The Secret Anguishes Of Being A Teacher or Other Reasons To Strike

It's a hard life being a teacher, but not just because of the working hours. On a daily basis there are a mass of unintentional, and rather unexpected, anguishes that may be ignored by the prospective learning facilitator. If you are a member of the Freemasons NUT and you can't remember what you're meant to be striking about, maybe you can consider some of these option:

1) Resisting squeezing a student's particularly juicy blackhead or spot.
2) Oh God I need the loo but it's the middle of a double period.
3) I've forgotten your name despite teaching you for years.
4) Outside of school awkward student encounter.
5) 'My dad says that science is a lie.'
6) 'Some people believe that...'
7) It's a bonus boring assembly!
8) Friday afternoon, nearly out the door, 'Sir can I just talk to you for a second...'
9) STAFF MEETING
10) The conundrum of 'How ill am I?' versus 'Teaching is Easier Than Setting Cover.'
11) Oh crap, What is that LSA called again?
12) I have no idea what I taught this class last lesson...
13) 'Miss? Do you think I can get a C?' 'Errrrr..'
14) Awkward corridor conversation with the head.
15) I really need to fart. Now. Which student can I fart behind and blame it on.
16) How long have my flies been undone?
17) Observing another teacher and being on the verge of falling asleep.
18) Meeting an ex-student you worked really hard with and receiving the answer to the question of 'what are you doing now' with 'oh, y'know, I work at Tesco's/the chippy/pub/brothel greeter.'
19) Pretending to students that you are striking for ethical reasons instead of a midweek lie-in.
20) The first day back. That is all. 
21) Unproductive planning time guilt
22) How am I meant to teach hungover? this is unethical. I should not be expected to work in these conditions.
23) Having to have a chat about hygiene with a student.

One day my educational version of Monopoly will finally see the print it deserves, or maybe Fantasy Flight will accept my design for a collectable teaching card game, and when either of these things happen then these will certainly be included as hazards for somewhat hapless player to avoid. (If you're reading, @FFgames I think you need to check your junk emails. My submission must be in there somewhere and you can't miss this. It's off the chain.)

Another 'Inspirational' assembly.

They keep asking me to give assemblies to the 'top end'. This is part of, interestingly, someone's whole school project. last time I did it the result was this. This time I thought I'd go for high levels of concept. Mostly to amuse myself. We'll see how this one rolls on Monday.

I would like to welcome you

To what it is I’m going to do

Which is, not really, to convince

You to be princess or prince

Or even to be king or queen

But instead be something that’s never been

Transcend any expectation

Through brutal, honest, perspiration

For you are all of mental fame

Exceptional at the mental game

That we refer to as education

So let us with no consternation

Debate upon the point of this

Box in which we do persist

To fill your mind with useless drivel

From mathmatic’s graphs to DT’s swivel

Because what we do in here is tough

But, for you, not tough enough,

Because you, you apparently special few

Who it would seem don’t know what to do

To push forward your impressive learning

So now to satiate your yearning

I come here to cram your little brains,

Not with numbers, not with names

But instead an idea of working ethic

So that you’ll avoid pathetic

Attitudes to your every fleeting day

When it’s simply far too easy to say

“yeah that’s fine” and let it be

And have for dinner your mundane C

And let the moment pass you by

Instead staring lovingly at the guy

Or girl who sits across from you and ponder

On a weekend, own-clothes wander

The nervous invitation to the park

Or the hope of a cinema kiss in the dark

And then one day “lessons, I remember those”

Twenty years ago I chose

To hide from English in the loo

Because I thought it the thing to do

But now year, 7,8 and this is true,

There is an unbelievable world for you.

And, when your older,

You’ll be bolder,

In declaring your regret

And you’ll forget

The window-gazing double french

As with a sickening wrench

You’ll realise school is gone forever

And despite the lump in throat you’ll never

Ever be in this box again

Jour de jour semaine après semaine

Dripping through your fingers

Perhaps right now your boredom lingers

And so perhaps some clarity

Of this strangest of assemblies

And why then this poetic rant

A simple one: there is no can’t

There is just can’t yet, I will one day,

That is what driven students say.

