STAFFROOM: Evan is new to our school. He arrived unheralded on a wet Monday in January. Dark mutterings about a change being needed and discipline problems where he had come from.

We gave his parents a book list and wondered what we were letting ourselves in for.

Once he was installed, he became just another second classer, albeit one with a new uniform that stood out like a beacon in a room full of faded navies and too-short trouser legs.

That is, until he found his feet around half past eleven on his first day. And his voice.

Honesty seemed to be his virtue of choice. As in "That boy is really annoying me. I don't like the way he talks." And then, "I hate Irish. I'm not going to do that exercise." Right!

Now, if he were a little more weathered I'd use my favourite admonition in a case like this - "In your dreams!" But I settle for a suggestion that he has a go and we'll talk about it at break.

Later, he lightens the tone during religion by whistling. Aloud. As I'm extolling the virtues of the Good Shepherd he is blasting out a tuneless stream. My class is amazed. One or two even venture a snigger.

He stops, regards my bemused expression and announces, "I can do Spancil Hill on the tin whistle too, you know."

Later, we talk. I fill him in gently on acceptable practices in our corner of the world. He listens solemnly and nods.

So far, so good. Then, he opines, "I can see what you're getting at, I suppose. But, you know, you'd want to lighten up a bit."

Maybe he's right. But as honesty is in the air I'm tempted to counter, "And you'd want to button up a bit too."