'Ac yr oedd yn y wlad hono bugeiliaid' - 'And there werein that land shepherds'.

And this is where the holiday season begins for me. Sheep andshepherds (tea towels slipping offtheir heads, the doll in the crib, kings in foil crownsand glittered capes, hay, straw, tinselledangels, a moth eaten donkey andcameras flashing wildly in the audience of grandparentsand parents).

Ffion and Maudie attend a Welsh medium school, the one Oliver and Harry went to. Their'Carolau Nadolig'take place in little chapels dotted around Pembrokeshire. We've been to Wolfscastle, (Castell Blaidd), Tabernacle, Bethesda (Augustus John's 'Bethseda' in 'Chiaroscuro') andEbenezer.

The caretakerswarm these vast Victorian buildingsto roastingly hottemperatures for the performance. Before I even step inside, the smell of carpet runners on the pews greets me. From my seat high up in thegallery,waiting for the performance to begin, I watch the dampness flaking off the pale blue (usually) plaster walls and admire the painted gold stars.

One year they performed 'Mam Maria' (Mamma Mia), my favourite and it always amazes me at the talent the children show at these performances.

On another scale, the Whitland Male Voice Choir sings in the grandeur of Picton Castle this weekend. St David's Cathedral and other churches will have their Carol services later on.

In Gowerton Grammar we sang 'Adeste Fideles' every Christmasimmediately after the school dinner but, as Emma says, once 'Glancleddau' sings 'Seren Wen uwch ben y byd, Babanannwylyn ei crud', the tears will start. Makes it worth all the palaver of going out on a cold, dark night.

Below is an extract from the book Resolution by Ambrose Conway . The book is set in Rhyl, North Wales, York and Cambridgeshire early in the 1980s.

Observation

Right Mun, great to have you on board, well have some fun in the next few weeks!

Such was the introduction to Ieuan. Like me, Ieuan was part of the great Welsh cultural export to England. I immediately felt at ease with him as he sounded like all my south Walian relatives with a view on the world and a generosity of spirit that was infectious. As coincidence would have it he hailed from Treorchy, just up the Rhondda Valley from my relatives in Tonypandy.

Duw Mun, were practically relatives!

That was the introductions out of the way and now it was down to business.

It had been eight weeks since Id made the bus journey across York to Clifton Without primary school to ask the Head if I may attend the school at the beginning of the new school year as part of my observation period prior to starting my PGCE in October.

The Head had been a kindly man, hidden behind masses of paperwork on his desk. We had talked educational philosophy with the distant hum of young children enjoying morning break on a sunny summers day. I could hear the half-forgotten chants of games Id played some fifteen years before.

Some girls were playing Queenie O Cocoa Whos Got the Ball? Others were doing French skipping using what I assumed was knicker elastic framed around two stationery girls ankles whilst a third wove intricate shapes out of it, like a weaving machine, before jumping out of the elastic.

Mixed groups were playing tag, with the boys, all crew cuts and short trousers, being over boisterous as always. On a Victorian wall, for this was the age of the school, a neat grid of numbers had been painted in contrasting colours and a couple of boys were throwing a tennis ball, trying to hit each number in turn. They threw the ball as hard as they could, for the next person had to throw from where he retrieved the ball. If he failed to hit the wall, or the right number, there was clearly some forfeit in order, although I could not work out what that was. A crowd of onlookers were admiring the good shots, and deriding the poor ones, whilst waiting their turn to be summoned to play the winner.

The same coloured paint that had been used to decorate the wall with numbers had been employed to paint in a hop scotch grid and this was being well used by whirring and impatient girls with long hair and skinny frames.

Other girls gathered in tight knots to talk conspiratorially, alternatively grouping together so that their heads touched and whispering or shrieking out loud as someone made some comment, probably, I thought, about who fancied whom.

Standing alone near the bins was a plump boy, tucking into his lunch box with a fixed and determined stare. All the revelry seemed to pass him by. He was onto a packet of crisps now, having seen off his sandwiches with relish. I was unsure from this distance whether he had relish in his sandwiches, but he had definitely demolished them with gusto.

Several pairs or trios of boys were clearly in intense negotiation. They produced a wad of what appeared to be banknotes from their pockets and it was only then that the penny dropped that they were exchanging card collections.

Practice in this area had moved on from the Brooke Bond cards I would have collected with Animals of the World, Cars, Aeroplanes and Space Exploration as themes. Id remembered the 1970 World Cup coins that were available from petrol stations, as were the complete list of FA Cup Winners coins including the elusive Cardiff City victors in 1927 over Arsenal.