Because For the amazing, failure is no fear

They hunt it down, they grasp its ear

And ride it bravely through the dark

With fire in eyes and primal bark

And spur it to jump higher walls

And accept, consistent, painful falls

But know that sets of brushed down clothes

Raise them higher above all those

That never tried to jump at all

Those people who find their destined fall

In jobs they didn’t want at all

And hope to find an out at a midnight ball

While, elsewhere, the failures brave and true,

Attempt more than is easy to do

And prosper and, critically, have fun

And realise that life isn’t won

It’s a game played on an endless board

And played by all of humanity’s hoard

A game of difficulty where you’re the piece

That shuffles slowly til deceased

Where winning is a terrible lie

Told by those who just get by

And pray in the churches of lotteries

And x-factor heroes and flat-screen tv’s

Because success is not a letter

It’s not money, or exams, it’s being better

And better still and never content

With anything on which your effort is spent

It’s reaching far beyond your reach

It’s the willingness to teach

Yourself the things you want to know

It’s a constant burning desire to go

Beyond what’s in the range of your hand

To go where things aren’t planned

Because you are flicking unmade switches

Instead of passing out in ditches

Because you bothered, because you care

Beyond simply what you’re going to wear

Or what they look like, what looks good

The things you like because you should

Pursue everything you want whatever it may be

And then the naysayers will see

That everything you have done

Is beautiful.

So perhaps, I guess you’re wondering why the poetics

I mean, isn’t it all a bit pathetic

It all depends on your outlook

And the notice of my words you took

As I ranted words that just might rhyme

And you begrudged the waste of your time

The point is that it isn’t quick

To write in couplets, there’s no trick

Except hard work and lonely grit

And a desire to get on with it

And really it’s a stupid idea

At which others might scoff and sneer

But I simply do not care

I’m only bothered how I fare

At my self-set, absurd task

And at it’s end it’s me I’ll ask

How much better it could be

It’s progress that interests me

For as long as I perceive my skull as hollow

I’ll find information to swallow

Despite the knowledge that I’ll never be quite filled

It doesn’t matter at all, I’m strong willed.

I’m sorry, I’ve digressed as usual

And so as not to confuddle you all

I will summarise

My lengthy, rambling surmise.

I wrote this.

And this and all of this

And so my fragile coup de grace

Is that every moment is just fragile glass

So Quit Your Worrying

And instead enjoy the scurrying

Passage of not knowing everything

But trying to. And the joy

Of making all of life your toy

As you find the beautiful wonder

Of the freeing, magical splendour

Of this vast, mysterious, land

Because for you there’s nothing planned

You are free. No linear storyline

No certain future, it’s all fine

You are the heirs to everything you touch

And there is nothing in the world too much

For you to handle, if you bother

To fill a day, then fill another

With all that you can bring to living

And never stop intellectually giving

To yourself, and those around

Do not be afraid of the loud sound

Of trying to do everything that can be done

Your silence doesn’t serve anyone

So upturn mountains, paint the sun

Create worlds, reinvent fun,

Splitting the atom is so passé

Compared to what wonders may come your way.

You own this little bildungsroman

So make it as giant as you can

One moment, sorry, while I interject,

There is at work a slight subject

That may come across as arrogant,

But I assure you it is relevant,

It is the topic of my deepest fear

And that is that I’m simply dying here

I don’t mean that I fear if my health is fine

I’m sorry, I have to borrow a singer’s line

To describe the midnight-waking fear

That “I’m not really here’

My fear is I will waste all this

And that it won’t matter if I did not exist

As far as I know I have one life

One shot at this so full of strife

But for the fragility I’ll not worry

And I’ll walk through in no hurry

Because this world is more than enough

Isn’t it okay to believe that, well, stuff,

Is worth our exploration?

Our fascination? Our delectable, devour, er, ation?

That there is simply enough here to see

To drink in for one eternity?

That we as fleeting people exist

In just a blink of this world’s iris

And that fraction of a slice of time

Is ours, it’s what is yours, it’s mine

And so why, why? When surrounded by such amazement

Do some insist on being sofa’d and stagnant

Why do we insist on letting moment’s fetter

When you could free them for something better

Live. LIVE for no one but yourself

Live because some ill health

Could strike you in the dead of night

And snuff out what sits here, wonderful and bright

Please understand I don’t aim to fear

I’m merely trying to press on you what’s dear

And what should be dear to you

Is. YOU. Your dreams, and to them being true.

And there you are, alone at last,

With heart and volume falling fast.

So turn it up. Embrace your skill.

And tell the world you’ll never. Never. Have your fill.

I'd rather be a teacher than hate myself.

