12 weeks and still counting...

Term one, 2011. I believe this term has been trundling on for about a decade and a half. I've had several changes in hairstyle, watched global warming come and go, then begin again, and eaten my body weight in Tim Tams, several times over.

And I'm not even teaching. So imagine how it's going for the real classroom troupers. Indeed, there should only be so many consecutive weeks in which the drawl of 'Go-od-mo-r-n-ing-mi-ss-who-ev-er-you-are' should be legally permissable, after which point, it's simply time to have a little nap on the desk until the final bell rings and the bliss of silence is incalculable.

So, to the classroom. To the amazing folk at the chalkface. And to every child who is still, besottingly, the perfect angel. Scratch and sniff stickers all round!

(With a special little hello to Macey, Kaylee, Charlotte, Katharine, Ainsley, Grace, Mrs Unkovich, Mrs Bradley and Miss Endersby).

How Many Peas?


One’s got plaits down to her tail
all dipped in fingerpaint.
One’s got fairy bread for lunch
which one might well call quaint.
One’s got shoes on two wrong feet;
he put them on himself.
Ones got laces wrapped around
his ankles, which now swell.

One’s got lice. One’s got sores.
One’s got chicken pox.
One’s got glue upon her eyes
and paint in her lunchbox.
One’s got snot below her lip
she’s blowing with her hanky.
One’s got a flashing headband which plays
Justin Bieber…swanky.

One’s still singing, ‘Row your boat
gently down the stream.’
And when she sees a crocodile,
she never forgets to scream.

One’s got texta on her dress
beneath her right armpit.
One’s got a pea stuck up his nose;
he thinks three more will fit.

One is sitting at her desk,
rather catatonic,
wondering when the term will end;
it’s time for gin and tonic.
And this is just the teachers.
Term one’s long and full.
And if we’re using big words might well
call it interminable.

But, then… little Charlotte smiles, gives her
teacher a sticker – a giraffe.
Cheeky Macey tells a joke
which makes the teacher laugh.
Robert paints a picture
with spots and dots and drool
and gives it to his teacher,
with an apple, ‘’Cause you’re cool!’

Kaylee finds her cupcake
(It’s a little bit squished, but hey)
and hands it to her teacher, saying,
‘You need this today.’
And all the class together
chant, ‘We love you – A LOT!’
They do it for the next three hours.
It’s deafening…but hits the spot.


You can find 'How Many Peas' here in the Pilbara Echo. Ed. 145 P.4

© Elise Batchelor April 2011

Off to school! Zips zipped, lunches packed and buttons pressed...

Feb ’76. I trot off to Lake Grace Primary School in rural Western Australia with a tiny orange suitcase and a library bag. Many years later, I’m bracing to do the same with my own kidlets. Remember, if this school bizzo’s raising your blood pressure, simply recite, “When ‘ing’ comes to stay, ‘e’ goes away”. It won’t help with bullies, but it’s quite the calming mantra.

What did you think of your first day? More to the point, how did you cope when it was your very own children you were sending off with a packed lunch and name labels coming out every orifice?

The first day of the rest of their lives

On the eve of the morn of the too quick come dawn,
he took her outside and they sat on the lawn.
‘It’s this white burning terror. We’re making an error,’
she pleaded, eyes wide with her lip all aquiver.

‘Can’t we say no and just not let him go,
blame the heat or your mother or tumults of…snow?
I just must be honest, it’s too quick upon us,
I’m bursting with fear and you’re looking quite anxious.’

He grimaced a bit and agreed, this was it,
for morning would come and they’d have to commit.
‘Ok, that’s enough now, unfurrow your tight brow,’
he rallied to calm her, although he knew not how.

‘But what if he’s sad or his handwriting’s bad
and the kids are all mean and pick on him, poor lad?
Or what if he’s short and can’t see as he ought
‘cause the desk is too big; did you give that a thought?


‘And what if his lunchbox is wrong and his school socks
too long and his school bag too small so he doesn’t belong?
And what if his uniform rips when my little boy trips
and the children all laugh and he spills all his chips?


And what if his pencils all break or his teacher’s a fake
and she can’t teach apostrophes? My heart will break!
And what if his hat blows away? And it’s NO HAT, NO PLAY!
And he’s stuck by himself in the classroom all day?

‘And…what if he wets his pants?’

‘And then there is high school and what if he’s uncool
or worse still, quite popular making the girls drool?
And then he starts wagging or going on bragging,
under the weight of a school bag that’s sagging?