The Brooke Bond Cards were a doddle for me as Auntie Betty and Auntie Glad worked in a large Cafon the promenade in the summer and were able to get me huge stacks of cards from the catering packs of tea and coffee that were used there. The thirsty holidaymakers fed my collecting, so long as I could abide the strong, astringent aroma of industrial strength coffee, I could amass a complete collection with swaps in next to no time.

The coin collections provided with petrol were more problematic, as we did not own a car at this time and, but for the occasional donations from uncles, particularly those with no, or very young, children, I had no legitimate way of obtaining the coins to place in the holders of the cardboard presentation file.

I wondered what they were collecting now. I remembered in the late sixties cards started appearing with a thin sheet of chewing gum. It struck me that this was quite a change in our card collecting habits. Before, the cards had been the result of an incidental purchase by our parents, more often than not, tea; coffee; breakfast cereal with Hong Kong made plastic figures, and then petrol.

Now we were being asked to fork out directly on sweets, not that I would ever pay money for chewing gum in any of its forms. Ever since Mallie Jackson had shared with me the story of the lad who had been brought into hospital, when he was there having his tonsils out, because hed swallowed bubble gum rather than spitting it out into a waste bin Id never eaten chewing gum in any of its forms.

Mallie had said this was true, right, that the chewing gum had expanded in his guts and gone rock hard and no food could get past it. The lad had not gone to the toilet for a fortnight and all the food he had eaten had backed up so that although he had lost weight his stomach had swelled up enormously with rotten food and you could smell it all over the hospital ward. Mallie said theyd sliced him open that very evening as they thought he might explode if they didnt act quickly. He said that the boys breathe smelt of rotten fish and bins and that you could smell him all over the hospital when they did the operation and that no-one could sleep that night because of the smell and that some of the kids on the ward needed oxygen masks to keep the smell from them.

It sounded preposterous now but when I first heard it when I was seven it had made an impact and I was worried sufficiently never to eat chewing gum.

The content of the cards changed now as well. They were no longer in any sense educational. Most were American in inspiration and related to TV series or films that I had not seen. Had they been about Batman, The Monkees or even the Banana Splits, that would have been OK but the Twilight Zone and Invasion of the Bodysnatchers meant nothing to me. I made a mental note to check what the boys in the playground were collecting.

A crescendo of irreverent noise had attracted the headteacher and he had made his way to the window. I had failed to register any change in the pitch of the general playground frenzy but the Head had an attuned ear. Stood there, magisterially framed by the window he gazed on his domain. As if magically, a ripple had gone out across the playground freezing all the children like statues in the game as it radiated outwards from the Heads presence in the window.

The noisy lads suddenly looked round, although it had been unclear who or what had alerted them, and froze on the spot. The Head smiled and wagged the forefinger of his left hand. The rebellion subsided and the group dispersed across the playground and spilled out onto the field.

British Bulldogs! explained the Head. Strange really, we play Rugby League here there is a local tradition and it is a safer and more comprehensible form of the game for the lads to get to grips with than Union. British Bulldog captures exactly what we want them to do in terms of tackling and evasion but they will insist on trying to play it on the tarmac. Weve had a couple of broken bones which wed prefer to avoid.

We returned to conversation about what I could achieve in my two weeks observation. It was clear that the term observationwas a misnomer. Any thoughts I had about sitting quietly at the back making notes were quickly dispelled. Id be involved in the life of the school and would be expected to take part in the duties and after school clubs.

Its valuable experience for you and takes a little pressure off our hard working staff as well. More fun than sitting in the back taking notes as well!

Absolutely! I replied, unsure of my ability to handle groups of thirty children or present them with anything educationally meaningful with which to occupy their time. Strange, I thought how he had managed to read my mind.

I could enthral them with my MA thesis work of the last year, on the UN Arms Embargo on South Africa, but I couldnt help thinking that this would be of limited appeal. Similarly my forays into Macro and Micro Economics from the big Alchian and Allen book seemed lacking in colour. The work Id completed with Jones the Industry on the French social historian, Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie on the Peasants of Languedoc certainly had colour but was a little removed from the traditional primary school syllabus. I had a summer to become interesting, interesting enough to engage large groups of easily bored ten and eleven year olds. It seemed something of a tall order.

I glanced beyond the fish tank that had been turned into a worm habitat, I was sure there was a name for this but I couldnt for the life of me remember what it was, and across the playground where the ringing of the bell by the duty staff had heralded the end of morning break. I wondered if I was making a huge mistake inflicting myself on the young minds of Clifton Without Primary School..