I have sat through an increasing number of briefings and meetings and strategy groups and focus units and coffee mornings and informal chats and other such bollocks over the past few weeks that have started to show a dangerous trend in my school. This horrifying trend is that of the bureaucracy of teaching's upper-middle-management. These (and I hesitate here to use the word) teachers are part of the increasingly middle-heavy structure that needs to constantly affirm its own existence by the use of sophistry-laden presentations dripping with data and spreadsheets and 'visual strategy' and online resources that do absolutely nothing for teaching apart from making things that teachers already do needlessly convoluted, all wrapped up with the insistent deployment of the word 'tracking'.

There is no denying that education is a business. I have spoken about this before and it was, I hope, abundantly clear that my feelings upon this are not wholly positive. I do, however, understand that it would be naive to think that people do not want to have careers in education. For many achievement is rooted in the belief that they must aspire and perspire their way through strings and strings of data in order to progress through the mess of payscales and that by progressing through this they are instantly a success. The aspiration culture of twenty-first century western society is one which is inherently selfish. It is obsessed with numbers on e-pay slips and epithets of rank; head of, director for, specialist in. I don't really care that people want to earn more. I think we'd all like to earn more. It is the effect on the quality of education that is to my chagrin. What I am seeing is that the press of careerism is actually making teaching worse. It is making the lives of teachers harder and, what is worse, it is putting into higher positions those who manipulate others to compensate for their own lack of talent and passion.

My problem is with the obsession with the whole school project. This seems to be as popular with aspirational leadership candidates as class-A drugs are with hookers. And is equally as destructive. Suddenly, without any training or knowledge or, really, interest, Maths teachers are leading literacy, Linguists are developing Art for All and God knows who is leading SMSC. But surely, I hear from your hoary throats, any work on these key areas of development are valuable. Surely even the focus on them is as good as anything. Well. Sorry (I'm not sorry.) it's not. It is tokenism based purely on an aspiration that ignores the point of a whole school project. A whole school project should lead and develop. If this is so then why are there five different whole school literacy directives going on in my school? And, more importantly, why do none of them work together? It is less a case of the left hand not knowing what the right is doing and more of the right hand writing down nonsense while the left hand erases what has just been written.

It is at the very core of being a teacher that you should be interested in your subject, but most of the people running these programmes are not interested in anything beyond their own paychecks. The whole-school project is needless sophistry run on false enthusiasm. This week a teacher started a debating club and called it the first debating club the school has ever had, despite the literacy club that has run for the last eighteen months and has run debates as part of it, or the debating club that ran years before but died due, partly, to a lack of leadership support. And why does this teacher not realise that they are not the first? Because they don't give a shit about debating. They are more than happy to ignore the work done by a normal teacher in order to further themselves. They have the gift of the upper pay scale and its inherent access to resources, people, publicity and the ability to wonder around school promoting while most other teachers are taking registers or, Gove forbid, teaching.

Teaching doesn't want the Dead Poets Society style of teacher. (in terms of teen suicide rate, that is probably a good thing though.) It doesn't want the exciting, interesting and knowledgeable teacher who loves their subject and loves teaching it and shows signs of a number of mild mental disorders. Teaching wants the grinder. It wants the worksheet-laden, numbers in boxes teacher who has career ambitions and uses the lexicon of the middle-manager. I don't get it. I would rather teach, would rather try my hardest to impart a love of my subject through my passion. I would rather be paid an average wage and be honest than do something I don't care about and manipulate students and other staff to make myself appear better.

I will leave you with a pipe dream as hopeless as my script for Mighty Ducks 4 (Duck University) ever making it to production:

I want to work in a school where every teacher has time allocated with which they have to pursue a project of their own. The caveat: that this project should be in subject (at least vaguely) and of their own interest. An art teacher could produce a sculpture for instance; a Geography teacher, a study of erosion or oxbow lakes (or any other available stereotype); An English teacher a study of literature or a piece of creative writing. Every year the school would publish a yearbook of these projects. Can you imagine a school screaming with pursuit of knowledge? Students would be encouraged to join in themselves if they wanted to, but the profound idea underpinning this is that the school would be alive with modeled learning and development of what teaching is.

I don't know. Maybe I don't really get teaching after all. Maybe I was sold a profession that doesn't exist. Maybe I'm just a bit rubbish really.

You can achieve your potential.

A while ago I was asked to deliver an assembly to a group of 'High Achievers' in years nine, ten and eleven. I was to talk to them about achieving their potential. I could not think about a subject more full of rubbish than this particular one.

I decided long ago that, to the best of my ability, I would not lie to students that I teach. I would try my hardest to tell them the truth, or at the very least I would be honest to myself; that I would not tell them anything that I was not proud of or believed in.

