It is amazing the audacity of parents sometimes. I’ve already complained about the whole parents evening trauma – and believe me, it is a trauma. But this morning I had a classic. I’d just finished a teeth-pulling lesson on Chaucer with year eleven; serious agony for everyone involved, when Hilary from the office came tearing down the corridor. (I say tearing, it was more of an over-excited waddle.)

Apparently, Mrs Phillips (mother of the dreadful Kevin) was in reception, claiming that I was an hour late for a promised meeting with her. Hilary had tried, and failed, several times to explain to her that there was no way I’d have organised a meeting with her at 10:15am, because I was teaching then. But Mrs P would not be moved; she had proof she said. I had told Kevin I was seeing her then. Kevin, who wouldn’t even hear a fire alarm if it went off in his ear could not possibly have actually heard me say this; mainly because I didn’t say it, and even if I did say it, he wouldn’t have listened anyway.

So there she was, lying to me, and using her cretinous son as evidence. I stood firm, this was a matter of principle; and I told her in no uncertain terms that she was mistaken. I could see her start to doubt herself. I was winning. And, at the exact moment that her bottom lip started to wobble, the head walked past us and stopped: “Seems to have been a mix up, eh? Well, as Mrs Phillips is here now, you can see her anyway, can’t you Mr Baker?”

Words fail me.

Like many of the pupils here, one of our new boys who started this term, speaks virtually no English. It’s fairly normal here, but always presents an extra challenge in the never-ending quest for perfection. When I say virtually, I’m not exaggerating; the best Samir’s managed so far is a very earnest: “Yes.” Despite numerous hours of work with him, his English has not improved at all, and of course he’s not making any friends – apart from a disastrous attempt to ‘bond’ with one of the other boys in the class when Samir sat on the boy’s desk and started frantically raising his eyebrows and blinking. As you can imagine, it only served to further alienate him. Kids can indeed be cruel.

However his parents came in for parents evening last night, and I thought that finally I’d be able to make sense of everything, and discuss him getting some extra help. It started well, Mr Samir smiled, shook my hand and said: “Hello, we are pleased to meet Samir’s teacher, thank you.” I smiled and started chatting about Samir. He nodded, as did his wife, and they both agreed with what I was saying. In fact after ten minutes of me speaking, and them offering periodic ‘yes’ responses I began to experience some rather unnerving déjà vu. I changed tack, asking them what they thought Samir needed more help with. My heart sank when Mr Samir smiled and said: “Yes.” His wife nodded frantically and added: “Yes.” Suddenly it became clear why Samir wasn’t learning any English. If he’s not speaking it at home how on earth is he ever going to learn it here?

I really, really, really hate parent’s evening. A three hour marathon of either indignant  and misplaced pride, or total and absolute apathy, served up in our freezing school hall, seated on crippling plastic chairs. Agony, in every respect.

But what I hate the most is those parents who think that they are too important to come and see me for the allotted (and unutterably dull) 20 minutes they’re supposed to. No, instead they have other more important engagements and of course I’ll work around them because I don’t have anything else to do.

This year it was the turn of sulky Sally’s parents. I believe Mrs Sally couldn’t come on Tuesday like everyone else because she, and I quote, ‘had to go to PC World’ on Tuesday evening. Anyway, I kindly gave them a slot at 4.30pm after school on Thursday, thinking i’d be done by five at the latest. Not so, oh no, at 5.30pm when the cleaners came into empty the bins and hoover I was still locked in a  debate with Mr Sally about his daughter’s inability to write about poetry, or perhaps it was my inability to teach it. I remain unclear as I zoned out at 5.45pm, coming back to earth around 6ish to discover, happily, that they were finally leaving. I think Homebase was about to close or something.