OK, so I lied. But REALLY, I didn't mean to! HONEST! It's just that I was swept away (again) on a tidal wave of exhaustion. Conclusion: when they say you should go on maternity leave from 11 weeks before your due date: do it. Do not even bother to dither about the issue. It is not even worth a minute's contemplation. And if the idea does happen to pop into your hormone befuddled head, drop me a line - and I shall remind you of exactly why you should rather be at home resting, daydreaming about your little one, and getting their nursery (and your house!) ready instead. Comprende?

School this week has been no less traumatic and frightening than the week before... I witnessed a teacher being kicked, and I, myself, was violently sworn at, shouted at, screamed at and threatened physically. On a brighter note, yesterday I was showered in little tokens of love and gratitude - a choc-chip biscuit at lunchtime, a packet of Doritos, a handmade pink plastic beaded bangle of stars, butterflies and hearts, a letter signed by a bunch of little 10 year old girls, and - at the end of the day, a Siberian tiger keyring.
All the kids had rushed out to their weekend in the darkening Friday frost, while I gathered my coat, scarf and other general 'stuff' together, dreaming about getting home before it was completely pitch black outside (i.e. before 5pm), a long bath --- the classroom door suddenly exploded open, with little redheaded Phillip breathless and pink cheeked, pale green eyes glittering.

"Hey Phil, shouldn't you be on your way home?"

"Miss Roberts, look here!" And from his pockets which I know from many prior warnings and idle threats contain various pens, football cards and grimy red rubber bands gleaned from the street where a careless postman has left them in his hurried wake, he proudly extracts a keyring. A square, perspex-encased photo of a blue-eyed, white Siberian tiger...

"Oh wow, Phillip! What an incredible tiger! It's a Siberian tiger - it comes from a very cold, snowy place. Not like the yellow tigers you get in India where it's really hot." He's persistently silent, saying nothing at all while I run out of things to say about it.

"Is it for me, Phillip?" (I don't know what else to say.)

"Yes! It was two for 1.50 - and I got myself this Man U one!" I try to give him a big cuddle of a hug (something we're not actually allowed to do at all at school - but which we all do anyway!) He doesn't so much fall into my arms as stand like a stiff little embarrassed soldier - and yet I can almost hear his precious little heart almost explode with joy at being so appreciated. You see, he comes from SUCH a rough home where he is one of many children - most of them not even sharing the same father, a hard, gaunt mother who looks as though no-one has ever said a kind word to her and hangs her head in heavy, perpetual hopelessness.
I release Phillip from my maybe claustrophobic hug, and he darts away for a second so that I'm about to say goodbye to him for the second time - but then he hovers a little closer and says, "Miss Roberts, the reason I bought this for you is because you are the best teacher I have ever had. And because you are always kind and nice to me." His little pale, freckled face works hard to get all of this out of his heart which I sense usually stays fiercely locked up. If any other teacher shouts at him (he is a naughty little bugger - but mostly because he's bored, I think) he reacts extremely violently, shouting, glowing red-hot - chairs get flung across the room, cupboards get kicked. All it takes from me is one raised eyebrow and he's back in his seat, trying to refocus. And I think this is the key to working with these broken children: they're craving the right kind of attention. That is, consistent, loving, firm and mutually respectful... But so often it seems a futile mission trying to turn these hearts from broken to fixed. (And I realise I suffer quite badly from the Saviour Complex...)

I think Phillip's about to leave, but as his hand reaches the door, he turns around - and again I see how internally his heart is churning like an intricate machine, about to overheat. I say nothing - wait for him to speak.

"I've decided, Miss Roberts."

"What about, Phillip?"

"I've decided I'm going to become a designer. A designer of pictures."

And now I want to run up to him, and hold him forever - take him home with me and give him everything he might ever need. But I know this is not right - that I need to step back from my own overworking heart even though it feels like I'm squeezing all the blood out of it so that it gasps from pain and surprised anguish. (Melodramatic but more true than most things I've ever felt.)
A few days ago, I'd spent an entire morning treating the class to a big art class in which we explored trees - their shapes, personalities, textures and colours. I laid out all the graphite, charcoal, pastels and paint I could find - demonstrating all the exciting possibilities and variations inherent in these simple materials. Every child responded as a child should - even another problematic redhead I've managed to forge a relationship with -- except for Phillip, which astounded me because he is ALWAYS drawing - in Maths, in English, during breaktime. His copper mop shone from above the cave of his arms he'd buried his face in - and nothing I said could coax him out of what looked like terrible fright.
I took him outside with me, making sure he had his beloved blue rollerball pen and his sheet of paper, on which hid two abandoned attempts at trees. On the itchy, nylon carpet, our back to the pink wall padded with a hundred puffy winter coats, I asked him about the trees he'd begun to draw. Repeatedly, he moaned and grumbled, "I just can't draw trees!"

"But, Phillip, you can draw huge galactic wars between monsters and men! You can draw intricate machines for your monster armies! If you can draw THAT you can draw a tree!" His body language said he didn't believe me.

Grabbing his piece of paper, I asked if I could borrow his pen and began to draw a very designed, geometric tree, replete with compartments for birds instead of the usual nest. Next to it, the typical tree I draw looked downright boring and predictable in comparison.

"Which one is your favourite tree, Phillip?" A grubby little finger immediately shot out towards the designed tree. "Tell me why you like it the most."

"Because it's cool."

"But why is it 'cool'?"

"The shapes you used. And that line of dots. That little machine-bird you drew."

We chatted about the difference between artists who work in a realistic way, copying directly from life - and artists who have a whole universe tucked away inside their heads from which they draw. How miraculous and amazing it is if you have an imagination and don't have to copy what's out there! I also explained the difference between designers and artists who draw from life. After thinking about this for awhile, he blurted, "But I can only draw monsters!"

"Well then, why don't you design a monster tree?" He just looked at me, his jaw unstuck and his eyes not quite sure if I was being serious or sarcastic. At last it dawned on him that I was being very serious indeed - and straightaway he bent down over his piece of paper and began doodling and sketching what turned out to be a brilliantly conceptualised and executed piece of art!
The very BEST part about it all, was that what had happened between us had made such a deep impression on him, that he'd actually had a huge ideological shift and made a brand new life-decision - where before he'd assumed he'd simply become a builder like all of his school buddies and their dads...

So, in the end, not a very 'Soutpiel' issue, but I sometimes can't help allowing myself to be seduced by tangents and sidetracks! Originally I was going to write about my experience at the local petrol station - maybe later today or tomorrow? At least now I know not to make any empty promises ;)