Just how important is that OP score?

Introduced in 1992, the Overall Position (OP) is a tertiary entrance rank used in Queensland for selection into universities. Akin to comparable systems used throughout the rest of Australia, the OP shows how well a student has performed compared to all other OP-eligible students in Queensland.

The night before last, the state’s OP scores were released to frightened, excited and anxious high school graduates all over our state. Slack, slipshod mother that I am, I was unaware of this fact and it wasn’t until late yesterday that seventeen year old daughter Lulu, sombrely informed me of her result.

Let down and dissatisfied, she confidentially requested of her big-mouthed mother to, “Please don’t tell anyone what I got.”

I looked at her final school report which had arrived in the mail while I was away last week.

There was certainly nothing to be ashamed of.

She’d passed everything including top level Mathematics, Chemistry and Biology which her recalcitrant, algebra-challenged mother would have had no hope in hell of accomplishing. (In fact it just took me five goes at spelling ‘recalcitrant’ correctly.)

“Seven per cent in Mathematics!” screeched my own mother when she perused my GRADE TEN report back in the day. I’d earned seven points out of one hundred on my final test, although I must add I’d been placed twentieth in a class of thirty students even with that miserable result. Let’s just say Mathematics was not my forte but I do feel our teacher may have had some questions to answer. I dropped Maths in grade eleven and twelve as it wasn’t compulsory back then and even now still scratch my head at long division.
Lulu has a high enough score to get into the science degree she wants to do and that’s good enough for me. 

Sure… if there’d been less partying; less boy stuff, less Facebook, I’m sure she could have done better, but perhaps it has all been an effective lesson in life for her.

You know, 

Padraic (eighteen year old son), on the other hand, went down the Vocational Education Training (VET) road in grade eleven and twelve so he wasn’t eligible for an OP score.

Imagine my amazement when I received a text from my friend Kyles last night,

“Holy shite!!!!! Padraic got an OP 4. Congrats! All those English assignments you did for him paid off.”

I checked his Facebook page and sure enough he’d posted “OP4 :)”  on his timeline.

Nice and subtle like...



He had over eighty ‘likes’ on the post. Cheeky little bugger.

Is there a lawyer in the house?

I don’t think we’ll be seeing a shortage of lawyers in the near future. Yesterday we watched Jonah receive his law degree along with 339 others at the Queensland Performing Arts Centre.

The Chancellor of the University delivered his speech and then we clapped three hundred and forty times as each recipient (very S-L-O-W-L-Y) stepped up to shake his hand. Jonah was one of the first which meant Pinky lost interest in the proceedings fairly quickly. At one stage I leaned over to my ex-husband’s lovely wife, Arlette, and dramatically mimed slitting my throat. She nodded in agreement rolling her eyes as if to say, “Kill me now!”

Finally, the last graduate had received their diploma and Arlette and I began joyously fishing around on the floor for our handbags but were quickly and disappointingly stymied. 

Oh no… some old judge was yet to give another long-winded exposition on something to do with political landscapes and legal ramifications blah, blah, de-bloody blah.

When the ceremony had finally finished, I woke up my Dad and we all shuffled out into the foyer to await the arrival of the golden child, Jonah, in order to snap some photos of him in his academic gown.

                              Jonah and Pinky

Jonah’s father Ralphie, was so enormously proud of his second son (who is following in his legal eagle footsteps) it almost brought a tear to my eye. 

                           Arlette, Jonah and his Dad, Ralphie.

                                                         Granddad and Jonah


We quickly absconded to a wonderful restaurant (Jonah had booked) which had the most amazing menu and delicious wine and one I will definitely be bringing Scotto to next time we get down here on holidays.

          (L-R) Nana, Arlette, Granddad, Pinky, Lulu, Ralphie, Jonah

In terms of a family celebration… I’d give it a nine out of ten!

This morning I woke up and assumed it must be… oh, seven o’clock. It was still dark but I felt somewhat refreshed.

I peered at the clock on my phone… Ten-Forty-Five!!!!

Half the day was gone! I haven’t slept in for that long since I was a teenager.

I staggered out of my room to discover Lulu, still deep in dreamland.