I therefore approached the task of talking about the ethereal concept of potential, something that I fundamentally do not agree with, with all the enthusiasm of a slug at an all you can eat chinese buffet. So I decided to be true to myself. I decided to be as true as I could be. I present you with a transcript written from my notes for the assembly. Now, obviously, this may not be exactly what I said because the nature of public speaking is, of course, transient in its delivery and application. I will do my best to recreate what I said from a scrawl of red-penned wonder.

"Students, I am here today at the invitation of Mrs. Bun the Baker's Wife to talk to you about achieving your potential.

It is a lie.

You cannot achieve your potential because your potential is a lie.

You are not destined for anything beyond that which you work for.

I am here because I am told that you are all the highest achievers in the school.

In all truth you are probably here because you have a small genetic mutation that causes you to think in a slightly different way to others of your age. This, apparently, is your potential.

This does not mean you are destined for greatness.

This does not mean that you will succeed.

The only factor that controls how high you can achieve is how hard you work.

Sadly, the school cannot help you enough. Your teachers cannot help you enough. If we, as a school, were to take one hundred students and only teach them alone and teach them as well as we possibly could then we would still not achieve all A*s because, in the end, some of them would lack the ability and some wouldn't work hard enough.

You have the ability.

Unfortunately, no-one in the real world expects you to be anything other than another husk of a person slowly paling into insignificance as you wait behind the counter, or desk, or forecourt of another dead end job waiting to either have children, or die, or have children and die.

This means, perversely, that you are totally free.

You are free to do what you want to do, and most importanly you are totally free to fail.

You should never be afraid to fail because it is only through failure that you will ever succeed at anything. Failure is good. It is how you learn. If you want to be incredible you must welcome failure with open arms. You must walk with failure into the darkness.

This may sound strange but you should actively seek out failure. Do this by by attempting things that are too difficult. The exceptional student will bother to hunt out things that are difficult because they  enjoy the pursuit of knowledge and the process. They see success not as a goal hanging in front of them. They see it not as something that can be achieved; they see it as a continuing journey. A mission. Success is not a moment. It is not a letter on a piece of paper, or a pay packet, or a brand new TV. Success is a lifetime. If you want to codify success into a single moment then it is the last moment you live. It is a smile on your face on a hospital bed, surrounded by your loved ones. It is in that moment when you look back and see all the things that you did, or tried to do and you smile and think 'I did pretty well there'.

That lifetime, for better or worse, that continuing mission starts, predominantly, now.

The next three years, give or take, will decide which doors open up to you and which never can. 

Let me give you an example: I will tell you a story about a friend of mine. He was not a great academic. He did not do exceptionally well at his GCSEs, in fact he just about scraped his way into the sixth form at school but he decided, after nearly failing his AS levels, that he had a reason to do things. He wanted to become a Doctor. A fairly inauspicious start for such a difficult profession. So, he retook. He retook everything. He fought his way through every moment to do the things that he had failed at the first time correctly the second time. He did not get onto medicine at university but he had pulled his grades up high enough to give himself the chance. My friends and I did not see him, pretty much, for the next year because he did everything he could. He volunteered, he studied, he barely slept, and he got onto a course. Not the course, but a course and he jumped from that course to the one he wanted because he worked. He clutched every opportunity and went for it. Within a few years he was top of his class. Last year he got invited to travel abroad on a summer programme to study brains. He will be, i have no doubt, a top neurosurgeon in a few years time. Why? Because he failed, he learned, and he worked hard for what he wanted. 

One of the major reasons that this friend did well is because he wanted to do this. He wanted it and he enjoyed it. He did something that interested him. How many of you, honestly, go out and find things out about the world around you because it interests you? I am a little bit notorious in this school for having an exceptional subject knowledge. I can tell you why this is. It is because when I see something that interests me, or I don't understand, I look it up and try and understand it. We have, at our fingertips, the greatest intellectual resource ever invented. And what do we use it for? Pictures of funny animals and selfies. Use it! Find out things. Stuff. Anything. Learn. Enjoy the process of learning. Allow yourself the luxury of becoming more knowledgeable. One day I wanted to find out about Locks. I don't know why. I just was curious. Amazing things river rocks. Raising boats up, lowering them down. Fascinating. Now I know about locks. I know about how they're built, about that sometimes you need a lock that raises boats so high that they have to go in a little box, called a caisson. The biggest one of these, incidentally, is in Belgium, and lifts boats 73 metres. Now, that's probably not that interesting to any of you but it is to me. I love the fact that we, as humans, designed and built these structures and I adore finding out how they work. In a lot of ways it does not matter what you are interested in but it matters to be interested because that pursuit, that need to know about something is what could make you an exceptional person.