The Head, it appeared, had no such doubts and he popped up out of his office chair and ushered me out of the room to meet Ieuan Morgan, who was just starting a preparation period as his class were going over to morning Assembly where the Head would corral them.

Hiya, Davy boy. Ieuan opened, shaking my hand in his bear-like paw. good to meet you.

When he heard my pronunciation of Ieuan, he stopped and eyed me suspiciouslyNot Welsh are you most people struggle with my name?

I confirmed that I was and that I had grown up next to a Ieuan and that my mums family were originally from Tonypandy.

Tonypandy is a sort of watchword in Wales. To be from Tonypandy in the Rhondda Valley with its coal and radicalism was to be at the epicentre of working class Welsh culture. In Tonypandy, Winston Churchill is remembered more for his part as Home Secretary in sending troops to break a strike in 1910 than for his efforts in the Second World War. I was always proud to be associated with this history, as it appeared was Ieuan, who was from the next community up the valley.

A fellow Socialist then? Im telling you mun, come the revolution well bring the English education system to its knees. If every Welsh teacher in England withdrew their labour every school would be crippled theyd be a nation of ignoramuses without us. The buggers have had our coal and our water, its payback time! and he laughed an unrestrained laugh that echoed down the Victorian corridors of the school,

Only joking, mind, he added in mock seriousness as his laugh subsided, and not before two teachers heads had appeared out of their doors to investigate the uproar. havent got time for Nationalists me, too small-minded and chauvinistic for my liking Im a nationalist for eighty minutes when we play rugby and ninety when we play football and thats my lot! Right, come on over to Learning Central thats my classroom, and well get this gig on the road.

This, my first encounter with Ieuan, proved typical of the man.

Learning Central was a mobile classroom which, from the outside, had clearly seen better days. There was rot where the glass met the window frame and the sage green paint that was always used to decorate the panels of mobile classrooms was sun-bleached and flaking in places. All in all it cut quite a forlorn picture as a seat of learning and I wondered if Ieuan had been quarantined out in the furthest corner of the yard in an effort to contain his infectious enthusiasm.

We entered the vestibule and Ieuan attempted to close the warped outer door in an effort to keep out the latest shower. Along the outer wall of the vestibule were the names of every child above the appropriate name peg. Each child had decorated their coat peg in a way that reflected their interests, there were trains and aeroplanes for the boys, business suits and, what I took to be pop singer garb for the girls. Someone called Cookie had broken ranks and opted for a remarkably accurate scaled drawing of a concert piano.

Ieuan stopped at the entrance door to the classroom and theatrically drew my attention to a large wooden sign with beautifully executed Gothic script on it,.

Tremble all those who enter this Learning Room!

Better explain this said Ieuan Truth is youve got to set a tone and have them treating the room with respect. The buggers need to know this is where the serious action takes place, were not messing around when we enter the room. You are meant to leave it somehow better than you came in. So we have a little ritual like, where we all stop and tremble before we enter gives a little pause for thought and no-one can say that they dont understand what we are about beyond the door.

He stood stock still as if transfixed and then started to shake his hands and ululate building into a crescendo after about five seconds and sharply truncating this with the word Learning! and a flick of the fingers of the left hand.

I know it seems daft, he continued, but it is the best way Ive found to get everyone focussed and it means that they have fewer excuses to mess about once they cross the threshold. I came up with it because kids were turning up late with the wrong attitude. This way, everyone wants to be there for the Learning chant and they enter the room calm. If you are late you just get to say Learning and touch the door frame not half as much fun. Do yknow, I reckon it is worth one to two minutes of what would have been wasted time at every break. My varmints are always first off the playground because of it. Lateral thinking see! and he made the gesture that Id only ever seen my dad use.. tapping his head he said Up there you want it! and pointing to his feet, and down there for dancing!

Look, he continued, Ill not insist on it now but dont let me down on this it works because we all take part in it so Ill need you to go through our little ritual every time you enter the room.

I liked the idea, just as one might appreciate a West End show, but I had no real desire to take part in it. It looked like I wasnt going to have an option. Clearly my observation was going to be far more active than Id hoped.

As we entered the room a lad jumped up from the piano, clearly he had been responsible for the intermittent notes Id heard as we crossed the playground. My first thought was that he was in some form of detention but his words belied this,

Cup of tea for you and our guest, sir he asked smiling.

Smashing Cookie, thats the ticket!

How do you like your tea sir? Cookie asked.

Milk no sugar please. I replied trying to define how I should react to a pupil.

This is Cookie, our resident genius, he mouths the answer to me when Im left flummoxed. Ive had him propping me up for two years now, I really dont know what Im going to do without him.

