The Village Tales of Fekenham Swarberry – ‘The Diary Journal of Verity Lambush’

 

 

 

July, 1975.

Well, that’s it!

My first term at Fekenham Comprehensive (or FEKCOM as some of the more snot nosed children colloquially call it) has come to an end. And what a term it has been. Celebrated my 26th birthday on the 12th June. Managed to ‘bag’ old sexy legs Hornblower in the gym. Arse like two rocks. Thighs like Red Rum and well hung like Arkle. Oh, the sweet divine coupling across the back of a pommel horse. The best ride that I have had this year. Ha Ha.

Norbert Strangeglove, our erstwhile Head, had a slight heart attack and, although I wouldn’t want to see anybody disabled or dead, in terms of my career this can only be seen as a positive step. The poor old sod is perfectly OK and will undoubtedly live for a further thirty years BUT (and yes it is a big but) he can no longer, or rather his heart can no longer, take the stress of running a busy comprehensive.

Tom Harpcock (he of the roving eye and hand) made a play for the Head’s position but was told no (thank God for small mercies) as (and he is gullible enough to believe this) the school Governing Body thought that he was too important to the school to be placed in a role that would primarily be administration!!! More like they recognise the fact that he has the word ‘BUFFOON’ tattooed on his forehead.

In the end the position of headmaster, or in this instance, headmistress was given to dear old Miss Pimstroke (58 last May and looking forward to retiring with her hubby in 2 years)!!! She is a dear, and not as daft as I first thought, but really doesn’t want the role and is only doing it as a filler and a favour to the Board of Governors. That leaves me targeted to take over the role in two years. A nice way to celebrate my 28th.

Recently had dinner with Major Lillycrap. He took me to Raffinos, a swanky Italian restaurant in Muckleford High Street. Delicious meal. Dull company. Endless talk of this bloody battle and that bloody stratagem. Boring as buggery (not that I have ever tried—maybe I should?). He came back to my flat for ‘coffee’. He drank copious amounts of the bloody stuff but showed no signs of passion. I popped into the toilet for a quick pee and to freshen up a bit for a spot of hanky panky and caught him ferreting about in my bedroom. No idea what he was doing there, but he said he was looking for a tissue??? No hanky-panky as he made excuses and left early. Strange man.

Quite fancy the vicar. Elvis Linkwaite or –thorpe, or whatever his surname is, but I guess shagging the clergy isn’t really the done thing. Damn attractive, though!

A great end to a great year, with me really looking forward to the next term.

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July 1976

A strange year indeed, full of romantic liaisons and broken ambitions. My second term at Fekenham Comprehensive began well enough. Miss Pimstroke certainly isn’t the daft old bat she first appeared, but a rather smart cookie full of bright ideas. She has a disciplined approach that I find refreshing in this modern ‘liberal’ age, but one that is tempered with a moderate hand. She pointed out to me that she has no intention of retiring, nor has she any plans to move on at any stage, but fully intends to stay at FC until she retires. A bit of a bugger that, but as it is only two years to go I think that I can wait!

Tom Harpcock is still lingering like a bad smell or the stale taste of Brussels on Boxing Day. At Easter the school had a bit of a bash. A team building exercise and (oh the shame of it) I allowed him a quickie in the stationery cupboard. (Well needs must, and I hadn’t had any rumpy for simply ages). He tried showing me up in the common room so I dropped a hot cup of coffee onto his lap and glared in my most baleful manner! Bloody fool!  A shag is one thing, but to mention it in public? The man is an insignificant little under stain that will never again see the inside of this lady’s knickers!

Shortly after that I managed to bag the local vicar! Oh my, bonking the clergy. What a wonderful experience that turned out to be. He couldn’t have had sex for bloody yonks and was really gagging for it. We did it on the altar and in the pews and even up against the church door. He was steaming like a train! He made me promise never to tell a soul, and of course I wouldn’t. Best bunk-up I have had in ages, and certainly better than old limp dick Harpcock.

Now for the bad news: I am pregnant, up the duff, in the club. Problem is, whose is it?

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