Every year, about this time, year eleven students come up to me and ask whether they should do AS English next year and, in general, I ask them all the same question. That question is 'What are you reading at the moment?' And every single one of them who tells me they're not reading anything gets the same response: 'You shouldn't do English.' This seems harsh, yes, but there is no point in doing a subject that does not interest you. There is no point in doing something that you do not care about. Most of the students I deter are trying to do the subject because they think it is a wise choice, or a good option or it'll look good on their CVs. I tell them to thing about what it is they want to do. I tell them to go and be masters of their own futures, to follow their interests, to try and find things to pursue, and fail, and eventually succeed at. And I tell you, in closing this assembly, that it doesn't matter if you aren't ablt to do it now. It only matters if you find something easy. Go out there and find something that you can't do. Because it's not that you can't do it. Don't say to yourself I can't do this.

Tell yourself:

I can't do this YET.

Thank you."

I was actually quite proud of myself that day. I'm not entirely sure my line manager was though. If you are interested in booking me to come and speak to your disillusioned youth,  I can also do balloon animals. Requests to @calamityteacher

I have some sad news.

A few weeks ago a student from my school in year seven died of an existing, although not obviously fatal, illness. It wasn't an unusual illness, it wasn't anything special, and, unfortunately, for a child to die, although increasingly rare, is not a strange thing to happen. For the microcosm of the schoolyard, however, it is catastrophic. And quite rightly so.

Being a teacher is not a job in many senses. I know I said that it is a job in my last post but there are many parts of the occupation that fail to free themselves from the intricacies of normal life. Profoundly we are grounded by our emotions and by our, often reluctant, feelings of genuine care for our charges.

I have had a lot of difficulty in even getting this far in this blog post and I think this is because it is difficult to have a purpose to it. My anonymity prevents eulogy and the gravitas hobbles humour. And who would I be, anyway, to make light of death except through the sort of self-defence mechanism that is truly English in its nationality.

Perhaps, then, instead of trying to comment about it. Instead of trying to be pithy and plaintive and pundamentalist I should just be narrative. It was announced by the head teacher in morning briefing. It is probably one of the only times that I have ever genuinely heard a sharp intake of breath from a gathered crowd. People actually exclaimed. The child was well-known and popular, although that makes nothing more or less sad, and they had been well-known for helping around the community. I knew the child in a diminutive kind of way we had occasionally spoken, once during one of their outside school events. But that personal touch does not really matter because it is not whether the child is known to you or not that creates the impact of an event like this because there is always a personal touch.

I said to one of my colleagues at the time that it would not be the first few days that would be the most difficult but it would be the weeks afterwards when little things refuse to go away and some of the students found that memories cannot be cast off as easily as a filled-up exercise book. I didn't realise how right I was.

I will segue here. I return to that blissful, carefree summer when I left school myself. A boy from my year died. He went swimming at a party in a lake at the end of one of his friends' gardens and he got into trouble and died. A tragedy. Some years later the friend whose house it was would commit suicide. I do not know, and probably no-one really will, whether the two incidents were linked. I knew the two boys, but not well. The news spread as a virus through computers then, in a summer when people were spread a little thinner than they had been when they attended regular lessons but a lot thicker than, well, now. It was with a strange sense of deja vu that I watched the wave of despair spread across the school in front of my own eyes. It had the memory of a moment of remembrance at a celebration assembly for A-level results. A moment of watching a parent collect a brown envelope for a child who couldn't and then a gulp in the throat years later, hearing, second hand, out of date news.

I retold the story of my own sixth form to my students and I told them that, if there was anything to learn, it is that you must always talk about your feelings. You must talk about grief because it is different for everyone.

I will segue again. This time to a seminar on child protection. I have difficulty placing this one. It may have been at university or it may have been at NQT induction but I remember (probably only slightly erroneously) being told by a CP officer that it is always when you have the least time that the most important things come up. For the most part the legacy of grief in the school has subsided but, and I painfully recounted my own words in my head that it would take a while for the real issues to appear from the albeit painful malaise of potentially mass hysteria, it was with genuine concern that I found myself sat across from a student of mine who had changed. They had come to me on a full day of teaching, after a horrifically stressful lesson with the year ten class who were only spared expletives by a few millimetres of bitten lip, and they needed my help more than anyone I have ever taught.