Cookie was busily mashing the tea into three school mugs and I wondered who the third one was for. He was quite a slender boy with a winning smile and the beginnings of laughter lines at the creases of his eyes. His eyes were his most prominent feature, deep brown disks with almost luminous whites of the eye. This gave him both lightness and an intensity. His hair was styled in what Id once been reprimanded for as a Beatle Cut. This style seemed to be contrived to hide as much as possible of his rather low slung and protruding ears. The fringe crossed his forehead about a quarter on an inch above his eyebrows in a style that Id once been warned would provide a breeding ground for spots where the greasy hair met the greasy forehead! Cookie still had a few years to go before having to worry about the onset of puberty and greasy foreheads I surmised, the lucky lad all those bodily changes to look forward to!

His clothes were particularly neat and tidy. Grey shorts, similar to the ones I wore as a child, and a crisp white shirt which had obviously been lovingly engaged to a fastidious iron for some time. He rested the third cup of tea on the desk next to the piano and went back to tinkering with the keys and making changes to some music which was propped up on the stand. I looked quizzically at Ieuan, not sure how openly I could talk with a pupil present. He picked up on my nervous eye movement and ventured,

Dont mind Cookie, hes my oppo, my trusty lieutenant, arent you Cookie?

Cookie smiled and nodded distractedly as he made another amendment to the note sequence on his music sheet.

Besides said Ieuan, He needs to crack on with the music for next weeks concert. Bit of a musical genius is our Cookie, well all round genius really. He has written the Autumn Concert for us and he just needs to fettle some pieces for the soloists. Great idea as well The Life and Times of Guido Fawkes really topical as well as he was educated just down the road like. Give Mr Hughes a blast maestro!

I braced for a nursery rhyme chant and was met by what was clearly a full orchestral piece. After thirty seconds of what I would have sworn was the work of a Beethoven or Liszt, Cookie came to a crescendo and sat still, his fingers spread over the combination of keys he had last played.

Ieuan, picked up on my open mouth disbelief and whispered, Never underestimate what can be achieved when sufficient encouragement and support is given! More quietly, out of Cookies earshot he continued, Cookie certainly has a gift, but so has every other child you come across the secret of teaching is finding and developing it.

Cookie, have you calculated this weeks attendance and done the dinner money reconciliation?

The answer was a nodded yes from the distracted Cookie.

Then be a scout and take it over to the Secretarys office for me then see if we can be the first to hand them in again! And dont let on that youve been doing them will you or Ill be shot and then where will you be Ill tell you with a normal teacher telling you to complete exercises 13 to 24 from page 60 onwards and you wouldnt want that would you!

No sir I wouldnt! said the smiling Cookie as he gathered up the register and the large envelope containing the dinner money and the calculations of which pupil had paid what. I sorted Julie from the tontine. added the disappearing Cookie.

Good lad Cookie, thats the ticket, not a word mind you!

I looked at Ieuan at the mention of the word Tontine, as I hadnt reckoned the word or the concept of a community social fund had travelled beyond Wales. Ieuan picked up on my quizzical stare.

Weve a scam going on the dinner money. It can be awkward and embarrassing when a family sometimes hit lean times. There are some proud people here and Cookie and I make sure that everyone can count on a cooked dinner without too much administration he spat out the last word with some venom.

But cant people apply for Free School Meals if their income falls below a certain level?

Yes indeed. But let me ask you this did you receive a full grant for your three years at university?

I reddened at the thought of the paperwork Id filled in on my parentsbehalf outlining their income and having official confirmation that it constituted so small a sum that I qualified for a full grant. I remembered my parentsrelief that I was guaranteed that my education was not going to be compromised by their financial circumstances, like theirs had been by the Great Depression and Second World War. But there had also been embarrassment that a lifetime of hard work had not lifted them, in their late fifties, out of the clutches of a state handout.

I nodded yes.

Well what youve just been playing out in your head is exactly the mixture of embarrassment and shame that the parents applying for Free School Meals go through - not nice is it.

He said capturing my embarrassment precisely.

So, whilst we cant stave off the inevitable for some people, we can make sure that they are not disadvantaged in the short term and it takes a while to process FSM paperwork anyway. So we even things up a bit I put in some of my wages and we cream off a small amount from the takings of the Annual Fayre. Its a journey mun, everyone gets on the coach, and no-one no-one is left behind.

It was the most eloquent exposition of Socialist values in action Id heard and seen in a long time.

With you! I replied, meaning not only that I understood what had been said, but also I was with the enterprise on a philosophical level.