(I hope Scotto isn’t reading this and seething with jealousy. Apparently Pablo the Chihuahua kept him up all night last night looking for his mummy.)

We managed to get our act together, met up with Lulu’s gorgeous friend Lily and hit the shops.

                         Lulu and Lily spending up big!

Much more funner than a two hour stint in a Graduation Ceremony.

The girls put up with me for about two hours until they finally grew tired of being nice and let me loose in David Jones while they caught up on the real gossip (not the watered down version).

                                      Get lost Mum!

Can’t wait for tomorrow… I’m getting a new haircut!

How to Survive a Staff Christmas Party

                                      Toni Basil

I read in the newspaper yesterday that staff parties are highly dangerous in the respect that alcohol acts as a truth serum and many people wreck future career prospects with their big, well-oiled mouths.

Last night, I spent six hours in the same room as 100 colleagues and their partners at our "Eighties Themed" staff party. The champagne was flowing but apart from certain staff members hilariously falling off the stage during a dance-off competition, I’m fairly certain there were no serious incidents of inappropriate revelry.

The only foreseeable staff party dangers as far as I’m concerned are the grisly hangover you’re possibly going to suffer the next day, the remorseful and cringe-worthy flashbacks of your own flamboyant ‘sexy’ dancing and… THE PHOTOGRAPHS!

So here are the self-reflective tips I have (after the fact) for avoiding these mortifying issues.

1. Try to block photographs of yourself after a set time (when you’re plastered) so you don’t fall into the trap of pulling outlandish faces, poses or experiencing a wardrobe malfunction.

2. Do a bit of detective work prior to the party when you're deciding on a costume.

It would be such a shame if somebody else turned up in the same outfit!

         Meet...Mario (Mel), Luigi (Scotto), Mario (O'Reilly), Luigi (Rachel)      

3. Make sure you are adventurous in your wardrobe choices. One thing you don't want to do is merely blend in with the scenery.

4. When posing for photos try to stand with perfect posture ...

                       Blondie (Trina), Rubik's Cube (Emmsie), Amy.

If you're snapped leaning against a wall, or worse another body, you could wind up looking like a piss pot.

    Kazza, Emma, Kyles, Pinky, Shazza ... more lean than the Tower of Pisa.

5. No matter how infused with endearment for your beautiful colleagues you are, refrain from repeatedly telling them how much you LOVE them. They will tire of it quite quickly.

                                                  Rachael putting Pinky in a headlock.

6. Just like "planking", photobombing is extremely childish and so yesterday... look it up Greggles. Don't do it!

       Pinky trying to have a nice photo taken with the party mastermind, Kyles.

7. Remember that a group of people have been working hard in the background to make this special night a success.

Offer to help out if you can.

                                                 Pinky Poinker helping to judge the Dance Off.

8. Finally, to avoid that horrible hangover; take two aspirin before you leave for the party and two more when you get home (with a glass of milk). This will prevent inflammation of blood vessels in the brain. It may make your stomach bleed but you won't have a headache in the morning and I know which I'd prefer! 

(This is not authentic medical advice but the voice of experience)

9. If you do wake up feeling as though a bat has shat in your mouth there's always this sure fire way to feel better...

Fur Flies as the End of the School Year Approaches

You can tell we’re nearing the end of the school year…

The fighting, bickering, paranoid behaviour and personal slurs have escalated. 

I’ve witnessed savage elbow jabbing into ribs in tussles at the pigeon holes, eyes rolling in barely concealed impatience and the odd Chinese burn inflicted on an imprudent victim who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time

…and that’s just between the teachers in the staffroom.

Everyone’s tired. Our edges are rapidly fraying and seams splitting revealing the soft, ultra-sensitive underbellies beneath.

The School Guidance Counsellor, Julie, has set up a pamper station in the staffroom laden with bowls of chocolate, hand gels, stress balls, candles and self-help books.

Someone should tell her we need something a little stronger; like Valium and Gin.

Today, after finishing a gruelling lesson on pictographs as I was handing out some practise worksheets I wearily said to the kids, “If anyone is having trouble with a question just give me a ring.”

They stared at me with amusement, “But we don’t have any phones Mrs Poinker!” chimed twenty-eight highly entertained students.