I don't know how many of you have ever had a student sit down and really open up to you but it is the most difficult things that can happen because of the first thing that you have to say. Legally, Ethically and correctly the first thing you have to say are the words the student probably least wants to hear: 'I will have to tell someone else that you are telling me this.' And it is then that their eyes drop. It has happened to me twice. And both times I have had the thought running through my mind that I am not a psychiatrist but this child, this fragile little creature that is just a perfect incidence of everything that is right with the world believes that I am, or perhaps doesn't believe but they need me to be so much that they may as well have bought me a professional qualification to nail to the wall. Being a teacher is not being a teacher. Being a teacher is being a conduit through which a child can access anything without fear of judgement, without fear of pain, or ramification and with, overall, the sense of hope that you will be exactly the perfect thing that they need. It is quite stunning how many teachers know about teenage pregnancies before the grandparents, or father. I told this student the words. I told them that I would have to tell someone and I did and I did so knowing that, in all likelihood, this student would not trust me again. And I am proud of this because, when I saw them walking out of a session with the school councilor and ed psych a few days ago I knew that this was the best thing for them and that they would be alleviated of the thoughts that refused to leave their mind free of harassment. 

I am proud of myself because I know that I did the right thing. I know that I have helped through knowing that I am fallible in my own ability. That I know that even when my day is terrible I always have time to see a student. Because a cup of tea and a biscuit are not always the reason we have breaktimes.

It has taken me too long to write this post, and it is so short. And I can't bear to profread it. And even now I cannot help but steal phrases from Vonnegut to fill in the gaps of my own expression. It is so short.

So it goes.

No Disentegrations.

I received a strange little call a couple of days ago. It's one of those calls that a little, arrogant, part of every teacher fetishises and wishes would come true. I received a call offering me a job. The unusual part? I never applied for it.

Corporate headhunting is nothing new, but it is still a surprise for one such as me (ie. More useless than individuality at a PIXL conference.(perhaps that's unfair. If you are offended by that read it as 'more useless than Gove.) I'm not amazing, and I probably don't care quite enough to be truly exceptional. What struck me as particularly strange about the call was how insistent it was. The Headteacher of the school seeking to recruit very average staff was on a Wolf of Wall Street hard sell and there was no doubting it. In a ten minute call I pretty much only spoke to confirm my name and place of residence. They offered me a lot of tacit promises and *wink wink nudge nudge* style incentives. I was a bit shocked. It seemed too much. When I asked, finally, at the end of the conversation (lecture) about who they had heard about me from, the Head refused to tell me. At this point I became deeply suspicious and put on my Poirot mustache just in case.

So I went and had a little look see on the interbobs and did a little bit of digging. It took me and a colleague approximately 38 seconds to discover how they'd heard of me; a member of staff from my current school was acting as a named consultant for those at the the school that wanted to be my next. I was appalled. It is a needless and horrifying lack of morality based around the faux-competitive nature of educational establishments. It may not come as a surprise to many that the school that was out for the bounty on my unkempt and permanently sleep-deprived head was a new build school backed by a corporate entity. I think the delivery of money into education is great, but it seems to be some sort of proviso that any injection has to come with the slowly corrupting HIV of corporate ethics. We are the front line blind bunnies of the state's rabid hop into bed with a myxomatosis ridden publicly limited cash-slut. There is no philanthropy in this. The only philanthropy in education is the thankless, moneyless provision of free overtime given to students because it helps, or because that museum is only open on the weekend, or because without this bit of training, or coursework help, or equipment then they simply won't win, or learn or achieve.

Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps I am a socialist wrapped in middle-class angora. Perhaps my problem is that I think education is about getting kids to learn stuff, then more stuff, then go into the world a better person. It's not, is it. It's about looking good and standing up in front of people with your shiny new school and saying "Look at what a fucking great human being I am." It's about companies who probably abuse child labour abroad backing schools so they can claim that they "Invest in Pupils' dreams" or some such assorted vacuous bollocks. It's about making TV shows that show what beautiful and fragile human beings teachers are and how difficult this job that we all chose to do is while producers and writers and broadcasters rub their little hands with glee. (Yeah the job's hard. We get it. We do it. We do it every day, every week of every, oh, wait, no. We get thirteen weeks holiday., which, when we're quite honest with ourselves, is lovely. It is a job and I enjoy it and I want to do it; this is a rarity in the world. I enjoy that I feel that the work I do is actually of some significance to the world around me.) It worries me that the education sector is just another way of bargaining for cash and reputation and status in an already morally bankrupt world.

