Every Local Education Authority is blessed with advisors for each subject. I think they must pop into schools at some point and - um - advise, although I've never come across one in school. I've only ever met advisors at meetings, where they show you snazzy presentations of stuff you should be doing or that they think you should know.
With the never-ending cycles of new initiatives, every now and again some of us are sent to spend the day with the advisors so that we can all get to grips with new acronyms and admire their collections of books that never see the inside of a classroom. Last week I had one of these days: a chance for teachers from all the different schools in the area to get together and drink filtered coffee and catch up on the "who's moving where" gossip at this job-application time of year.
When you're used to working at 100 mph, as the normal schol day demands, it's quite tiring to pootle about on advisory days. Every hour is punctuated by a break of some sort, for coffee and biscuits or for a nice buffet lunch where everyone chastises themselves for having a cream cake but still scoops up platefuls of free grub that would never pass the healthy schools test.
But what made me laugh the most of this week's course was the attitude to the advisors, who showed signs of flagging towards the end of the four hours of work (six including breaks). They had spent half an hour as we worked in groups playing "guess what this acronym stands for" comparing diaries for the coming month, and then declared that everything was so hectic at the moment, and that they were worn out. I just couldn't help laughing to myself when I thought about their working days compared to mine. The most exhausting thing they'd done was to turn on their laptops.
Sunday, 3 February 2008
Saturday, 26 January 2008
Creative Subversion
A new report asks What makes a good teacher? I was glad to see some thought had actually gone into some of the studies and conclusions. A professor from Exeter University...
I'm glad to have some academic backing to my personal approach then. If by "creative subversion" the professor means "read the glossy brochures full of edu-speak and new initiatives, tut at how much money was spent producing them, glance at battered textbooks with a sigh, and use glossy brochures to cut out pictures for projects, knowing we never have the money for the suggested resources"...
...argued for a healthy scepticism towards national policy initiatives. Indeed she advocated that a good teacher should go in for "creative subversion". By this, she meant that teachers should neither passively comply with government initiatives, nor should they point blank refuse to implement them. Instead they should "adapt them creatively".
I'm glad to have some academic backing to my personal approach then. If by "creative subversion" the professor means "read the glossy brochures full of edu-speak and new initiatives, tut at how much money was spent producing them, glance at battered textbooks with a sigh, and use glossy brochures to cut out pictures for projects, knowing we never have the money for the suggested resources"...
Thursday, 24 January 2008
What's in your briefcase?
For some reason I had a flashback today to the day I had my interview for my current job. Interviews are not the most pleasant of days, especially when you are thrown into the staffroom for hours on end to sit amongst the existing staff, who are checking you out, and your rivals who may well be doing their best to undermine you.
But there was one moment of light relief in the day. It was lunchtime, and after a soggy sandwich from the canteen we had been dumped in the staffroom again. I was leafing through some notes for want of something to do, when I noticed a lone teacher - a man of a certain age - flick open the brass catches on his hard briefcase. I took a peek inside to see what was in there, because I'm nosey like that, and had to stifle a laugh when he pulled out a mug and a tea bag from an otherwise empty case.
I realise now he must have been a supply teacher, sitting on his own and guarding his mug in his case, but at the time I did wonder what kind of freaks were working at this school...
But there was one moment of light relief in the day. It was lunchtime, and after a soggy sandwich from the canteen we had been dumped in the staffroom again. I was leafing through some notes for want of something to do, when I noticed a lone teacher - a man of a certain age - flick open the brass catches on his hard briefcase. I took a peek inside to see what was in there, because I'm nosey like that, and had to stifle a laugh when he pulled out a mug and a tea bag from an otherwise empty case.
I realise now he must have been a supply teacher, sitting on his own and guarding his mug in his case, but at the time I did wonder what kind of freaks were working at this school...
Saturday, 19 January 2008
National Naughty Day
One day last week must have been National Naughty Day, probably an idea spread amongst the kids on Facebook or Bebo or MySpace in order to co-ordinate a mass nervous breakdown of the teaching profession just as news of the pittance of a pay-rise was released.
The lesson before lunch is the best time for Teacher's Revenge, because keeping back hungry growing lads because they have messed around actually means something to them. Sure enough, I told the class they could go, except for two naughty Year 8s who had worn my patience thin. As the class filed out, the two boys began gathering in worksheets and books as if they were well-used to the stay-behind-and-tidy-up routine.
I was about to give them a bollocking but the gleams in their eyes told me it would have no effect. So instead I went down the "very disappointed in you" line, telling them that I knew they had good brains in their heads, and wasn't it a shame they weren't using them, blah blah blah. But as I was telling them all this in a soothing voice, the Armstrong and Miller sketch that I wrote about last month popped into my head, and I found it increasingly difficult not to laugh, so had to cut short the pep-talk before I ruined the look of concern on my face...
The lesson before lunch is the best time for Teacher's Revenge, because keeping back hungry growing lads because they have messed around actually means something to them. Sure enough, I told the class they could go, except for two naughty Year 8s who had worn my patience thin. As the class filed out, the two boys began gathering in worksheets and books as if they were well-used to the stay-behind-and-tidy-up routine.
I was about to give them a bollocking but the gleams in their eyes told me it would have no effect. So instead I went down the "very disappointed in you" line, telling them that I knew they had good brains in their heads, and wasn't it a shame they weren't using them, blah blah blah. But as I was telling them all this in a soothing voice, the Armstrong and Miller sketch that I wrote about last month popped into my head, and I found it increasingly difficult not to laugh, so had to cut short the pep-talk before I ruined the look of concern on my face...