Besides the fact that we teachers are shattered after a long year, it’s also the dreaded Report Card time again.

Writing reports (as I commented on poetically last semester….click here) used to be so simple. My teachers hand-wrote whatever sarcastic criticisms came to mind as they sat with their oil lamps burning and a half empty bottle of sherry beside them.

School Report for Pinky Poinker 1978
English Mrs Wordsmith	Whilst Pinky should be commended on her ability to write an expanded essay based on the title and front cover of the text; “Lord of the Flies” was not about a pig who learns to fly a plane and breaks his glasses, thus causing him to crash the plane into a rainforest riddled with flies. More effort is required in this subject next semester.
Mathematics Mr Pickles	Thank you for the lovely letter you wrote me on your blank test paper, Pinky.  I’m sorry but I can’t pass you even though I am sorry to hear you lost your revision sheets and had a migraine the night before your exam.
Ancient History Miss Seenitall	Quoting two verses and a chorus of “ Rivers of Babylon” by Boney M is not a reflection of Mesopotamian Society in 1893 BC. Pinky should try harder.
Modern History Mrs Churchill	The “Rats of Tobruk” were not actual ‘rats’ and were most certainly not the cause of the Bubonic Plague in Europe in World War Two. Pinky is not reaching her true potential.
Biology Mr Weboflife	If Pinky had spent less time throwing frog entrails around the classroom during dissection in order to make Shirleen Hooper vomit and spent more time doing her assignments (of which she submitted-0) perhaps she may have passed this subject.
Art Mr Dodgy	Who is this Pinky Poinker?  I don’t believe I’ve ever met her. I thought she must have left the school because she’s never been to any classes, ever. Fail.

Teachers must have had FUN writing reports back in those days.

Pinky Poinker tells…Why Teachers Make More Interesting Lovers

So… you’ve just started dating a teacher? Well there are few little things you need to know first…

# If you ring and cancel a date due to sickness you’re going to have to give her a note from your mother.

# If you accidentally call her “Mummy” she’ll just smile indulgently.

# If she catches you playing with your balls she’s going to lock them in the bottom of her desk drawer until the end of term.

# If she catches you showing anyone else your balls she’s going to confiscate them indefinitely.

# If you don’t know how to hold your pencil properly she’ll show you how.

# She’ll insist you be in the correct position when you’re holding your pencil.

# She’ll demand you keep your pencil sharp at all times.

# If you misbehave or argue back you will be required to stand outside the door for five minutes.

# When it’s a rainy day she’ll insist you stay indoors with her all day.

# If you drop by when she’s busy doing marking she will put a G rated movie on and make you watch it without talking for an hour.

# She won’t let you go outside to play without a hat.

# Your phone will be sequestered when you walk through the front door.

# If you have a Pacer she will help you put the lead in your pencil.

# She has plenty of spare rubbers in her drawer.

# You will receive a comprehensive written report on your performance twice a year.

And what happens if two teachers get together?

Why it’s a match made in Heaven of course.

Pinky plays a trick on her class!

Time is rapidly careering towards the end of the school year and I decided since the old teachers’ adage “Don’t smile before Easter” has well and truly fallen by the wayside, it’s time to start having a bit of fun with the kids in my class… a bit of fun at their expense instead of mine for a change.

As you’ve probably guessed, Pinky is not a ‘specialist’ in any particular area due to the fact that I’ve never really ‘stuck’ with anything for an extended enough length of time to develop what many refer to as ‘skill’. 

I prefer to dip my toe into a variety of activities and run away, tail between my legs as soon as I detect the need for perseverance and dedication.

In other words I have no exceptional talent apart from the ability to bend my fingers at a curious angle at the top joint,

 bend my elbow back in a scary alien-type fashion

 and pop the joint on my little finger and wiggle it from side to side. 

(Scotto is remarkably talented and is able to turn his tongue upside down and scallop it into an ‘S’ shape… that’s not why I married him by the way.)

I can, however, count to ten in French.

Hold the applause.

At our school, a ‘bus bell’ rings five minutes before the dismissal bell and the seven kids who catch the early bus gleefully escape the classroom leaving the rest to mope unhappily.

For the past two weeks, the remaining students, under my expert direction, have been secretly learning to count to ten in la langue Francais... after the bus kids leave.