So, to sort of return to the story, I informed those higher up in the educational foodchain that I had been headhunted for a different school by a member of my own who has a vested interest and a moral compass about as useful as a dildo in a nunnery. I have yet to see any action, and in all likelihood it will all be brushed under the carper and then liberally assaulted with a dyson so that the school can maintain its exact current reputation. I would much rather it took a stand and put into the public domain the high moral stance that it could take by exposing and chastising this sort of practice. We should not accept this in education. I think we forget sometimes; it doesn't matter what school you work at as long as you can do your job and in that job you are accountable only to children and yourself. Not money, not OFSTED, not whichever company owns your building. You are a teacher. Be proud of doing what you do.

Alternate Ending

'Here you go Dr. Weasley.'
'Thank You Hermione. Still not comfortable with first names? Please, I've told you, we've been seeing each other every Friday for, what is it seven years now? You can call me Ron.'
'Sorry, er, Ron. I just, I think it's better to maintain professionalism in front of the patients. I think it helps set a standard.'
Hermione, of course, thought no such thing. She had always heard things about the gangly ginger-haired Doctor and his wandering hands and she didn't want to be the next victim, sobbing in the staffroom. Seven years and it had not happened to her yet. Maybe he was getting better. As the two of them walked into the room where the patient was, they knew that Harry certainly wasn't.
He was sat in the spartan room, rocking gently irregularly backward and forward in the lightweight plastic armchair as if metering out the rhythm to a song that no-one, save himself, could hear.
'Hello Harry.' Doctor Weasley said in the tone he always used when talking to the more extreme, or as he called them, hopeless, patients.'How are we today Harry?' The young man of nineteen looked up from his jiggling, just pausing a little to look into the eyes of his two most regular visitors before the shaking took him over in jitters of excitement.
'Ron! he cried happily. Hermione!' We did it! we saved the world. He's dead. Voldemort's dead! I was the last horcrux! It was so simple really! And Neville! Neville! he saved us in the end.' In one of Harry's hands he was brandishing the 30 centimetre ruler that he had acquired from the creativity space some seven years ago, when his delusions became so serious that he couldn't live with his Aunt and Uncle and cousin anymore.
'I see the delusion has not subsided.'
'No, but it does appear to be changing in nature. This, er, task that he has been obsessed with seems to have resolved. He is mentioning Neville again.'
'That's the brother, yes?'
'Yes. He mentions him occasionally, and he had a period a few years ago where he seemed to save him in some way.'
'Has he visited recently?'
'No.'
'Strange. Well. Not much to do here I guess.' There was never much to do with Harry Potter. From time to time another psychologist would become interested in his case and write a book citing him. Some world famous name like Lupin, or Moody would take them under their wing, but they would never penetrate what was still popularly known as one of the worst cases of Post-Traumatic Stress disorder that had ever followed parental abuse. He was, in a way, quite famous. People often wrote letters to him, not that he ever read the words they wrote, but it had a cathartic effect. The staff used it as a tactic often, Particularly after the Doctor Black incident, to hand Harry envelopes to open saying it was from Black. He enjoyed that; smiles would light his face like a magic trick.
Dr Weasley and Dr Granger thanked Harry with all the politeness that is borne of knowing that someone isn't really listening, but that courtesy is important.
'I take it he has been told?' Ron's voice punctuated the sterile air after they had closed the door and headed to the next patient.
'About their release?'
'Yes.'
'We have told him, but we're not sure he has taken it in.'
'Perhaps the resolution of the initial delusion indicates this. Maybe he is readying himself for the trauma.' Ron didn't seem thoroughly convinced by his own words, but it was better that than walking in silence, and Hermione was clearly having none of his advances today. Perhaps next week he might find her more amiable.
'They won't be allowed to meet him will they? Not after what they did?'
'No, No, of course, but you know the media. There will be renewed interest. He is not a child anymore. The media will have a field day. Photos of him on the front page next to them walking out of prison. A close up of the scar. I imagine they'll track down Neville. If they can find him.'
'He hasn't visited for a while.'
'Well. Who would want to be reminded of that?' Silence fell over the pair of them, and they continued the walk along the daunting corridor of the old mansion in silence. The paintings of old owners and masters seemed to flicker and dance in the afternoon light that streamed uncertainly through the window as if it was not sure whether it was a welcome visitor or not. Across the great ornamental lake the darkness that hid in the forest stared back at the house and dared it to come closer and find a final answer to the centuries-old stand-off.
Harry heard the footsteps fade down the hall and his smile fell a little from his face.
'Hermione?' He asked to no-one. 'Ron?' The air around was still and cold as the flickering sunlight died like a childhood dream behind a steadily overcasting sky. He stood up out of the chair and looked out of the window where the gardener, a giant of a man, was tending to the little menagerie of furry animals kept so that some of the lesser cases of the building could have something to care for before their release. Harry turned his head away from the window and walked to his bare bed, still clutching to his breast the ruler; an object that had worn to the point of having a visible handgrip on one end. He lay down and pulled over him the thin and threadbare blanket that was his only relic of his father and that he clung to regardless of the offers of better, more modern bedding.
His head gifted the pillow the weight of his unkempt hair and his gaunt head, not devoid of the glasses that found their diurnal resting place on his bed side table. He closed his eyes and the room disappeared for him. A bird, maybe an owl, called through the darkening air as Harry just let himself slide out of the woken world. His lips managed to slide a single word as he fell asleep.
'Ginny?'

