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You think that Saint Trinian’s is fiction?
The initiation test for new teachers was, I discovered, to organise the annual trip to Castle Howard. Pass that, and you were guaranteed to be so bomb proof that you would never have a nervous breakdown, ever. In order to avoid defection by the novice, past participants never spoke of what it was going to be like, but nobody ever volunteered to do it twice.
Imagine two coach loads of hormonally charged thirteen year olds, in the summer heat. Three quarters of them were on free school meals. That meant packets of food, consisting of a boiled egg, an apple, a chocolate biscuit, and several dried up sandwiches, mainly of past its sell-by date cheese, all wrapped up in greaseproof paper. Once we were on the open road, the pupils jettisoned the sandwiches and the wrapping through the windows, to the detriment of passing motorists. The eggs they lobbed around like grenades. Our drivers were traumatised before we had gone five miles. That was the just the start.
The glossy coloured booklets, describing the stately home, were expensive. Every child had one. None of them were paid for. The first quarter of an hour was spent getting them back before we were arrested. An irate shop manager appeared. Apparently, all the pen-knives had been stolen from the display. Using interrogation techniques banned by the Geneva Convention, we managed to retrieve them. Next came the peacocks. They unwisely flaunted their plumage. Our dear children discovered that, if they stamped on the tails, the feathers came out, but not painlessly. I can still hear their screams. Finally, in order to restore some peace and quiet, we decided to take our charges round the grounds on the little tractor-drawn train. Unfortunately, another school was using it; a junior school. Panic stricken, they jumped out into the oncoming traffic. After the ambulance had left so did we.
September. Michaelmas. Do you believe in angels? If you had ever been in charge of Saint Trinian’s personified you would not doubt that we all have our personal guardian angel. Those young people grew up to be well adjusted adults. I recovered, but I can never look at a peacock without having flash-backs.
May God bless you all, Fr. Allan
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