Things That Go Bump
A converted roll-on roll-off ferry.
Just a few kids scattered around
the food was flabby chips and cheap
baked beans. I sat and thought of
water flowing in through the car
doors, swilling side to side, rocking
the boat - but also the gnawing
feeling no one knows what this is
costing.
We sat round in the grim, windowless
room. An ill-fitting rectangle of
formica tables. A short fat woman
in a fur coat and too-shiney made
up face marched out - a strange
form of power dressing? The circle
of people talked in circles: to
support the schools, to support the
strikes - a no no of course, nods of
assent. I looked at the agenda. It
made no sense. Should I say something?
How will that fit with the schools and
the strike and ofsted and every child
matters and performance management
and bugets and appraisal and if I say
anything or not I'll not have a job
and my mouth is dry as dry.
Then I woke and remembered I don't
do that any more, any more, any more.
