Give us a break, Minister

We played a little game the other day in school. Pretend you had three wishes. What would you use your's on? Good old language development here, stimulate the children's imaginations, and why not?

Not at all! This was the staff at play here - we have to amuse ourselves somehow. We decided we'd avoid the usual `I'm not looking for a man or money but I'd love a rich mother-in-law' cliches and stipulate that they had to be school-related, to lay at the feet of the Minister for Education and Wish Fulfilment.

And off we went. Ban the Buntus and ban it soon. A speaker at a recent INTO meeting informed us that it had fallen into `disrepute' (his word) of late. This led us to wonder what had caused this apparent descent into immorality. Colm nicked for possession with the intent to supply when they raided Nuala's massage parlour, Sean Neidi finally uncovered by the Sun after years of tax fiddling and Brid became an environmentalist of sorts and spends her time trying to vandalise battery hen farms. Or maybe its demise was inevitable, due to years of neglect and boredom on the part of Irish teachers? One wish down, two to go.

Then, Pat took off on his own private hobbyhorse - Irish readers. Two of the things first present themselves in first class and off we go. What about oral work, games, stories and plain fun as Gaeilge? If you're only half way through these tomes, and they were bought by the parents in good faith, well, which will you opt for concentrating on? Literacy beats luofacht hands down.

But, in payment for my own personal wish, I'd bring home trailer-loads of copies, forsake every half day between here and eternity and even hold monthly parent-teacher meetings if Minister Martin, in his wisdom, could suggest how small schools like mine could successfully magic away the penance on our lives that is yard duty.

You see, I understand the need for it and in truth wouldn't mind giving graciously of my time at regular intervals to ensure that all is well in the playground. It's the regularity of the "regular intervals" that is the bone of contention in a three-teacher school.

In a larger school I might find myself on supervision maybe only once every three weeks. Instead, I spend half of my lunch break every single day of my school life marching round and round our yard, vigilance personified. My colleagues do the same. Isn't this discrimination against smaller schools?

Surely there must be a European by-law somewhere that says that even teachers are entitled to a break? Fairy godminister, have you ever tried eating a ham roll, gulping a cup of coffee and saying the odd word to a colleague in fifteen minutes? A surefire recipe for an ulcer and a nervous breakdown. So, go on Minister, Give Us a Break. Please!