6-4-04

A ‘special needs’ school was my assignment today. Kids between the ages of 8 and 11, all boys. The kitchen door is locked—from the outside—I can’t get out and they cannot get in. I hope there is no emergency exit needed. The windows are bolted shut and the fire exit is chained. Halfway through the morning one of the kids escapes into the grounds, four of the teachers make a halfhearted attempt to catch him but he eludes them without breaking a sweat—I mentally cheer him on—they could use the exercise. He wanderers over to the swings and with his foot writes ‘Bitch’ in 3 ft. high letters in the mulch. Then over to the playing field and with his heel scrapes ‘Fuck’ in the grass as if trying to get the attention of overhead airplanes. Poor little guy is really pissed about something and I resolve to talk to him at lunchtime. It turned out that he was from the north of England but he and mum had to move south to hide from dad who had tried to strangle her on Christmas day. Eight year olds should not have these problems. The deputy headmaster had three helpings of lunch and two puddings then no doubt headed for a well-deserved siesta. My tax pounds at work.