I’ve just had the trustee-on-speed who masquerades as a deputy headteacher on indefinite sick-leave in my office.
He told me it was all settled: “We’ll metal-detect the car park and then dig up the interesting bits. I’ll get the school kids to do the dig; reckon we can get 300 of them through while it goes on over a couple of terms – that’ll boost your school visit numbers; then we can get Year Six kids to put the exhibition on and write the sticky labels – their language level is what you told us you’re writing for anyway, so let them do it, I say.
“Just think what we might turn up? Could be more of that Staffordshire battle bling and there’s at least another 15 Plantagenets that could be pushing up car parks. How good would their body parts be for exhibiting?
"And what about another Sutton Hoo, eh? We’re not that far from the sea, after all. I’ll get a press campaign going so we can afford the royal DNA testing when we need it.”
Does this guy never stop for a breath, I pondered.
“And while we’re at it, can’t we get a bit of Bad King Richard? He must’ve been duke of somewhere round here, along with his other titles. The kids would love it if you had his hump on display!”
In the end I resorted to an increasingly well-established strategy, albeit a rather underhand and unethical one.
“Actually, I’m delighted you’ve popped in. We need you to write to Michael Gove to explain why his proposals –” I didn’t even get to finish the sentence before the trustee’s florid pinky expression turned ice-white.
“Sorry,” he said, as he backed away.
“I’ve been advised to avoid despair, ideological antagonism and people who threaten the nation’s psychological wellbeing.”
He told me it was all settled: “We’ll metal-detect the car park and then dig up the interesting bits. I’ll get the school kids to do the dig; reckon we can get 300 of them through while it goes on over a couple of terms – that’ll boost your school visit numbers; then we can get Year Six kids to put the exhibition on and write the sticky labels – their language level is what you told us you’re writing for anyway, so let them do it, I say.
“Just think what we might turn up? Could be more of that Staffordshire battle bling and there’s at least another 15 Plantagenets that could be pushing up car parks. How good would their body parts be for exhibiting?
"And what about another Sutton Hoo, eh? We’re not that far from the sea, after all. I’ll get a press campaign going so we can afford the royal DNA testing when we need it.”
Does this guy never stop for a breath, I pondered.
“And while we’re at it, can’t we get a bit of Bad King Richard? He must’ve been duke of somewhere round here, along with his other titles. The kids would love it if you had his hump on display!”
In the end I resorted to an increasingly well-established strategy, albeit a rather underhand and unethical one.
“Actually, I’m delighted you’ve popped in. We need you to write to Michael Gove to explain why his proposals –” I didn’t even get to finish the sentence before the trustee’s florid pinky expression turned ice-white.
“Sorry,” he said, as he backed away.
“I’ve been advised to avoid despair, ideological antagonism and people who threaten the nation’s psychological wellbeing.”