“So… I’m just curious…” I casually asked the class of ten year olds yesterday, “put your hands up if anyone here knows how to count to ten in French?”

Twenty-two hands flailed enthusiastically in the air while the seven cuckolded bus kids stared around the room in baffled astonishment.

“Go on then, prove it!” I demanded.

“Un, deux, trois, quatre….” they went off in an exuberant, froggy chorus of Francophilia.

The bus kids sat in complete and utter confusion. “Am I dreaming, Mrs Poinker? This feels weird,” puzzled a stunned little boy with his eyes bulging out in shock.


Everyone had a big laugh when we fessed up but I think I’m going to have to watch my back. It’s rumored the bus kids are plotting payback on Mrs Poinker.

Bloody Bustards!

Bloody Bustard

Every Friday my class is scheduled to patronise the computer lab. The kids love it because if they complete their designated task in time they get to play computer games.

I, on the other hand, don’t love it at all.

The revolving chairs on wheels are my biggest issue. Twenty-nine kids in one room with dangerously mobile furniture is a nightmarish state of affairs at the best of times, but throw in the fact that last night was Halloween and they were all hyped up on sugar made it all the worse today.

The task I’d set for them was to research Aboriginal translations for a list of randomly selected words like fire, water, possum etc.

I’d found an excellent website to direct them to with only one drawback. There were a few unsuitable words translated on the site such as, buttocks, vagina, penis, testicles, breasts and various other descriptive bodily processes.

“Guys, when you go on this site you might find some…” I searched for the words I needed. I couldn’t say ‘rude words’ because they weren’t exactly rude.

“Um, … names of your private parts…” I stuttered.

Furtive looks were exchanged. 

Quiet sniggers and muffled guffaws were noticeably audible.

“I don’t want you to be silly when you see these words. Just scroll down and don’t pay any attention to them,” I continued lamely, suddenly suspecting I was waving a red rag at a bull.

Now they’d probably deliberately scan the site for the words, write them in their books and go home and call their father a vagina in Aboriginal and I’d get the sack.

O’Reilly, my teaching colleague, told me he’d once found a dictionary left behind by one of his previous grade four students with every single rude word meticulously found and neatly circled in red biro.

“This kid’s dedication was outstanding!” raved O’Reilly. “He’d found hundreds of them.”

Kids just love dirty words.

Back in my day, dictionaries didn’t have any dirty words. ‘Bustard’ was the only word I could find at the age of eleven after relentlessly scouring the text book. 

A bustard is actually a bird but it sounded a lot like ‘bastard’ and gave us a cheap thrill every time we opened the dog-eared page to stare at it.

                                       Heinrich

Unlike his potty-mouthed Auntie, my eight year old nephew Heinrich, never swears. I was having a discussion with him one day about the books he likes to read. The author, Paul Jennings is his favourite.

“I like Paul Jennings too! I read his books to my class all the time!” I enthused.

Heinrich looked a little shocked. “What do you do when you have to read the ‘C’ word out loud to them?” he asked, with a mortified expression.

Racking my brain I tried to remember if I’d EVER seen the ‘C’ word in any of the Paul Jenning’s series. Surely not? I’d have to speak to the Librarian Sue about this. That’s appalling! I thought.

“OH, YOU MEAN CRAP!” I exhaled in relief when it finally dawned on me. “Oh, I just use a different word instead of crap, Heinrich.”

He furrowed his little brow in confusion. I could see him mulling it over in consternation.

“What… like carp?”

Cute, huh?

Why am I a teacher again?

I’ve read that teachers who were crap at Mathematics as a kid are the best at teaching it because they’ve processed the methods of problem solving in their brains in more simplistic terms. This allegedly enhances the teacher’s ability to explain the formulae at the student’s level.

This theory suits me. I remember sitting at the dinner table while my father irritably attempted to help me with my homework and explain simple algebra.

Eventually, after several cracks at getting it through my dim-witted head, he’d yell something like, “Why don’t you understand? Are you stupid?”

Mum would then yell at him, and I’d burst into tears. Poor Dad. I was seriously as thick as a brick.

Who knew my lack of algebraic nous would make me a more empathetic teacher, eh?

