their parents tomorrow. It must be that rarest of things: a good morning.

1110am: The year eights are so good one of them even stays behind voluntarily to ask for help on his homework. Have I woken up in a parallel universe?

1130am: Year ten. The nice ones who are actually nastier than the nasty ones. We're in the computer room again doing coursework so they're hypnotised by the computer screens. Confiscations: Two MP3 players - if only I could keep them.

1230pm: A lunctime without a single detention. Female maths staff are finding fault with every male member of staff's approach to teaching. Eat lunch and hide.

125pm: Year 8: not so good class. They manage to be very loud, including the girl from earlier. In all fairness it's not her fault, all the boys fancy her so she always gets distracted. Have to send someone to th Isolation Facilty for not shutting the hell up and having the worst excuses ever. 'Sorry I'm late sir I went to the toilet.' Ten minutes later: 'Can I go to the toilet?' ??? Confiscations: One phone.

230pm: Year 10. The nasty class who are nicer than the nice class. They work okay on coursework, even if they are a little giddy and more interested in discussing my hairstyle, apparently it's 'cute'. I'm hoping they meant that in the sense of fluffy little bunnies, but even that's not great.

330pm: Send them packing.

515pm: Leave school.

6pm: Stop to get some newspapers on the way home for a mini-project at school. End up buying the Sun, the Mirror, the Express and the Telegraph. I couldn't find the Guardian to balance out the tackiness and give myself an air of credibility so end up looking likely a trashy, perverted fascist.

630pm: Home and Blog.

530am: alarm clock beeps at me, violently shaking me from my gentle slumber.

615am: Leave for school. Remember to pick up sandwiches from the fridge on my way out. A good start.

700am: Arrive at school. Rush round making worksheets and planning lessons.

840am: Briefing. Half-listen to the head and others reading out messages and notices whilst dreaming about the English NQT.

850am: Registration. Take the register, blag answers when asked questions by form members. 'Sir, I should have a certificate from English. Do you know where it is?' Damned if I have a clue, better just tell her it's on its way and will be here soon.

910am: End of registration, start of free period. Hide in the maths office to wait for the throng of pupils to clear from the corridor before going to do some photpcopying. This way I don't get crushed or see anyone doing anything wrong that I have to do something about.

920am: Go to the staff room to use up the maths departments photocopying credits. See History NQT. Why doesn't he look so frazzled as I feel?

950am: In the maths office trying to find lesson plans under piles and piles of paper. Find something else that needs photocopying.

1010am: Year 10 Foundation Group. Currently doing coursework so at least I don't have to teach them anything. Confiscations: One phone and one weird heart-shaped thing that makes annoying noises when you hit it.

1110am: Breaktime

1130am: Year 9 - typically noisey.

1150am: 'Sir I've been good so can I move', 'No, I'd prefer you to stay where you are.' 'What's the point in being good then if I can't choose where I sit?' sigh.

1210pm: A girl is messing around with her belly button piercing. Think: Don't show so much flesh, you'll get the boys all excited. Say: 'You can sort that out at dinner. At the moment I need you working.'

1234pm: Let year 9s go after keeping them back 4 minutes. One day they'll learn to shut up. One day.

1pm: Release remaing year 9s who hadn't done their homework. They can't even keep quiet during detention.

130pm: Take confiscated items to head's secretary for safe-keeping. Photocopy more stuff.

2pm: Planning lessons. Feel smug about year 7 lesson I've planned for Wednesday. Should be good a godo lesson - as long as I can get them quiet long enough to actually teach it.

230pm: Year 10 higher group. Also doing coursework. Take them up to the computer room to use Excel - have to go past the head's office to get there. Breathe a sigh of relief that my class manages to be sensible on the way, even if two girls turn up five minutes after everyone else: 'We got lost on the way'. Right. Confiscations: One MP3 player.

310pm: 'Take those gloves off please.' 'But sir, my hands get really cold.' 'Well if that's the case why don't you go sit away from the window then?'

330pm: Get rid of year 10s and go back to the maths office. Plan some more (of a) lesson. Make a resource for year 7.

5pm: Photocopying again.

515pm: Leave school, drive home (Listen to Chris Evans).

615pm: Eat dinner

645pm: Planning lessons

730pm: Get bored and blog.

8pm: More planning.

There are some pleasant pupils, there are some that you don't really notice and there are some that are down right horrid. First lesson of yesterday and a particularly spiteful young lady manages to be five minutes late, in spite of the fact that her form room is only three doors down the corridor.