Friday, 18 January 2008
Abandoned kids
In the news this week: a mother in court for leaving her fourteen year old daughter at home for six weeks while she went off abroad to see a boyfriend. Sadly, this didn't surprise me when I read about it. Far too frequently than anyone would like, I'm told by a child that their parents are abroad on holiday and they are in the care of somebody they are quite vague about. Who is looking out for them?
TFI the weekend
Between the first and last bells of the day, there is no time to stop and stare at school. Even before the first bell we await the senior management in our daily staff meeting, wasting precious minutes while the children begin to swarm the corridors outside. But thanks to the cascades of rain this week and rivers where roads used to be, I was late one morning and went straight to my room to register my form group before they started running riot.
But before I could even register them I was summoned outside to talk with the head of year about a pupil, and suddenly we were surrounded by other staff and pupils who all wanted to talk to one or other of us about something, an actual queue of people waiting their turn to ask one of us a difficult question. I was still in my coat and still hadn't registered my form when the bell for first lesson rang. Like autobots, at the sound of the bell all the teachers dispersed without a further word, the pupils started spilling out of classrooms into the narrow corridor, and almost straight away I had a new queue of Year 8s waiting to come in for their first lesson.
Sweeping papers off the front desk to make space for the class, I searched for my planner whilst barking instructions to sit down and get books out. It was then I spotted the solitary worksheet on my desk, which I should have duplicated before school, and which was vital for the lesson I'd planned. I silently screamed, strode to my cupboard at the back of the room, pulled a face filled with pain to the darkness within, and snatched up some textbooks, flicking through them in panic to see what I could teach off the cuff for an hour.
And so the day went on. There was no let-up even at lunchtime, as every time I tried to take a bite of sandwich I was interrupted by somebody wanting something. My last lesson needed the laptop and projector - at least here was one I'd properly prepared. Worksheets lay in neat piles ready for distribution, and I cranked up the laptop in the lesson before so everything would be ready.
Except it wouldn't be as simple as that, would it? For some reason, the laptop went into a coma and wouldn't wake up. I tried everything. Some of the kids tried everything they knew. It was then I knew it was doomed. I dispatched a child to hunt down some alternative equipment, which was brought back on the cusp of the bell.
Penultimate class out, final class in, and I was still struggling to set up the equipment. I set the class something to do which should have been very straightforward and lasted them five minutes, which would have given me the time to sort out the change of laptop. But instead, there was fuss. Fuss-fuss-fuss as only thirty eleven and twelve year olds can at the end of a wet day. Everytime I stood up to catch breath from connecting wires I found five or six children at my heels all wanting something that could have waited.
Then the lesson proper started. Still there was fussing. I felt what little patience I had receeding, but struggled to hang on to it like someone after one too many glasses of wine trying to hold onto sobriety. But there's always a straw to break the camel's back. And that one little straw was a child who called out at the wrong time... and suddenly and uncontrollably I exploded, shouting at the class to stop fussing and just listen!
I immediately regretted it of course, but at least they fell into stunned silence. And once my storm had passed, very quickly after all that, we were back to sweetness and light and no hard feelings. But I ended the day feeling mean as well as still stressed.
But before I could even register them I was summoned outside to talk with the head of year about a pupil, and suddenly we were surrounded by other staff and pupils who all wanted to talk to one or other of us about something, an actual queue of people waiting their turn to ask one of us a difficult question. I was still in my coat and still hadn't registered my form when the bell for first lesson rang. Like autobots, at the sound of the bell all the teachers dispersed without a further word, the pupils started spilling out of classrooms into the narrow corridor, and almost straight away I had a new queue of Year 8s waiting to come in for their first lesson.
Sweeping papers off the front desk to make space for the class, I searched for my planner whilst barking instructions to sit down and get books out. It was then I spotted the solitary worksheet on my desk, which I should have duplicated before school, and which was vital for the lesson I'd planned. I silently screamed, strode to my cupboard at the back of the room, pulled a face filled with pain to the darkness within, and snatched up some textbooks, flicking through them in panic to see what I could teach off the cuff for an hour.
And so the day went on. There was no let-up even at lunchtime, as every time I tried to take a bite of sandwich I was interrupted by somebody wanting something. My last lesson needed the laptop and projector - at least here was one I'd properly prepared. Worksheets lay in neat piles ready for distribution, and I cranked up the laptop in the lesson before so everything would be ready.
Except it wouldn't be as simple as that, would it? For some reason, the laptop went into a coma and wouldn't wake up. I tried everything. Some of the kids tried everything they knew. It was then I knew it was doomed. I dispatched a child to hunt down some alternative equipment, which was brought back on the cusp of the bell.
Penultimate class out, final class in, and I was still struggling to set up the equipment. I set the class something to do which should have been very straightforward and lasted them five minutes, which would have given me the time to sort out the change of laptop. But instead, there was fuss. Fuss-fuss-fuss as only thirty eleven and twelve year olds can at the end of a wet day. Everytime I stood up to catch breath from connecting wires I found five or six children at my heels all wanting something that could have waited.
Then the lesson proper started. Still there was fussing. I felt what little patience I had receeding, but struggled to hang on to it like someone after one too many glasses of wine trying to hold onto sobriety. But there's always a straw to break the camel's back. And that one little straw was a child who called out at the wrong time... and suddenly and uncontrollably I exploded, shouting at the class to stop fussing and just listen!
I immediately regretted it of course, but at least they fell into stunned silence. And once my storm had passed, very quickly after all that, we were back to sweetness and light and no hard feelings. But I ended the day feeling mean as well as still stressed.
The waiting game
Well I'm still waiting to hear about being offered a starring role in my own version of Extreme Pilgrim - Extreme Teacher, as I detailed last time. But I'm also looking forward to the last episode of the three-part series on this evening, as Peter Owen-Jones treks to Egypt. I need a bit of loveliness on my TV this evening after the week I've had...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
