Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. ~ Albert Einstein

Cher docteur Finlay,

Comme Vous savons je élévation nombreux montagne pour vous. Pourquoi? Puisque je fouille pour le mieux cadeau. Le montagne fait pas avons rien. Je sautée dans le nord mer. Je enduies

ma délicat corps dans oie gros. Je nageâmes intime Norvège, alors, soudainement je scier - le ponguin. Je attrapai avec ma réseau. Je desir à cadeau très spécial. Je immersion chaque ponguin dans le seau de or. Et Je présenter le ponguins allume a violet velours coussin, avec enfiler or.

Merci pour le livre.

Amour le cadeau viseur.

It is a wall between two gardens.

It's always when you least expect something to happen, that it usually does, happen. Basically, you get yourself out of the ghetto for an afternoon, take yourself off to Islington, go on a relaxing, mind your own business stroll, and then suddenly, the heavens open up, and down floats Gabriel. I was actually thinking, prior to his unexpected appearance about heaven, well, not actually in the form of ... you know - angels, golden harps, Jesus sandals, Angels of Enoch goblets and cheeky chubby cherubs, whimsical fairies (hang on a minute, what have the fairies got to do with it? I don't know they like to turn up from time to time) and Divine angels with intuitive noses, heavenly hippy groupies, Ice fairies sitting on Unicorns (hang on a minute, what have the unicorns got to do with it?) no, you see, what I was considering was my leannan. I was thinking about my leannan, and thinking this is definitely DRAÍOCHT, something which is probably beyond even Sealbhtha.

Plucking me out of my heavenly pursuits and removing me from a pleasurable ride on the back of a unicorn, with a cute little ice-fairy, came this rough (we're talking 80 fags a day) Scouser's voice, really working class kind of accent. Not might kind, I prefer the toffs myself, especially the newly established doctor Finlay.

Angel Gabriel: Oi, you!! Kenzie!!! Look, I don't have all frigging day mate. Coz, like, I've got another three hundred and forty million other losers to visit. It's about your Kanga - Mooh, love. I've got a potential victim. I mean owner darling. He's an old bloke that plays the banjo, off Upper Street, down one of those pretentious little cobbled stoned side streets, you know with all those over prized fucking antique shops. Crooks the lot of them, might wear Armani, but they're a bunch of toffee nosed tossers. You really can't differentiate between them and the cheesy used car salesmen. They're ALL the fucking same in my book, all from the book of fucking crooks, except, when they smile, it's all porcelain implants. Good job Jesus isn't alive coz he would be having a fucking fit right now. He doesn't like greedy tossers like that. Goes back to his days in the temple, it's scarred him, poor lad. And, he's got too many fucking scars, let me tell you.

Me: What temple?

Angel Gabriel: As I said you stupid tart, I don't have all day. After this I've got to go up to Enfield for a guinea pig's funeral. Some sentimental gay, Tory bloke, from Tottenham, has just buried his guinea pig. Wants some holy water to help alleviate the pain. Anyway, go forth and don't multiply, you're already too fat ... and sweet Jesus be with you.

Me: Do you think he'll look after my Kanga - Mooh properly?

Angel Gabriel: Fuck knows! He says he would. He said a little prayer earlier. He looked honest enough, and he plays his instrument well.

Me: You mean his banjo?

Angel Gabriel: Fuck off, you know exactly what I meant, when I said his 'instrument'. Tart! The big fella likes it. He says his music is heavenly. So, fuck it! Give him your Kanga, lass.

The Secret Life of a Kanga - Mooh

Picture taken by Ms. Jean Brodie, of her favourite pet, the Kanga - Mooh.

Whilst in Scotland my mum said to me that she was sick of my Kanga - Mooh attacking Dougal (Dougal is my mum's Lhasa Apso), and that if I didn't sort it out she would get my Kanga Mooh put down. Dougal is a pampered pooch who is spoilt rotten, which does get really irritating sometimes.

My mum and I argued a little bit because she had been keeping my Kanga Mooh in a cage, and I told her specifically that my Kanga Mooh is a wild animal, and that he needs to have the freedom to run around the house. She lied to me.