Non Pasaran! They Shall Not Pass! Not Thatcher and not one of her bloody minions! winked Ieuan, his voice betraying a steely determination in the wake of a few months of Tory rule.

Ieuan rooted out some documents about the work we would be doing in the next fortnight and I took the time to shuffle uncomfortably on the chair.

So where did Cookie learn to play like that?

Im not sure, he hasnt access to a piano at home, but his dad was a big NUR man, worked at York Station, and I think he started playing at the local Workingmens Club. Either his dad was an inordinately heavy drinker or he learnt very quickly because he has been playing and composing like that from the time Ive taught him. Light the fire Davy bach in them rather than under them, thats the secret. Musics not my strongpoint, played trumpet at school, but havent had call to reveal my embrouchure in many a year, if you get my drift.

I didnt as I was not familiar with the term embouchure nor the workings of the trumpet. E mbrouchure had the sound of a sun tan lotion to it though, but that hardly fitted the context.

I just make sure he gets as much piano time as I can so that the lad can get on with it. Youll meet his mam later, shes a cleaner here, works well really as he can play for an hour and a half after school and then head off for tea with his mam. Im a bit worried about how he will fair in the Big School next year though, doubt that they will be as accommodating, which would be a pity, still he can always pop back here after school.

Ieuan talked me through what was planned for the next fortnight. My idea of him as a chaotic influence was laid to rest by the military precision of his planning. Every child had an individual pathway through the work, with key points to draw out highlighted in different coloured pens. The main themes were highlighted as well as excursions into individual topics which would appeal to what he knew of each pupils interests, and he knew a lot. Under mathematics, geometry, he had written navigation exercise. Id asked how that was going to work and he outlined a complete theory for the teaching of mathematics.

It appeared that as a child he, and me as it turned out, had found maths difficult when there wasnt a context and easy when we could capture a problem in our heads.

Area, see, that was always easy, it was always a garden that needed lawning or a room that needed carpeting simple once you had the picture. But Algebra incredibly difficult because I didnt know what x and y were see had they been eggs or counters, Im sure I could do it, but no-one could tell me what they were, see so I couldnt get my head around the problem. So I try and make everything visual to start off with so that they always have an image to work from. So next week we take the models of the lighthouse, the harbour, the headland and the oil tanker, which has now turned into an aircraft carrier, we made in art last week and we place them at carefully marked spots in the Hall. Weve made theodolites out of a protractor and some string and paper and we should be able to make an accurate scale model of the Hall with all these features. They can mark out the angles between the features and we can check them with the master protractor in the centre of the Hall. Every team will produce a scale map and can convince themselves of its accuracy by measuring with the tape measure. What do you think?

I was amazed that he had such confidence in the children to engage with a problem of this complexity.

Nonsense. he replied testily. Weve been working on changing attitudes for two years Id be insulted if they werent up to it and actually this is just the taster for the main course which is a scale map of our playing fields and buildings. Ive blagged the use of a proper theodolite for a week from a parent who is a surveyor, itll be brilliant! Better still, after school Ill work with a volunteer team of pupils and well map the whole York skyline from the centre of our playing field itll be a work of historical importance mun something they can tell their grandchildren about, we can link it to photographs and have it properly printed so each one of them can have it presented to them when they leave the school but they dont know that yet so keep stum!

I was overwhelmed by his enthusiasm, the intricate planning and major scrounging which was underpinning the enterprise and the understanding for making the difficult conceptual elements real and visual.

Brilliant! was all I can muster.

Glad you like it so which piece are you going to teach Ill launch with you on Monday and you can teach Tuesday then.

I looked at him for a hint of a smile but he appeared deadly serious. He handed me a copy of his master plan and asked to see my annotations for what I was doing on Tuesday by close of play on Monday. I sensed my weekend ebbing away in indeterminate planning for children I had not even met yet, to a standard that I considered to be close to Nobel Prize winning.

The bell sounded and I heard the avalanche of small feet crossing the yard noisily as the class returned from the Assembly. The chatter subsided as they lined up in the vestibule. Ieuan made a hushing gesture and from outside the room there was a loud ululation, a stamping of feet and, after five seconds, a cry of Learning! the door opened and a cascade of children lit up the room as they made their way to their desks and settled themselves for work.

Children, even of this age, were quite intimidating on mass and I momentarily reviewed career options, believing I had neither the skill nor the patience to achieve what Ieuan had achieved so seemingly effortlessly.