Me pulling her up on this, as well as her wearing of trainers, and her putting Tip-Ex on the desk, and her chewing clearly means that I'm picking on her, what else could it be? 'You're always having a go at me. You've got it in for me. It's because you hate me.' Well if she keeps this up at least she'll be right on one count. She then followed up this rather pathetic whine by saying that she was going to see the head to get me sacked.

I'm plenty capable of doing that all be myself thank you very much. I certainly don't need the help of some fourteen year old madam. Though I probably shouldn't be so blase about it seeing as her form tutor has said that she's accused two (two!) members of staff of hitting her. I'll certainly be keeping my distance.

'Sir, when I grow up I'm going to be a child psychologist.' Well, perhaps she needs a psychologist, I thought.

'I bet you're thinking I need I psychologist, aren't you?'

Jesus! Uri Geller has been reincarnated as a fourteen year old girl. I hope she didn't pick up on my thought that she was looking chavtastic today, or when I was wondering why teenage girls wear their bag straps between their breasts to draw more attention to them. Actually, I suppose that answers its own question.

'Of course not! I would never think that!' I spent the rest of the lesson trying not to think at all - something most of the pupils in the class are very good at.

'We're really looking to clamp down on mobile phones and I-Pods this week.'

So said the deputy head during today's briefing. The pupils shouldn't have anything more expensive than a biro on them in school. Which given the desire of half of them to crush, burn and destroy anything that can be crushed, burned or destroyed and a few other things besides isn't such a bad rule.

My favourite year tens lived up to my expectations as I confiscated one mobile and one MP3 player. Look at me, working for 'the man'. Cue much protestation and increasingly familiar excuses: 'I wasn't listening to it, I was just getting something out of my bag', 'It was only the headphones I had out' and in case I needed reminding it is of course 'not fair!'

Thankfully there are some smart pupils in the class, 'Oh just shut up! You shouldn't have it in school and you know it! Just get on with your work and stop arguing'. It's nice to have someone in the class who says what I think but can't get away with vocalising.

Fast forward to the end of the day. The daughter of the deputy head came to the maths office and asked if anyone had seen her phone that she'd left in class earlier. This seemed to overjoy some of the other teachers in the department who have something of a disregard towards senior management. I haven't been at the school long enough to hold any grudges but I couldn't help but appreciate the irony, it did rather step on the point of the morning's briefing.

First day back and I'm already rushing around - I'm not sure how it's possible but the time from when I arrive at seven o'clock until briefing at twenty to nine is never enough. I somehow always find something vitally important that needs doing at exactly thirty five minutes past eight, end up panicking, doing it badly, running into briefing as the bell goes, looking as though I've only just managed to get into school, after running a marathon, in gale force winds. I wonder how grown up teachers manage to look so calm in the mornings - perhaps they're smoking pot at eight o'clock.

Briefing itself was notable by the absence of the table the maths department sits round. The head of department has been kicking up quite a fuss lately, but even so.

First lesson was year eight. They were in a lovely mood and managed to shut up and listen. When I complimented them on settling down to work so well one of them suggested that it was because they were tired. Long may it continue, I vote to ban children from sleeping.

I wondered if maybe this was the way things were going to be from now on. Perhaps after being at the school a full term I'd earnt the right to being seen as a proper teacher and deserving of some respec'. Unfortunately this illusion was shattered by year ten class number one who seemed far too interested in gossiping about Christmas to bother with doing any work.

Things went from bad to worse with my supposedly 'good' year tens being typically annoying. I hate to say it but there are some pupils who you just feel like throwing things at. Preferably very sharp and heavy things. Annoying child 'A' was requesting a new folder for his coursework after he'd ripped it. 'But sir aren't school supposed to provide folders?' Technically no we don't have to, but I had done anyway and he'd demolished it, the stupid little twat. But after reading a book about being polite to all pupils, especially the irritating ones, I managed to hold my tongue. Just.

Year nine were silly but seemed like heaven afterwards. At least they were relatively polite, though one girl did complain I wasn't showing much Christmas Spirit by setting homework the first day back.

I'd almost forgotten - already it feels like we were never away.

Some people can handle their drink, others can't. I unfortunately belong to the latter group, give me a few pints of lager and I'm hiccuping at olympic standard.

Last night I was out on the town with some colleagues. This was all well and good - getting to know people, relaxing and so on - I believe some people call it 'networking', but some people are twats. The problem occured at about midnight when my hiccups started, this can last for a very long time - on Christmas Eve I hiccuped all the way home from the pub, two miles away, at drunken pace. As the hiccups dragged on I also felt rather nauseous. Was I going to be sick? Well, as it happens, yes I was. My thoughts were: 'Oh no, now here, not now!' 'Yuck!' and 'Oh rats, I've just thrown up in front of someone from senior management'.

Not my finest hour.