a BrIef wOrD aBOut the tOtaLLY raNDOm Nature Of sChOOL assemBLY

I am about to write something very unusual. It’s certainly not anything I’ve ever written before. In fact, the sentence I am about to type is so massively, incredibly, unbelievably improbable, that I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it has never previously been put down on paper by anyone ever. Here goes:

Assembly was really
interesting today.

Honestly, it was.

In fact, it provided the only interesting moment in an otherwise amazingly boring week. Monday and Tuesday, I had tests in maths, science and history; Wednesday, a careers talk replaced my art lesson; Thursday, Mr Wood tried to teach us all how to use apostrophes again; and today, I just couldn’t be arsed to listen any more. Except in assembly. Because, as I just said, it was surprisingly interesting.

Now don’t get me wrong; I never intended to approach the subject of assembly with a negative attitude. I think, in theory, that the concept of a shared intellectual moment first thing on a Friday morning is a really sensible one. After all, in weeks like the one I’ve just had, it can provide the only chance of an intellectual moment we’re actually going to get. Especially if the supply teachers are in. In practice, however, there are two serious issues that need some major attention.

1. We have to sit on the floor and it’s really uncomfortable and makes our clothes dusty.

2. 99.9% of our assemblies are a pile of random horse plop.

These are not opinions. They are facts. I’d even go as far as to say that they are unsatisfactory facts. Take, as evidence, the assembly we had last week. Mr Wood was in the spotlight. I like Mr Wood because he’s my English teacher and English is one of my all-time favourite subjects – but that doesn’t alter the undeniable truth that Mr Wood has an unfortunate tendency to be spectacularly dull. Picture the scene. We’re all sitting there, cramped together on the floor, and Mr Wood walks on to the stage and says, ‘Good morning, Year Eleven.’

And we all say, ‘Grumble mumble, Mr Wood.’

And then Mr Wood opens his mouth and says, ‘The other month, my wife went into a well-known large electrical retailer in the centre of Cardiff to purchase a vacuum cleaner blah blah blah-di-blah . . .’

And he goes on and on and on – and my bottom is aching because it’s not as fashionably fat as Beyoncé’s or J-Lo’s, and Gareth has started fiddling slyly with his iPod, and Beca Bowen has got her tweezers out and is sneakily plucking her eyebrows, and still Mr Wood is just standing there in the middle of the stage, droning on to nobody and saying things like, ‘blah blah . . . the Dyson dual cyclone bagless vacuum cleaner blah blah . . .’

And while he drones on, I’m aware of Gareth’s sweet feet tapping in time to the music which is now blaring noiselessly through the single earphone hidden behind his upturned collar and I’m aware too of Beca Bowen flicking her putrid eyebrow hairs all over the place and I’m seriously worried that my head might explode and my backside might implode because I’m so downright bored and uncomfortable.

And then, just when I think I’m about to die of Drone’s Disease, Mr Wood says something along the lines of, ‘So, Year Eleven, that brings me to the message of today’s assembly. If, like James Dyson, you are unable to find a vacuum cleaner which fulfils all your cleaning requirements to a satisfactory standard, you should do something about it and invent your own.’ And then he shuffles off the stage and we’re finally allowed to get up off our numb bums and shuffle off to our first lesson.

Random or what?

And then there’s the assembly which Mrs Leigh-Lewis gave the week before. That was worse. Mrs Leigh-Lewis is our head teacher and we don’t see her very often because she hardly ever comes out of her office. To be honest, I don’t think she’s too comfortable with the harsh – but honest – lighting of our school corridors. The boys in our school call her The Soft Focus Fox. Her hair is styled into an immaculate blonde bob, her face is coated in a thick layer of make-up and her nails are shaped into really long sharp points, which are painted red. Seen in dim light, fuzzy vision or from a reasonable distance, she looks stunningly glamorous. If you get a proper look at her though, she’s dead wrinkly. The teachers like to refer to her as Gerry. For some reason which totally escapes me, they all think that this is hilariously witty and funny.15 I have no idea why Gerry Leigh-Lewis embarked upon a teaching career because she absolutely hates the lot of us. She does love her own children though. And she loves herself. We know this because she is always telling us. The last assembly we had with her went something like this:

Mrs L-L:	Good morning, Year Eleven.
Us:	Mumble grumble, Mrs Leigh-Lewis.
Mrs L-L:	Today’s assembly is about respect. Respect. One little word. One gigantic concept. So often, as I go about my daily business, I hear pupils demanding that they be treated with respect and yet we cannot demand respect, we have to earn it. I, of course, have earned it because I’ve got a first class honours degree from Salford University and a Master’s degree with a distinction from Cardiff – not to mention years and years of a fantastic teaching career under my belt, so I do expect respect.
	And I’ve earned the right to expect it. As have all of the teachers in this assembly hall. But you haven’t automatically earned that right. You need to start earning it right here and right now in this school. And then maybe, one day, you too will be a focus for the admiration and respect of others.
	Mrs Leigh-Lewis pauses meaningfully. Gareth fiddles secretly with his iPod, Beca Bowen shiftily puts some lipstick on and my bum aches. Mrs Leigh-Lewis folds her arms, glares down on us and says:
	Let me tell you a story.
	Gareth taps his feet happily, Beca Bowen moves on to her eyebrows, and approximately two hundred other people (me included) give a silent inner sigh of despair and misery.
	Last weekend, my daughter went to a party. Have I told you about my daughter? No? Well, her name is Rosie and she is beautiful. She is also extremely clever. Anyway, last weekend, Rosie went to a party. It was a fancy dress party. And the theme of that fancy dress party was to go dressed up as someone you admire. Someone you respect. And do you know who Rosie chose to go as? Do you? No, of course you don’t. Well, let me tell you. Rosie, my beautiful and clever daughter, went to that fancy dress party dressed as me. Because I am someone she respects and admires. Thank you, Year Eleven. Have a good day.