However, this morning I braced myself for what I knew would take me to the outer limits of my sanity; delivering yet ANOTHER lesson on converting mixed numbers to improper fractions and vice versa to my fledgling ten year old students.

Before even beginning the activity I was conscious of the rogue muscle in the back of my neck tightening up ominously.

“So…” I chirped brightly, after furiously drawing illustration after illustration on the whiteboard, “now can you see how four and three quarters equals nineteen quarters?”

I desperately scanned the sea of uncomprehending faces.

Clearly, not one of them 'got' it.

The neck muscle delivered a painful spasm.

Grabbing the lolly jar I extracted five jelly snakes. The lollies ensnared the kids’ attention with twenty-eight faces watching me in rapt fascination as I broke four of the snakes into quarters.

“See!” I enthused, counting all the quarters up to nineteen and feeling like the World’s #1 teacher. 

“Do you understand now?”

“Yes, Gilbert?” I’d noticed his saucer-eyed interest and anticipated his hopefully educated comment.

“Can I have those lollies, Mrs P?”

I looked at my watch. Every muscle in the back of my head was squeezing like a disgruntled python and waves of nausea had set in.

It was ten minutes until lunch. ‘There’s one solitary, squished aspirin in my bag but I really should wait until I can take it with food,’ I thought bleakly.

While the kids struggled through the practise sums on the board, and I walked around wondering if I was actually suffering an aneurism, I planned my attack.

I had roughly twenty minutes at morning tea to eat my salad, make a cup of tea, take my painkiller and go to the loo. It was imperative I get that aspirin into my system as soon as possible BUT... I was also busting to go to the toilet. I couldn’t skip it because I had duty at second break and couldn’t hold on until 3:00pm.

No… I’d take my chances. Food and painkiller took precedence.

Finally the bell rang and I sprinted up to the staffroom, grappled through the fridge to find my lunch and set about pouring the dressing on the salad.

“Who’s on duty in the Grade Two area, Pinky?” boomed Emmsie as she stared out the window at the unsupervised Grade Twos who were enjoying their rare freedom and swinging from the rafters.

“Not me!” I bawled back self-righteously.

“Well how come your name’s down on the roster?” she called back.

“SH#T!”

I’d mixed up my f##king duties.

The salad went back in the fridge to wilt itself away until second break and my throbbing headache was granted permission to expand at leisure.

Pinky's Guide to Ideas for Fete Stalls.

                             Rach, Pinky and Emma.

“So what type of stall are you doing at this year’s fete, Pinky?” queried an indifferent Scotto on the eve of his eighth effort of helping me out at my school’s annual fete.

Scotto has endured working on stalls spruiking ugly, clay pots made by my class of six year olds, lampshades decorated by a similar demographic, cake stalls, a second-hand book stall, a haunted house, showbags and a plant stall.

“We’re doing glow-in-the dark stuff and helium balloons,” I replied nervously.

“I’ll agree to sell the glow-in-the-dark stuff but I’m not going near any balloons,” my big, strong, tough, globophobic manly-man spluttered.

Scotto, you see, is frightened of balloons.

Rach, my teaching buddy, Emma and I, had spent a good part of the hot afternoon preparing our stall and were set to go. The fete was set to launch off at 5:30pm and we waited for the onslaught of excitable midgets to descend like a cloud of bats at dusk. We secretly hoped we’d be sold out of stock by 6:00pm.

So… we waited… and waited… and waited.

Apparently glow-in-the-dark paraphernalia is only appealing when it actually gets dark. Who knew?

We could hear our prospective clientele shrieking in exuberant thrill on the oval where the jumping castles and rides were and the sugar-infused hobbits had no intention of visiting our fine stall in any forseeable future.

A couple of world-weary parents rocked up to help out, so Scotto and I decided to go for a wander and check out what creative inspiration the other teachers had dreamed up.

In order to ensure the rugrats were sufficiently hyped up, psyched up and 'sweetened' up, several of my fellow teachers had decided to act as logistics specialists...

         Bea at the chocolate toss... no losers here!

        Fluffed up, multi-coloured sugar! Yay!

               Feeling thirsty after all the salty sugar?

