Job Advert

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JOB ADVERT

I recently read a poem by Joe Moran called ‘Job Advert’  which I found highly entertaining. So I have taken the liberty of copying the style of this poem and have written a job advert for an Assistant Headteacher. The more serious parts were taken from an actual advert.

We are seeking to appoint

an exceptional Assistant Headteacher

from the start of the academic year.

You will have a track record

of outstanding classroom practice

and the ability to lead

improvement in academic standards

and student outcomes.

As a member of the SLT

you will play an important role

in the overall leadership

and management of the school.

In addition, you will have

one or more of the following attributes:

an ability to read minds,

a skin thicker than that

of your average rhinoceros,

a lack of empathy.

You will be able to

upset the majority

and satisfy the minority,

while at the same time

taking the blame for everything.

The capacity to annoy parents

with an ill-chosen turn of phrase

or a withering look,

would be an advantage.

Being able to ingratiate yourself

with governors, Ofsted inspectors

and the Headteacher

is desirable

but not essential.

The post is for life

and you will begin on a salary

far lower than that of your predecessor

and with an inflated workload

and as an employer,
we are committed to valuing diversity.

Mike Jackson

The Ransom Note

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THE RANSOM NOTE

Dear Mr and Mrs Spencer,

Can I begin by offering you my sincere apologies for the disgraceful ransom note you received from us yesterday.

It was extremely crude, both in terms of its layout and the vulgarity of the language used. Unfortunately, it was the work of my somewhat stupid associate. A loyal employee, but not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Rest assured he has been severely spoken to and has assured me this will never happen again.

In his defence, I believe him when he says he was trying to help by taking some of the workload off my shoulders. Unfortunately, his somewhat poor home background, deprived childhood and unsatisfactory schooling, came to the fore and you were the recipients. Once again please accept my profuse apologies.

Despite his shortcomings, my colleague does possess certain qualities that I find indispensable in our line of work. Personally, I would have been a little less graphic with the threats. Unfortunately, he does have this annoying habit of saying things as he sees them, though his choice of words leaves much to be desired. So when he wrote, and I quote, “Pay up or I’ll cut the little bitch up real nasty.” I’m afraid that is exactly what he meant. I’ve seen him at his work and, while not pretty, he is very good at what he does.

Once again I feel that I must offer you my sincere apologies for the manner in which this information was delivered to you. Procedures at this end have been tightened up considerably to ensure it doesn’t happen again.

In conclusion, may I remind you that the ransom deadline draws near and my associate grows impatient.

I look forward to an early conclusion to our present business.

Yours faithfully.

Your Daughter’s Captor

Rearrange Me ‘Til I’m Sane

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REARRANGE ME ‘TIL I’M SANE

I’m sat in this chair
in a place, they call home.
I don’t recognize it but
it’s where I live.

There are other people here
just like me,
old and frail,
lost in this strange world
we call home.

I’m sat in this chair
looking out of the window
staring at my reflection
not recognising the person
looking back at me.

A stranger.

He’s old, so old.

Wispy hair,
a wrinkled face,
gnarled hands.

His whole body
wrapped tightly in that chair.

A warm blanket
holding him  fast
less he escapes.

I try to speak
to ask the reflection who he is,
but only spittle and strange noises
fall from my mouth.

I watch him dribbling like a baby.

Young ladies in blue uniforms
start to rearrange me,
wipe my chin,
straighten my cushion,
tuck the blanket around me even more tightly.

They smile at me,
their words sound kind but meaningless.

I want to answer them,
but the words won’t come.

They think I’m mad,
an old mind
too tired to work any more.

I so want to talk to them
about my life,
my dreams,
the love and the heartache I have seen.

Instead, I simply dribble and gurgle.

They respond by smiling and
rearranging me again
in my small world,
another shift of the cushion,
more tucking in.

If only these Angels in blue
could get inside my head
rearrange my mind,
and make me sane again.

Mike Jackson