A quiet week. Year 10 are on work experience, the 6th form and year 11 have finally finished all their exams so they are enjoying that lengthy seminal summer of their lives, in the first flushes of young adulthood. So I took the opportunity to have a meeting with my new Head. Unlike Worzel Gummidge, for whom this would mean a illicit meeting in some potting shed with the (deeply creepy) Crowman, this meant traipsing all the way down to the other end of school and hanging around outside her office like some chastened schoolboy. Eventually I gave up waiting (my appointment time having passed) and knocked and went in, only to interupt her in mid-flow with some other officious looking peeps. Good start. It was so much easier with the old head: if the door was open, go in, if closed wait at all costs. Having said that he was an inscrutable old bugger, meeting him was not unlike being grilled by a particularly dogged barrister. He always made me feel guilty for crimes I had not committed. Well, mostly not committed. He was, however, very supportive over the UC, diagnosis having arrived shortly after I'd joined the school. And to be honest I had no reason to doubt a similar reaction from the new Head, she seeming a much more personable character so far.
So, having broken up her previous meeting, I went in and had THE chat: 'I've got a chronic illness called UC, with a nice bit of associated arthritis on the side'
Now, why had it taken until June to have this chat? Because until March all was lovely and therefore I'd 'forgotten' about it. And having built up quite a large number of absences since the pneumonia in February, I couldn't help thinking she might well have decided I was a malingerer. As it happened, it all went well. She made the right sympathetic noises, promised me the school would support me in any way it could, made me promise to ask for help when I needed it, etc etc. All hunky-dory. Untill... virtually as we were bringing this short but constructive meeting to an end, we had this passage of converstaion:
Me: Well, thanks for listening
Her: No problem, thanks for being open. Your health is important. Keep me posted if anything changes.
Me: Yeah, I will, hopefully the drugs will damp things down again.
Her: Good. And then if you start to have too much time off, we'll have another meeting.
Me: !!Oh! Right, ooookkkkkk...
Her: Close the door on your way out...
What the hell does that mean? 80% of me reckons she meant well, you know - if things deteriorate we'll meet and review what can be done. But the rest of me felt like that was a shot across the bows. It can't be great having a chronically ill person on your books. Maybe she's one of those cycnical people who, having never had to cope with constant ill-health, treats those of us who do with suspicion. Maybe I'm just guilty of thinking about it too much, as usual.
Anyway, 15mgs of pred daily this week have kept things settled. Been around 2 or 3 on the old bristol chart. Feet fully back to normal.