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Tuesday, April 07, 2009KIDS SAYING IT LIKE IT ISThe charming stories of life as a schools inspector in the Yorkshire Dales have enchanted millions. Here Gervase Phinn shares his latest hilarious reminiscences... The new Chairman of the Education Committee was a man of striking appearance, with his red cheeks and great walrus moustache. We were visiting a village primary school together when he was approached by a little girl called Tracey who stared at his drooping moustache for a long time before asking, 'What is it?' 'That on your face.' 'It's a moustache.' 'What does it do?' 'It doesn't do anything.' 'Does it go up your nose?' 'No.' 'Is it alive? 'No, it's not alive.' 'Can I have one?' 'No little girls and ladies don't have moustaches.' Tracey paused, tilted her head on one side and delivered her winning shot, 'Well my grannie's got one.' The children were giving the teacher Easter presents at the end of term: chocolates, flowers, handkerchiefs and colourful scarves. One little girl presented the teacher with a small bag of sugar-coated chocolate eggs, 'These are for you miss because you're my favourite teacher.' A small boy then approached and he, too, proffered a little egg. 'My goodness!' said Miss, 'Thank you. Shall I eat that now?' She popped it in her mouth and crunched, just as he proudly announced: 'Our budgie laid it this morning.' In the Home Corner, in an infant school classroom, a boy and girl, rising five, were arguing-stabbing the air with small fingers, jutting out their chins, and stamping little feet. 'Oh, do shut up!' 'No, you shut up!' 'I'm sick of you!' 'And I'm sick of you!' 'Oh, just be quiet!' 'No, you be quiet!' 'Oh, do shut up!' 'What's all this?' the teacher cried. 'We're playing mums and dads,' the infants both replied. Janice was a large, healthy-looking girl sporting straw-coloured hair gathered up in enormous bushy bunches. She deposited her reading book and folder of written work in front of me, plopped onto the chair and stared up with a weary expression. 'Well, would you like to read to me?' I asked her. 'I'm not dead keen, but I will if I 'ave to,' came the response. After she had ploughed through seven verses of a poem, reading it as if it were Morse code, I suggested: 'Well, shall we look at your written work?' 'Can if tha wants.' Janice's written work consisted largely of spelling exercises, short pedestrian passages of prose, a few poor-quality rhyming poems and numerous accounts, rather more lively and descriptive, of calving, lambing, sheep-shearing and other farming matters. I decided to concentrate on these. 'You keep cows on your farm then, do you, Janice?' 'Yeah.' 'And pigs?' ' Yeah.' 'And what about sheep?' 'What about 'em?' 'Do you have any?' 'Yeah.' This was hard work, but I persevered. 'It must be wonderful each year to see those little woolly creatures, like the ones in the poem, all wet and steaming in the morning air.' 'It's all reet,' she said, stifling a yawn. 'And what do you like best about lambing?' She considered me again with the doleful eyes before telling me without batting an eyelid: 'Best part's when me and mi brother slide on t'afterbirth in t'yard.' Entering the infant classroom, I was approached by a small serious-faced boy with bright blue eyes magnified by a pair of spectacles. 'You must be the school inspector?' he said precociously. I acknowledged that I was. 'Mr Phinn? We've been expecting you. Have you travelled far?' Marvelling at his self-assurance, I told him I had not. The child went on: 'I've been looking forward to meeting you. We've been reading your poems, and some of them are quite delightful.' I was taken aback. 'That's very nice of you.' The boy studied me carefully. 'Mrs McGuire says there are much better words to use than "nice".' I agreed that there were indeed and Mrs McGuire was absolutely right. 'I'm Benedict,' the child went on, holding out a small hand which I shook formally. 'Do you know Mr Phinn, we've had a very interesting conversation,' and with this Benedict patted me on the arm before departing for the Reading Corner, calling over his shoulder: 'We must do lunch sometime.' I found Hyacinth poring over a large picture book at her desk. 'I'm special needs,' she told me, wiping her nose on her finger. I asked her to read to me. 'Are you the infector?' she demanded. 'Inspector,' I replied, to which she said she couldn't 'see t'difference'. Reluctantly, she read to me, finger following each word, never pausing for breath, hurrying on to get it over with. 'Hyacinth,' I said, 'that was very good, but what do you do when you come to a full stop? She eyed me like an expert in the presence of an ignoramus. 'You gerroff t'bus,' she replied. In a corner of the classroom, set out as Fred's Cafe, I met a six-year-old boy wearing a large blue apron over his school clothes. All around him were notices and signs: NO DOGS ALLOWED, SPECIAL OF THE WEEK, COD 'N' CHIPS, NO SMOKING! I seated myself and looked at a blank piece of paper at the top of which was written: MENU. The little boy sidled up. 'What's it to be?' he asked. 'Oh,' I said, 'I think I'll just have something to drink.' 'Anything to eat?' 'No, I don't think so.' 'What about some fish an' chips?' 'No, I'm really not that hungry.' ' Just a drink?' 'That's right.' The boy disappeared and returned a moment later with a small, empty plastic beaker. He watched intently as I drank the imaginary liquid, licked my lips and exclaimed: 'That was the nicest cup of tea I have had in a long while.' 'It was an 'arf o' bitter,' he told me bluntly and walked off. The vicar began assembly by asking the children to guess what was in his head. He told them that walking through the churchyard that morning he had seen something in a tree. 'I had such a surprise. There it was, poking its little grey head through the branches, its great bushy tail twitching, and its little darting, black eyes staring at me. What do you think I am talking about?' 'Well,' replied a boy at the front, 'I know it's Jesus, but it sounds very like a squirrel to me.' An anxious boy called Roger looked terrified when I began to examine his book. 'It's not very good, I'm not much good at writing,' he said. 'It's not bad at all,' I replied, leafing through, 'You just need to write a bit more and check your spellings and punctuation.' Then I came across something rather different. 'This is rather good,' I said, impressed. 'What a wonderful little poem,' and I began to copy it out: Yesterday yesterday yesterday Sorrow sorrow sorrow Today today today Hope hope hope Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow Love love love Roger looked at me in surprise: 'That's not a poem, sir. They're my spelling corrections.' • Extracted from TWINKLE, TWINKLE, LITTLE STARS by Gervase Phinn, published by Michael Joseph at £10. © Gervase Phinn 2008. http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1102801/How-did-cow-swallow-dog-What-young-boy-said-saw-calf-born.html  
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