When they had settled down, Ieuan launched into his lesson

You see before you a happy and contented man. Proud I am, that apart from Phillips visit to the dentist, never much fun at the best of times, (Phillip nodded in agreement at this point) we have achieved 100% attendance for the third week. Our esteemed Headteacher has asked if we can make it four weeks in a row. To be honest, I said that I didnt think we could, that it would be pushing you too hard. Four weeks in a row that would be next door to impossible - what do you think!

The children rose as one to declare their commitment to a fourth week of full attendance. Ieuan turned to me and winked conspiratorially. Well, if you insist, Ill let the Headteacher know that 6M are up for it!

There was a quick cheer which was subsided with the raising of an outstretched left hand.

The sun is shining, the weeks heavy work is done, and Ive arranged Art and PE on the field for this afternoon, followed by the award of certificates for this great week. Jane have you counted the nominations, and do you have the results?

A pig-tailed girl in a floral dress, white socks and black shoes affirmed that she had done the required calculations.

Good lass Jane keep them guessing over lunch. So, all in all, we all have a wonderful weekend ahead of us.

There was a murmur of satisfaction of a hard weeks work rewarded and then an air of anticipation fell on the class.

So, that leaves us half an hour before lunchtime. How to fill it, that is the question. See, what we have here is a hiatus. Ieuan wrote the word very deliberately on the board, and unprompted the children all reached into their desks and consulted their dictionaries. I was hoping he would not turn to me for a definition at this point as Id probably have given myself a hernia trying to come up with a form of words to describe the word in a way that ten year olds would understand.

Hiatus is our word for the weekend and you must aspire frantically to use it in a conversation with the folks at home and report back their reaction on Monday.

The children had whooshed with delight on Ieuans heavy pronunciation of frantically he explained later that he was on a mission to restore the colour to life and that involved the liberal use of adjectives to seed sentences with colour and vibrancy. The use of the adjective was the mark of the person at one with the world, as was despising the universal adjective, the one used when nothing better could be thought of and that word, that terrible word was nice.

But wait, how remiss of me, Ive forgotten the most important job of the day and that is to introduce Mr Hughes, a teacher of some repute, who will be joining us for a fortnight beginning on Monday. You have three minutes to ask Mr Hughes twenty questions to ascertain what measure of man he is. Starting now!

I was so pleased Ieuan had not used the word student teacherto describe me as I thought that based on my own proclivities at their age, Id have believed open season had been declared on the hapless buffoon standing in front of them and trying not to twitch too nervously.

There was an initial silence as the children formulated their questions and I steeled myself for the inevitable What is your favourite colour, which football team you support, what type of car do you drive?

Sophie ventured forward first, If your house was on fire what would be the three precious things youd be determined to save?

Having constructed a less than coherent answer to that question Mark asked,

What do you think about the Beeching cuts to the railways in the sixties?

In a railway town, this was a question of some importance, and I was able to put together a more spirited response of opposition to the work of Dr Richard Beeching which was well received.

The questions were unrelenting and rivalled the grilling a politician might suffer on Question Time. I was pleased when question 20 was finally answered.

In this time, Ieuan had moved imperceptibly to the armchair at the opposite side of the room to his desk and the pupils were now baying like Labradors to be released from their desks to sit on the red carpet at his feet. With a gesture he beckoned them over with the words,

This is no hiatus, this is the highlight of the week, Question Time with Mr Hughes followed by the latest instalment of Tales of the Mabinogi, so proud am I of you achievements this week!

I couldnt believe that of all the books, this was the one he was sharing with his class a classic book of Welsh folk lore, as read to me by the venerable Mr Ambrose a decade before. I sat as rapt as any of the pupils as Mr Morgans voice galloped and pirouetted through the tales of Celtic derring-do and intrigue.

The chapter ended with the abrupt closure of the tome to a cry of disappointment from the children as they imagined the fate of Pryderi. All further conversation was lost to the insistent sound of the lunch bell and Ieuan bade them tidy up quickly before heading out to lunch.

Carol and Jackie, remember what we said about young Anna spend some time with her over lunch time and make sure she is O.K. and has plenty to eat

It transpired that young Anna had her father in hospital at the moment with a heart problem and she was consumed by worry and was skipping meals. Carol and Jackie were the task force assigned to ensure she had a hearty lunch today, and as it was fish, chips and mushy peas, served family style, with the elder pupils serving the younger ones, I was confident that Anna would receive more than her just desserts today.

Right, lunch duty, lets get cracking! and we moved briskly into the playground. Ieuan stepped into and out of hopscotch, football and skipping games. I became a rather awkward spectator. I was happy to join in the games, indeed I had a very good reputation with my younger cousins as a fun sort of older cousin, but I found it difficult to square this with my new developing role as a professional teacher. I was conscious that Ieuan was a one-off and I knew I could not simply mimic his easy relationship with the kids, that would take more effort than the two weeks observation afforded.