Like I said before. Roger Random.

But this morning’s assembly was different. In fact, it was a breath of fresh air. Because I actually got something out of it. I had a meaningful moment! And I have Mr Davies to thank for that. He’s an RE man by trade.

Mr Davies walked on to the stage carrying a large tray of eggs. He carefully placed the tray down on the ground, put his head thoughtfully on one side and said, ‘Hmmm?’ And then he said, ‘Good morning, Year Eleven.’

And we all said, ‘Mumble grumble, Mr Davies.’

And Mr Davies gave one quick little intake of breath, organized his right hand so that it looked as if he was aiming an air dart at us and said, ‘I’m an RE man by trade. Religion in all its many rainbow-coloured aspects is my daily bread and butter. It pays the bills. It puts food on the table. It keeps the wolf from the door. Hmmm? So when Mrs Leigh-Lewis asked me to lead the assembly today, I jumped at the opportunity and asked myself which parable I should share with you young people. Which religious lesson? Hmmm?’

Cramped up, cross-legged on the floor, I felt my brain closing down. I’m a hard-headed, practical woman of philosophy by trade. I don’t do religion. Further down the row, I spotted Gareth turning his collar up. Beca Bowen pulled a compact mirror out of one of her Knuggs.¹⁶ On the stage, Mr Davies continued to aim his imaginary dart at us.

Taking another sharp intake of breath, he made a sort of quick chewing motion which was accompanied by the noise ‘schlop schlop’ and then launched back into his speech.

‘But then I decided against all that. Cardiff is a wonderfully diverse city. And this school is a wonderfully diverse place. Hmmm? And I don’t want to alienate anyone by talking of this belief or that belief so I thought I’d stick to something we can all believe in. Tolerance. That’s right. Tolerance. Hmmm? Hmmm?’

Gareth’s elbows were resting on his knees and his head was resting in his palms. I could see his fingers tapping against his ears in time to whatever bass line he was listening to. Beca Bowen was gluing on false eyelashes. My own eyes were starting to close. Mr Davies chewed briskly on his saliva . . .

. . . schlop

schlop

. . . bent down, picked up one of his eggs and smashed it on the stage. Gareth pulled his earphone out. Beca Bowen poked herself in the eye. My own eyelids flew back open and I sat up straighter.

Mr Davies looked down at the broken egg and said, ‘That egg, Year Eleven, represents intolerance. It represents what happens when we cannot accept each other. When we cannot co-exist happily. People get hurt. Things get broken. But it doesn’t have to be like that. Tolerance and understanding make us all stronger. When we all stand together, we are invincible.’

Mr Davies pulled another egg out of his pocket, stooped down and placed it in the empty slot in his egg tray. Then he stopped aiming his imaginary dart at us and aimed it at the eggs.

‘This tray of eggs represents us. Some of us are white. Some of us are brown. We are big, small, speckled . . . some of us are a bit grubby even. Hmmm? And individually, we are quite fragile. Quite vulnerable. Like that broken egg – SCHLOP SCHLOP – But if we can just learn to accept each other – tolerate each other – and live together, side by side, we will all be so much the stronger for it. Let me show you something.’

From the wings of the stage, two burly sixth-form boys appeared. Mr Davies placed a flat square of wood over his tray of eggs. The sixth-formers grasped hold of Mr Davies from either side and hoisted him very very gently on to the tray of eggs. And then they stood back and left him balanced there, perilously.

Mr Davies is not a thin man.

The whole of Year 11 looked at this bizarre scene in total and utter amazement and then, because we were all quite shocked, we started clapping and wolf-whistling.

The sixth-formers lifted Mr Davies back on to solid ground and then one of them removed the piece of wood to reveal that all the eggs were still intact. Mr Davies waited, centre stage, for us to quieten down again. Finally, when we had, he said, ‘Three words to take away with you today. Tolerance. Understanding. Strength. Hmmm? Thank you, Year Eleven.’

And then he cleared up his broken egg and left the hall.

And I’ve been thinking about Davo and his eggs all day. And I’ve been thinking about those words too. And even though the idea of my mum and Stevie Wonder being an item makes me want to hit things with a hammer, I’m going to try to tolerate him and understand where my mum is coming from. And hopefully, that will make me a much stronger and nicer person.