       Try the soft drink toss with Greggles and Kristen!

                                             Or the frozen version!

                        Slushies with Kaz and Jodye...

And of course some take-away sugar via the tombola stall run by Gilly!

Suitably staggering in a zombie-like sugar-coma, the kids were then free to colonise other fun-filled stalls, for instance...

                  Face painting a-la Glenys Da Vinci

             Mystery sock (pick a sock to find a surprise)

             So that's where all those bloody socks go!

          Stick in the Sand (pick a stick to win a prize... I'm                                seeing a pattern here)

And of course entertainment for the parents...

An auction of all the works of art created by their progeny.

The home-made cakes and slices stall manned by Adele   and Emma!

                And of course... the BOOZE BARROW!

(Scotto making a dodgy agreement with Geoff that he'd win the raffle... we're still waiting for the call though.)

The only other stall (apart from ours) which didn't seem to be seeing any action was the plant stall. I wonder why?

               Lee-lee, Dylan and Kyles working hard for the money.

Finally, at 8:30pm the oval was abandoned and the flying monkeys flocked in noisily; surrounding our stall, thrusting sticky fingers clutching crumpled five dollar notes at us, pointing to the various glowing swords, skulls, aliens and fairy wands and jumping from foot to foot in hyperactive mania.

Scotto was so happy when the night was at an end he wet his pants...

No... he didn't really. Not being accustomed to hanging around schools he mistook the water trough for a bench and sat in it!

Oh well, at least it's over for another year.

One man's trash is another man's... trash.

Our school fete is on tonight. We lucky teachers have to work until 10:00pm instead of knocking off at 3:00 pm (like we ever do... hardy-ha-ha).

There's one thing we look forward to though and that is we get to raid the Trash and Treasure stall before the gates open at 5:30pm. 

As soon as we've finished setting up our own stalls we're like a bunch of crazy Boxing Day shoppers, aggressively shoving our way through the doors of David Jones in a frenzied search for that elusive bargain.

We take no prisoners. It was like a cat fight this afternoon and I've the fingernail marks on my bloodied arms to prove it.

All I can say is, it's amazing what people are willing to part with. The generous, albeit pre-loved donations titillated each and everyone of us girls and let me tell you... the bootie I snapped up was worth every elbow in the guts and Chinese burn those other bee-artches delivered.

Carla is the most athletic of us and scored the Dazza's Fishin and Drinkin DVD as well as a cool new hat and an antique camera. Lucky bloody cow!

Plus... she somehow nicked one of the best items on the table without the rest of us seeing... a Wiggle's money bag. 

Adriana's little girl is going to be thrilled with the piggy bank her Mum fought tooth and claw for. The best thing about it is IT STILL HAD ITS BOX!

Then Paula, nabbed the Bob the Builder doll we all had our eyes on using subterfuge and camouflage. (Well... we think it's supposed to be Bob the Builder and it did smell a bit funny).

Tash, who is into decorating and Feng Shui, bigtime... found a delightful Chinese artifact we all agreed probably dates back to at least the 1970s. The K-Martian era?

Christie-lee, the scariest and perhaps most dedicated fossicker of obscure but valuable items, unearthed some old hair curlers and the shelf from a fridge. Damn her!

Bloody Emm, tackled me just as I was about to grab the racing controller for a console (without a console) and beat me to the punch. And to add insult to injury, she brazenly pinched the plastic duck from under my nose.

Emmsie thought she'd discovered a bag of archaic paper clips (possibly worth a lot of money) until we told her they were just some old perming rods.

But Pinky scored big time!!! Here's what I managed to grab before the others...

A bottle of aged shampoo! (Okay, it's clearly already been opened but it's European and that's good, right?)

A barely used French Fry cutter (still in the box).

A slightly rusty corkscrew... for when wine manufacturers finally realise screw-top wine bottles are not really all that convenient.

A kitchen thingy set with a VERY interestingly shaped something in the back right hand corner???

And finally... the best buy in the Trash and Treasure stall...

 a teapot lid. Please, if anyone has a teapot that matches this lid I'm willing to cough up a very good price.

A full, pictorial report on the fete will appear in the very near future.

Please comment on the best thing you've seen at a trash and treasure sale.