I drifted away from Ieuan, reckoning he would not want me as his shadow and that I would have to make my own way forward with the pupils. I felt as awkward as the Prince of Wales looking for a meaningful question to ask any youngsters who might listen What do you do?crossed my mind and was dismissed. Who are you?seemed too intrusive asked by an adult they did not know so I just tried to look in control, walking round in no specific direction and stopping at certain points to survey the domain. A morning of transformation from amateur student to professional teacher was proving too much for me.

Currently I seemed to be looking like a professional bollard standing in my dark trousers and light grey sports jacket in the middle of a writhing mass of ball playing, hula hoop totting, screaming humanity. Id spent the last five minutes practising where to put my hands. In my pockets? Too slovenly. Behind my back? Too austere and military, too Prince Phillip. Id settled for by my sides and was now working this into a causal yet affirmative stance which said, avuncular with clear boundaries.

I was suddenly aware that a small and rather grubby hand had slipped into mine. I froze for a second unsure of what the protocol was in such situations. My first thought was to withdraw immediately but the little hand was now pulsating, willing me to engage hers and offer some security. Despite the inner uneasiness, I tightened my grasp and looked down to see who was so desperate for such reassurance. I expected the little girl to look up but she didnt. She clutched a rag doll to her chest with her left hand, the thumb of which she was sucking incessantly. She was latched on my hand with her other. Looking down on her I saw that her hair was black and matted. Her grey faded dress had an iron burn on the shoulder and looked as if it had seen previous ownership. She looked pathetically thin and abandoned.

I realised that it was not me personally she had fixed on, any adult would do. She simply wanted reassurance. She was flotsam and jetsam in this world and I was the first buoy with which she had made contact.

I wondered what had made her so indiscriminate in her need for reassurance that she would clasp the hand of a stranger in a crowded playground, but realised that this was a desperate track along which I did not want to tread.

I began to walk slowly around the playground and my partner promenaded with me right up until the bell sounded to announce the afternoon session. At which point he clasped my hand tighter for a second and disappeared off to her class without so much as a backwards glance.

Well done. said Ieuan Susie found you then? See thats the thing that kids and dogs have in common they can spot a phoney you cant fool Susie. If Susie has decided you are OK with all her problems, then you are OK with me! Right, go and get some lunch and bugger off back to your ivory tower for a weekend of sin and debauchery, you lucky sod! To get the fish and chips, tell them Ieuan sent you, and play the hungry student look for all its worth!

Actually, could I join your class for the afternoon to see them in action? I asked, not wishing to sound too Uriah Heep, but keen to see Ieuan handle the afternoon session and pick up further tips for the following week.

Good man, no problem if you are sure I measure up to the alternative, which is an afternoon of idle student loafing not mocking it mind, miss it dreadfully really! Get your fish and chips down you and Ill see you on the field in half an hour.

So started my two week introduction to the art of teaching.

• Copyright for Resolution by Ambrose Conway lies with David Hughes. No part of whole of this extract can be copied, stored, reproduced or distributed in any known or future format without the express permission of the author.

Cymraeg yn dilyn (Welsh follows)

'Deck the hall with boughs of holly'. Well,I'vecleared the decks,inside and out, not that I meant to do any outside clearing. It was just that I had to clean the shed.

It happened like this. I was in a 'Santa's Grotto' recently, where there was an arrayof sparkly decorations and I heard a man say to his companion, who was looking at the wreaths, 'Don't buy any more tat', which I thought a bit mean of him, it being the season of goodwill, sort of thing.

Ifelt quite smug because last year I bought awreath from this particular shop. It had velvety leaves, dark green underneath, but brighter where the fairy lights illuminated themand red, luscious berries. I'd wrapped the wreath up carefully after Christmas and put it on a shelf in the shed, where it waswaiting for me to bring it out of hibernation. It was ready tograce our walls for a few festive days again and I could even imaginea Christmas robinperchingon it and singing a'Winter Wonderland' tune.

With a skip in my step, I went to the shed to get the garland.The floor was scattered withshreds of polythene, like tatty confetti.I unwrapped the wreath and found the berries had been gnawed. My beautiful wreath had been destroyed by a vandal. We'd had an unwelcome visitor, who had eaten my prized decoration.

An hour or two later,a humane trap was in place. Next day, there was no sign of 'Miss Mouse' but thetrap was lined with leaves. (From this we realised it was a pregnant rodent).

