Illustration by Beatriz Choi
Teachers, heads and all school staff are right up there on our 'Heroes of 2020' list for the way they've kept calm and carried on, and given our children much needed stability in a topsy-turvy year. But what do they think of us, the parents? And what really goes on behind that staffroom door? This week, we bring you a first tantalising glimpse in our Staffroom Confidential series. We’ll be keeping the identity of our school spies firmly under wraps, but if you’re in need of some festive cheer, read on to find out what teachers really think of the annual school Christmas celebrations...
‘Five hundred pounds!’ screamed the somewhat overexcited father in front of me, his bottom lip trembling with the thrill of a high-risk bid and his eyes burning with an enthusiasm bordering on mania. A collective intake of breath fluttered around the school dining room; burbling streams of gasps trickled over the assembled parent body. The platoon of Yummy Mummies burst into peals of tinkling laughter, thunderous applause and passive-aggressive mulled wine glass-clinking. Here was a man unafraid to spend big; here was a man to make history; here was a man about to spend an awful lot on one very special Christmas turkey.
Oh my, there is nothing quite like the annual Christmas Fayre (please note the darling Ye Olde Worlde spelling) to spread a bit of festive spirit into parents, pupils and staff alike, is there? At my prep school, the whole joyous carnival of handmade trinkets, crumbly mince pies and spiky evergreens reaches its peak in the much-anticipated Very Large Turkey Auction. This year was to be no exception.
‘Five hundred pounds?’ I repeated loudly, not sure whether to go with shock or glee in my expression. Usually, the offers would be made through the medium of sealed bids, but some parents had hit the complimentary Glühwein a little too hard and an unhealthy dose of loud and very public competition had begun to rear its ugly head. This year, as the teacher in charge of the auction, I realised all too late that it had descended into something resembling a Texas cattle market. Order was not restorable. From the far side of the hall, I caught the eye of the headmaster (to be known hereafter as Big Cheese) who was enjoying the spectacle immensely. To his right, the deputy head (to be known hereafter as Prince of Darkness) scowled at me and scribbled something into his notepad. This would no doubt be revealed to me in my next pay review. Oh good.
I calmly wiped Daddy’s foamy spittle from my face and shot a mildly sympathetic glance at his wife. She clutched his tweed arm in a manner normally reserved for wrecked sailors and lumps of wood, subtly divulging her panicked internal debate of whether or not she still had time to change her Ocado order and remove the whole salmon they had been so looking forward to consuming on Christmas Day, for a lovely change from... Oh, never mind. Bless her: what a trouper! Under the hawkish gaze of the other assembled mummies, ever vigilant for the first signs of weakness or financial strain, she calmly swallowed; fought back the tears and delivered her finest, most brilliant megawatt smile to the room. ‘Five hundred pounds on a turkey? But, of course! We are here to raise money for the local Distressed Llama Sanctuary after all, ladies!’ All this was said without a single word passing her perfectly glossed lips.
‘Five hundred pounds!’ Big Daddy affirmed. He glared around the room with a smirk, a silverback of a Papa daring any of the other Alpha Dads to make a competing bid. None met his gaze; they had all sulkily retreated to the back of the hall and latched themselves back onto the nourishing teat of their work phones. The Yummy Mummies breathed a collective sigh of relief. Going once. Silence. Going twice. Big Cheese gave the nod, this goose was ripe for the plucking. Sold! A solitary cheer rumbled around the room as Tipsy Dad dived into the fridge and hoisted the enormous turkey carcass above his head like a Premier League trophy. It really is the most wonderful time of the year, isn’t it?