I have actually had to keep the life and times of my Kanga Mooh top secret from my friends because of how rare my Kanga Mooh is. I didn't want to alarm any of them. There's not many of them about, you see. Do you know something, he is definitely going a bit funny at the moment though. I think basically he is in need of a mate.

I managed (I don't know how) to bring him back to London with me, two weeks ago now, on the National Express Coach. I had to give him a mild sedative because he is attacking humanoids as well as other pets. He was safe though, in my M&S carpet bag, I did make him very comfortable, ensuring that he had plenty of chedder and milk throughout his little journey.

I am thinking about approaching Justin Hinchcliffe and asking him if he will adopt my Kanga - Mooh. I do trust him, that's Justin, because I have seen the way he is with his other pets.

Kanga - Mooh - rare breed, occasionally found running around in amongst the heather covered hills of the remote Hebridean island of Sparán Tóruidhe.

Too tired for anything else. Got to go back now and feed my Kanga - Mooh. That's if I can find him. He keeps running away from me - he's a little terror!

Another Worthless Wednesday.

Ms. Jean Brodie in Prison in the drama studio.
Where she remained until her death 2008.

It all got a bit too much today. So, I called for patrol. When they turned up, I informed them that I needed to go home.

Me: I am NOT going back in there.
Patrol: Why?
Me: Because I am scared. It's a circus in there and despite what people think I am not Coco the Clown.
Patrol: (in a state of panic) Well, you can’t just leave now. We’ve got no one to cover for you.
Me: (all the blood draining from my face, my lips turning blue) I don’t feel well. I am going to walk to the office now, get my bag, and then, I’m off home.
Patrol: I am sorry but we can’t let you go. (Grabs hold of my arm, with some force, steers me back in the direction of the room)
Me: (I protest) I am not well - I am washed out, I have a migraine and I feel sick. It’s the kids, they’re terrorising me. On top of that they’re not learning anything and I’m not teaching. So, I am going to go home NOW. I need to go to bed. And, get off my arm. It's like you're a bloody prison warder the way you're carrying on.
Patrol: (She gets on her walkie talkie, tells the office what’s going on. What a snitch!)
Office: (irate office staff) Tell Miss M she will have to go back into the classroom, as we have no one to cover for her.
Patrol: You’ll have to go back in there.
Me: I don’t want to go back in there though - it's chaos in there.
Patrol: You have to back in!
Me: But, I don’t want to go back in there.
Patrol: You have to.

Me: I am not going back in there.

Patrol: You have to.
Me: Okay, but I am not going in there on my own. Will you come with me?
Patrol: Okay I’ll come with you, but I can't stay long because there's a fight over in Science.
Me: Thank you, if you could just stay for ten minutes? Please?

Suddenly the drama studio resembles a prison cell. It's got bars on all of the windows and room is small and painted entirely in black.

They wouldn't let me go home today, so I was trapped in there ALL day.

I kept wishing throughout the chaos that Ibn Batutta would return and pick me up, spin me around and rescue me, take me somewhere far away, on the back of his camel, Masum Ali. Instead I had to endure yet more paper planes.

ME: Look guys this is NOT British airways! Can you just STOP, throwing those bloody things at me.

Look what the kids in Hackney did to me......

Good afternoon 8H.

20 minutes of this!

Take your coats off please.

Can you remain seated please.

Can you STOP trying to hang yourself with the blind chord please.

Why? Because you'll kill yourself.

Look, come back into the classroom, now!!!

Can you take your coats off please (I asked them do this 12 times).

Will you STOP playing with the black writing tablet!

Take your dirty feet off that chair.

I've told you about these chairs - they're expensive. Look, if you break that chair, you will pay for it, or, rather your mother or father will. Okay, your guardian then. Your guardian will be sent a bill to pay for any damage you do to that chair.

Where are you going? No, no, no! You are not going to the toilet, you've just had break.

Can you STOP wandering around the room, please remain seated. The lesson has started.

That is not appropriate language Christopher. I know that your mother would be very upset with you if she heard you speaking like that.

