I am either a brutally bad teacher or everyone in the room is having a bad week. They do not seem to be taking in a single thing I have said since Monday morning. Well, Monday morning. Forget that for a start. The quietest few hours all week. They are comatose, zonked, ina gcodladh go samh. They all seem to have gone without sleep since Friday evening. They have seen all the late-night shows and some are regulars in the local pubs. You see, a trend has started in our area where you bring your child out boozing with you. Cheaper than getting a babysitter and a perverse way of practising a little family bonding. They are so sleepy the morning after that they just slump and grunt their way through my vain attempts at the Tuiseal Ginideach.

Incomprehension reigns from there on. You would think that the word percentages had never been uttered between these four walls, instead of flogged to death over a two-week period. Yet when I suggest that they express 55 out of 60 as a percentage you would think that I had requested a demonstration in quantum physics on their part. Percentages, wha tha? I estimate my blood pressure and start the deep breathing. In, out . . . I don't want to die here, Lord. A little dignity is all I ask. Just get me as far as Sos, where caffeine and Club Milks might just jump-start the system for another couple of hours.

Later, the conversation drifts inexplicably towards the cost of babysitting. A bit of ad hoc maths crops up (Cross-Curricular expert that I am I take advantage of it). £32.75 per hour for four hours. How much? They look like they can handle this, and most of them do. Then, on a wave of enthusiasm, I move on. How much for babysitting for four hours every night for a week? Forget the labour laws in the interest of mental arithmetic. Peter is looking coolly confident as he completes his computations. "£6," he announces. "Explain!" I demand starting the breathing again. "Well, £11 a day take away five days is £6." And he has the gall to question my horror at his mathematical shortcomings.

But I cannot face history. I know what awaits me. We are due to delve into the first World War and it must wait until another day, until they come to the realisation that a chain of small events can eventually trigger off a major catastrophe. Are ye listening lads? There's only so much one Oide can take.

Things looked up temporarily when we broached religion. They are all morally astute, even if it is from the mouth out. They have all the right answers, and that is all I require for now. My responsibility to them ends at 3 p.m. After that, they're someone else's problem. And for that I am truly grateful.