'And then there’s the ball, oh my goodness, my Lord.
It’s way, way too soon and how can we afford
the tux and the shoes and the limo they choose
and what if he’s drunk and passed out in the loos?

‘And…what if he wets his pants?!’

‘Calm down my dove, please settle, my love.
Aren’t you jumping the gun? For when push comes to shove,
you’re turning the screw in a right royal stew
when the fact is right now you’re twelve days overdue


and you have to give BIRTH first!’

‘Oh right, you’re correct, but what I suspect
is my waters are breaking and to be quite direct…

I think I’ve just wet my pants!!’

PS. Yes, that picture's me. No, I'm not pregnant. Done it twice. That's enough for me!

Pin the Tail on the Shonky Donkey

In my final (Wembley Primary) school year, the most exquisite girl in our class had an impossibly large birthday party. I remember this vividly, for I was not invited.

There's nothing like being invited to a rocking good party. In Australia, we're totally lucky because every few years (or few months, depending on one's keenness for pin the tail on the political donkey) we're all invited to two parties. At LEAST two parties. Of course, we have a slight problem here in that they're invariably on the same day, at the same time. But our job is to elect one to attend.

For example, a little while back Julia Gillard's party was sort of or not really ok. Tony Abbott's party was not that gay either. No one really liked either and most of us ultimately went to one so we could prove we didn't go to the other.

And the third half was busy scamming illicit tickets for a boat ride out of the country.


Pin the Tail on the Donkey

He invited everyone to come to his great party.
Every kid in every class, he thought he was a smartie.
Problem was that she did too, she asked them all to come.
She’d pin the tail on donkeys and they’d have just loads of fun.

He said it would NOT BE HOT! No hotter than last week,
But he’d give them sunscreen and nice party hats with peaks.
She said they would play indoors on her WHIZZ BANG COMPUTERS!
Plenty fun for everyone, even distant commuters.

He soon heard his plan was flawed because some thought him dud.
She soon heard he might have scored because she was not Rudd.
On the day they sat in wait in fancy schmancy clothes.
His mum asked, ‘How many Tony?’ He replied, ‘God knows.’

Tony’s mum said, ‘Ask Him then, I’m baking sausage rolls
and fairy bread -’ Tone interrupted, ‘Can’t have them Mum, no!’
‘Tony!’ his mum glared at him. ‘OK, Mum, just this once,
but fairy bread’s for sissy’s and I ain’t nobody’s dunce.

Meanwhile, out at Julia’s, her mum tried being enlightening,
saying, ‘dydd Sadwrn, gwlad, cors.’ My goodness, Welsh is frightening.
What happened to all the vowels? And when does it not rain?
Anyway, this is digression. What’d she say again?

Oh yes, that’s right, young Julia’s mum said, ‘It’s party day, my dear,
and, as you say, they’re all your friends! I’m sure they’ll all appear.’
So Tony had his fairy bread, despite his inclination
and Julia had done her hair and taken up her station

of standing at the front door, the gates of chance now open
as Tony cycled round his yard, his nerves of steel unbroken.
And soon they all arrived. The guests come out to play.
Some they went to Julia’s and some the other way.

Then some more to Julia’s, then a bunch to Tone’s,
‘til there were just five kids left and THEN kicked in the groans.
‘But Muuuum,’ whinged Julia out loud, ‘why didn’t they all come?
Near half of them are all next door at Tony’s place. Not fun!’

‘Oh stop your whinging little girl, your strine’s like blackboard nails.
Maybe there are others coming, drifting in like snails.’
And Tony, well, now he was sweating, seventy-something counted.
Sort of Mr Popular, his campaign fully mounted.

‘I guess you’re right,’ said Julia, to her mum as kids played,
‘my friends, they all have spoken but who knows what they did say.’
Tony scanned down to the fence upon which five friends sat,
right ‘tween his and Julia’s and he thought…bottom, drat.

The celebrations dwindled and all the kids they left,
quite bored with both the parties, the right one and the left
and waved out to that fivesome perched as if it didn’t matter,
still deciding which to choose, including BobKat Katter.

And there they perched for days and weeks, sore bums, ‘twas rather odd.
Jule’s she offered lemonade and Tony offered…God?
And finally, they all decided which party best fared,
by which time it was footy finals, so no one really cared…




© Elise Batchelor 2010