Wednesday morning bad teaching joke

I totally just thought of this as well.

A janitor in a school finds a piece of paper with a maths equation on the floor of reception. He goes and finds the head of department for maths and shows it to him and asks him whether he knows anything about it. The head of maths turns to him, looks at the paper and says quite bluntly,

'I'm sorry, but this literally isn't my problem'

gettit?

Morning Briefing Bingo

We've all been there. We all know what it's like, to be sat, bored, tired and cradling a cup of tea or coffee as if letting it go will immediately condemn your soul to the very inky blackness that it reflects. Instead of the rage overflowing like your marking pile, why don't you get together with the other teachers that genuinely don't give a shit/actually see things for the way they are/aren't terrible people and play a little morning game to wake you up?

And with this in mind I present:

Morning Briefing Bingo.

The game is simple.
Print out a game board then write out, or print out all of the game cards of all the things you might (will) see and hear in your morning briefing. Divvy up all of the cards and stick them on your game board. Then cross off the things that happen as they come up. Squares are one point, lines are ten points each, first to a full house wins automatically.

I suggest forfeits for losers such as a class set of marking, lunchtime duty, a round at the pub or death.

Bingo Card:

And here are your choices of briefing bingo bonanza . (I suggest you print out a few of each. and share them around)




































Please enjoy, and tell me how it goes on @calamityteacher Photos are always welcome!

The Return to School Checklist

It's spring term eve, which means disney should be selling a special commemorative mouse or dog or something, but as my students don't love me enough to buy me gifts i will have to cry myself to sleep tonight. I would say that these tears falling onto the cardboard box I have used for a pillow since my Academy froze our pay in 1250BC are unusual, but it would be a lie to proffer any other idea than that which is true: I cry. A lot.

And through these tearstruck eyes that blinker the outside world from view I can just about read, written on the side of a sodden Amazon box, my list of tasks i need to complete before i return to the hallowed halls of hubris and hefting humanity that is my alleged work(house)place. I reproduce this, shoddily no doubt, here.

1: Wipe internet search history normal history, temporary files and any incriminating photos. Check the dvd tray for THAT film and possibly consider just defaulting the whole machine to factory settings or encasing it in concrete, dropping it into a river and claiming to IT tech that you lost it/left it in the back of a taxi.

2: Shave off comedy facial/body hair

3: Check that the new piercing/tattoo(s) can be covered by current haircut or work wardrobe.

4: Change out of the pajamas that you've been wearing for three solid weeks.

5: Finish marking/ marking bonfire

6: Practice not swearing at everything.

7: Practice getting up before midday.

8: Read the book you're meant to be teaching/ watch the film of said book/ read the wikipedia/ImDb summary of the film of said book.

9: Sober up.

10: Kiss goodbye to your loved ones/pets/photos of celebrities. You won't be seeing them until February.

11: Stock up on comfort food/booze/kleenex

12: Book that first counseling session of the year.

13: Cry. Aimlessly and at length.

14: Apply for a new job/Uni course/The Dole

15: Fabricate a convincing cover story to tell in the staffroom/classroom to explain that scar.


There you go. Plenty to be getting on with. I'm going to pick out my wardrobe for the next few days so that i can essentially operate on autopilot.

Cheers. Here is to blessed, half-awake absolution.