But by the next morning,a little mouse witheyes glittering like anthracite, was poking her nose out of the entrance. Peter took the trap and occupant down to a nearby field and released her. Ungratefully, she tried to bite him. He stayed long enough to see her make her wayinto the bank.

A few days have passed and there are no more mousey goings on in the shed. Apparently, they can squeeze in through the tiniest of holes.

Since this happened, we have become experts on mice. Neighbours have told us to bait a trap with chocolate; mice muchprefer it to cheese.

I wondered if we should have made a nest in a cardboard box and let the mouse live there, rent-free, until the mice-kittens had been born. Peter looked at me for a few moments when I suggested this before saying: 'No'.

When it is cold and frosty, like now, mice look for warmth and shelter, but when it is a warm winetr, they breed profusely. We should have re-housed the mouse at least half a mile away, because they can find their way back.

I caught a mouse in a humane trap a few years ago, released it in the garden, where it turned around and ran straight back in. Ah, well, 'Good lodgings', as a neighbour said.

I understand that by now this may be getting a bit tiresome but I can tell you it's a lot more tiresome for me, anyway somebody asked me to explain my problem so here we go again:
My pub/bar burned down in February 2009 so I've been out of work for almost two years without pay not being entitled to insurance nor dole. There are people who are willing to help me rebuild the pub but I don't own the walls I just run the business, therefore I have to reply to these gentle people that I have nothing to do with the rebuilding, I only come into the picture on getting the keys, probably next May. The pub will have been repainted and electricity installed BUT it will be empty, I will need help to procure tables & chairs; a small coffee machine; music is all important so I will need material such as a small computer to hold my iTunes collection, an amplifier and speakers; a lamp; dart board, and various items to help replace all the lost memorabilia, most of which was unique having been built up over 30 years. So you see, I have plenty of volunteers willing to work for nothing to aid me in the rebuilding, but unless I get help to refurnish I'll be taking over an empty pub.

'Come and let us make good cheer, For Christmas comes but once a year'.

My thoughtsare turning to feasting and frivolity andmince pies in particular.

To elucidate, I'mthinking ofa mixture of dried fruits, spices and suet, encased in pastry.

I makepastrywitha mixture of butter andlard rubbed intoflour with cold finger-tips, all bound together with an egg yolk andcondensed milk, if the dish issweet. (Rest the pastryin the 'fridge for ten minutes or so before rolling out).

I used to makemincemeat from scratch, but now I buy a jar, stir in somegrated apple, a squeezed tangerineand a wine glass ofbrandy. This is to reduce the proportion of suet and to add an individual touch.I roll the pastry thinly,cutting it into rounds before arrangingeach circle in a deep patty tin, dolloping generous spoonfuls of mince into each little nest,lettingthe gooey sweetness brim over.

Idon't like a pastry lid; instead Iput a circle of marzipan over thepies,five minutes before they are ready to come out of the oven.Mince pies should be eatenhot, even if it means re-heating themlater. (Filo pastry is a good alternative to shortcrust).

People holdstrong viewsaboutpies. Kate and I prefer an Eccles cake to a mince pie, but Peter maintains that shop bought Eccles have too much fat in the pastry, which sticks to his palate. He's also noticed thatthe currants are small and gritty. ('Epicurius's own son was he', or a close relative. Goodness, haven'tI spoilt that man). Emma avoids the pies, if she can.

Originally, C16th or so, the 'mince' in the 'Chriseemas day in the morning' pies was meat, usually beef, mixed with chopped suet to add moistness. Cooks, being inventive creatures, began adding currants and some spices. (Spices were enormously prized and priced. They addedfragrance and taste to the pies and, contrary to popular belief, they were not there to cover the smell of rotting flesh).

Gradually, the pies changed their savoury nature and evolved into sweetmeats.The pie case was known as a coffin and this did notseem to diminishthe popularity of the pie in any way.

As a young wife, I used to read 'Good Housekeeping' avidly.The magazine suggested that after the main course and pudding onChristmas Day, you went on to mince pies and coffee. We tried it once, but found it hard going. (If we'd been cows,withfour compartments to our stomachs, it might have been ok).

I make very small mince pies, just a taste, because they are laden with calories. Then you can have some Christmas Log, (buche de Noel), some Christmas Cake, some sherry trifle with split almondsand glace cherries on the top, somemeringuey Pavlova, followed by violet chocolates and nougat with pecan nuts (my favourite sweet of all).

As they said in Florida, when we were there the week before Christmas, one year:Felice Navidad.