Monday, 2 July 2007

Sunshine and showers. And downpours and hailstones.

I went to a very interesting committee meeting at the high school today. I found myself offering to take the minutes and when I've written them up I'll tell you about a presentation given by the Head of English. It made me think again about some deep-rooted ideas I have. Whatever your opinion is of comprehensive-style education, if you are in a position of any responsibility, you can't only consider the children you might feel yourself most in tune with. And thinking about things from a new perspective is both interesting and broadening.

During the meeting, which I arrived at wearing sunglasses, it started to rain hard, and then torrentially. Someone got up to close the skylights (the room has no outside walls). Later, I found the reason for the loudness of the downpour - "hailstones as big as peas" said Al.

The meeting didn't close until 5.40, when it was still pouring. Hovering in the lobby, waiting for a gap between cats and dogs, I phoned Al to ask him to bring home a bag of veg for me, as I would not be picking them from the garden. He said it would be a while before he got home, because he hadn't started to bring in his outside display yet. "Five minutes," I said. "I'll help." It was a miserable job, poor lad. He had to put everything out the back because it was streaming wet and he didn't want it over the shop floor. He has had to go back this evening to put it all back in the shop, or there wouldn't be space in the back room for tomorrow's deliveries.

I had, by the way, arrived early for the meeting as I needed to speak to the people in Reprographics to have some printing done (all above board, they are glad to earn extra money for the department from outside work). Afterwards, I went to the library, asking the librarian if I might sit and read my papers while waiting. After a few minutes, my phone rang, most embarrassingly. It was the Sage. "You locked me out!" he said. "I was only in the greenhouse, weeding." I said I'd come straight home, as I was still 20 minutes early.

He had walked down the drive and was waiting in the road. I had been ready to apologise, but he got in first. "I feel such a lemon," he said. "I usually have my keys in my pocket. Sorry to drag you back." "Lucky you had your phone with you," I said, kissing his hand.

3 comments:

Dandelion said...

Ooh. That reminds me of when I apologised for being unfaithful with the wrong man.

I also think one mustn't only consider the children one is least in choon with either. That makes me mad. I am sick of good children suffering because of bad thickies. It's like the prodigal son. He should have been hung.

jen said...

he's anything but a lemon, that one.

Z said...

Ah, well, you might expect me to be rather keen on the notion of forgiveness. But, great expression of love as was shown by the happy father, it would have been quite unfair to the good son if the prodigal was completely reinstated, given another share of his inheritance, having spent the first. And, if he was genuinely repentant, he wouldn't expect it. He would want to make reparation.

Love, of course, unlike money, doesn't have a limit or a quota. If the father merely used the good son and favoured the charming rascal, that would be unfair but, as the story is an allegory of god's love, that isn't likely. The hardest thing of all is for the good son to forgive his wretched brother, who claimed half the value of the farm, caused great distress to the family, squandered the money and then returned. It's tough, being the hard-working, reliable, good, boring one - who will be criticised if he resents the prodigal.

My reaction was rather the same as yours, regarding the well-behaved children, and I asked about them and was reassured.

Jen, he's sweet, isn't he?