That's disgusting, put it away!

20 minutes later - we have order, they're quiet. I can start teaching now. Fine beads of sweat have started running down my face, my chest feels tight and my head aches. My glasses are sliding down my nose - feels like they're going to fall off the end. The girls are laughing at the physical wreck that I have become. I don't blame them I am a mess.

Okay, now that I have got your attention, all eyes on the whiteboard.

Then some little bastard opens the door and throws an A3 sized paper plane into the middle of the room. Chaos erupts .... they all get up out of their seats run to the door, open it, and run out, down the corridor, all trying to find the little person who threw it.

15 minutes later with the help of two other members of staff we manage to get them all back in.

I start my lesson.

I am already looking for another boj.

My Vision.

Tonight I spent the evening with the Bishop of London (Mr. Highgate eat your heart out). He was doing a service to celebrate the opening of our 'Quiet Space' - a place of prayer and quiet reflection, it's for the kids and staff mostly. A lot of posh folks there, I didn't recognise any of them. Jules Pipe didn't turn up - which is good, coz, like we don't get on see. Less than five percent of the community bothered to turn up, I know coz I was like counting. Disappointing, coz, like this is a space for them. This service was in fact for them. But, they couldn't be arsed to turn-up!

A lot of time and effort went into the planning and preparation of this really special event. I felt great afterwards, I really felt that the ones that didn't turn up missed out on something special and I am not being ironic/sarcastic. The preachings of the Bishop and the other holy guys hit a cord. They've obviously got a knack at saying really hard hitting poignant things. Well, I guess that's why he's the Bishop and I'm not. Tall bloke, had his smock on and shepherds staff to boot. I bet that's more effective than a baseball bat. At least when the mugger runs off you can catch them with the hook bit, you know yank them back with it- definitely more multi-functional than a baseball bat.

The music really made an impact - it was lovely. Thank you Jesus, Mary and Joseph too.

This was just some of the music I heard at the at the service:

Music 1 - performed by Locus Iste - A Bruckner.

Music 2 - Performed by Ruth Palmer - Hungarian Dances 1, 4 and 5: Brahms / Joachim (these were my best pieces, she was a fantastic performer - I felt it).

Music 3 - performed by Philip Fowke - Chopin Ballade 1 in G minor.

Music 4 - God be in My Head - Rutter.

Music 5 - Sung Amen: John Amner.

Music 6 - Philip Fowke - Polonaise in Ab Opus 53 Chopin.

A really great night, thank you to the Bishop of London and to all of the talented musicians that performed tonight. Suddenly I wasn't in Hackney. I was transformed - momentarily.

We even saw footage of Princess Margaret opening our great school in 1952.

Bring it on - I want more of this.

My Mate.

On my recent trip to Scotland I decided that I wanted to get a friend a gift. I think it’s good to treat your friends. Let's them know that they are appreciated.

I had heard that Ben More, a Munro would be a good place to get the first gift. I was brave as it is not the easiest of mountains to climb. But, what awesome views were in store for me once I had reached the summit. It is an impressive mountain. The summit lies at a kind of crossroads in between three ridges. It was craggier the higher up I got, but it was ok because I had my oxygen with me and an extra pair of shoes. I knew I wasn’t going to die.

I went up the Gleann na Beinne Fada route and that’s where I saw it – the stag. I was ready for it. I pulled out my vintage hammer gun, which dates back to the 1850’s. The ammunition was ready I just had to ensure I kept a steady hand when pulling the trigger, which I did. I was successful I’ve never shot a stag before, so I did well. The next problem, or should I say challenge was how am I going to get the stag down this mountain? And, secondly, there’s just not going to be any way this will fit on a National Express Coach.

So, I rang my dad. He advised me to hire a chain saw.

I am not into blood. So, we had to find an alternative way of presenting this gift to my friend. The taxidermist in St. Andrews seemed like the most sensible option.

I am bit worried about my friend as we've not heard from him since we delivered the stag last week, in the dumper truck. I hope he's alright?! He insisted on a gift from Scotland, and he also insisted on something other than rock. Perhaps I should have a bought him a kilt.