What monster have we created? Full of enthusiasm (and still high on the residual euphoria of the summer) we embraced Pan and bought a set of tinwhistles. Being slightly less melodic than my colleagues, I launched forth with the middle classes in our establishment. Now, my most accomplished piece to date is The Dawning of the Day but I can do a mean Twinkle, Twinkle so I reckoned this thing could run and run. The possibilities were endless - maybe even a school band and Christmas carols in the local shopping centre.

So, whistles oiled and ready, we started. Cathal was on a loser from the start. He tried to put his thumbs over the holes.

The principles of gravity apply in the music lesson too. It fell.

And as for blowing - they "putted" into them. Now, they could hardly be described as lacking in the oxygen department in the schoolyard, so where were we going wrong? What's that Lauren Bacall said about whistling? You just put your lips together and blow? Same principle, a phaisti . . .

Anyway, I decided that Turn on the Sun was the natural progression from the scale. You only lifted up the bottom fingers, so the old motor skills weren't being over-stretched here. Or so I thought. O Sweet Jerusalem! The Wailing Wall how are you?

Discordance exploded as rhythm, resonance and any semblance of a tune were lost in a cacophony of epic proportions. This went on for about a fortnight. Eventually, talent won through in some cases and the embryo of an air was formed. The plodders plodded, the tone-deaf squeaked and then there were the musically lethargic - talent clouded by a haze of laziness.

"Did you practise at all, Conor? Did you even take the whistle out of your school-bag?"

"Well, teacher, I practised this morning while I was waiting for the bus." No polygraph needed there.

Then, the more honest: "Mammy said she'd use the whistle on me if I didn't put it up." And the upfront, if uncreative: "I forgoh".

By January, carols (or rather the lack of them) are a running joke in the staffroom, but we have a decent repertoire of four or five mini-tunes. I resist the urge to tell Ciara to just finger, not blow, but what the hell, she's enjoying herself. Cathal has started messing, shaking the whistle vigorously and releasing a spray of saliva on his unsuspecting classmates. "This is boring," he mutters under his breath.

"Fine, so, we'll all give it up," I retort, knowing this will bring howls of dissent from the others.

Just then, our principal arrives, with a selection of lost property in tow. "Oh, no you won't," is her judgment. "Your parents paid for those tin-whistles, and you have two choices. You can either play them or eat them," she threatens, and with that, she is gone.

I think she was joking, but I've a feeling it might turn out to be a case of "pass the ketchup" for Cathal. Ah, well, bon appetit . . .