This photo was taken at 12.50pm today as I was on my way to school to pick up my child, which had been shut down because of the pending apolcolypse which is, at the time of writing, still pending.
This is what the weather looked like in an unspecified location of Manchester today.
Yes, OK, it is hardly sun bathing weather, but it’s not exactly a Siberian interpretation of the End of Days, is it?
You wouldn’t think that, however, judging by the increasingly panicky text messages I got from Tithe Barn Primary School this morning.
(As an aside, if you ever feel lonely, sign up for text message alerts from a primary school. By God they can churn them out. As their northern ancestors wore their red fingers to the bone making piecemeal clothing at 2/d per piece, so their descendents fire off irrelevant text message after irrelevant text message)
First there was a nag that we’d not sent our children into schools in enough protective clothing. Protective clothing!
Look at my front drive.
Would this, do you think, make Shakleton tremble? I think not.
Shortly after the nag, the school gave up. “Please come and collect your kids at 1pm, we’re off to the pub” the subtext of the message said.
Why do teachers think they are so fucking special? Did, for example, petrol forecourt attendants shut up shop and go home because there was snow? No, they did not. Did accountants down their calculators. Did the snip of sissors cease in stylish salons? Of course not. But somehow teachers are special.
We are, we are informed, to check the website to see details about opening times tomorrow. They said this with such a smug aroma.
“Oh yes, I am quite able to make a minor update to a wordpress site” was the attidue, as if they’d first taught Tim Berners Lee all he knew, before curing cancer, before more recently switching to reading stupid Biff and Chip books to slack jawed, over impressionable children which, somehow, was more difficult
Once one school shuts down they all do. Teachers can’t stand the idea that someone, somewhere is not working whilst they are. So the schools shut too and off they all toddle to the pub, moaning that no-one understood the pressures they were under.
Teachers = precious.