On Friday everyone is on their last nerves. Especially in this longest, darkest, worst half-term of the entire school year. Everyone is stressed out, everyone is exhausted, everyone feels like they would rather get an important part of their body chopped off than spend one more day at school. For me this has been a particularly trying week with lots of drama in my form, a year 8 student destroying my favourite jumper using the ink from a pen he personally dismembered instead of working, and the usual lot of gobby cows and cheeky arseholes who think they don't owe respect to anything or anyone never mind the teacher.
Until yesterday however I didn't think such states of mind and emotions justified rudeness.
Yesterday morning I went to reprographics hoping to get a worksheet copied.
'Can't do it' the copy lady snapped 'I have an urgent job now'.
Fair enough, I really should have brought it in earlier. The lack of 'good morning' and 'sorry' did not put me off too much as she has made me rather used to that.
I apologized profusely and decided to try the staff room machine.
The copy lady had beaten me to it.
'Can't do it now' she snapped 'we're doing maintenance'.
After which she told me that I'm not allowed to use this machine for more than a couple of copies (I wouldn't have if she hadn't refused to do them for me on her machine) and I'll have to be better organised, all in a tone of voice that implied that I had offended her majesty by suggesting that she was there to help me do my job and not the other way around and how dare I the little nothing that I am.
I was speachless. Emotionally exhausted as I was, for a minute I actually thought that I did something terribly wrong, broke a rule I had not known existed or something? Until one of the cover teachers who witnessed it all came around and said she admired me for not saying anything because the copy lady had been plain rude.
And as I spoke to people along the day, I realised that as it is, people stay long after hours to sneakingly do their copies in the staffroom because that is the only way they know their copies will be done right (right number of pages, right number of copies, right size etc.) and they won't get told off for daring to want any.
Magalie, who is in my department, said she tries to plan without worksheets so that she won't have to go to reprographics. And if she has to, she sends a kid.
Charlotte (my head of department/mentor) said that had never happened to her but she knows that the copy lady can be like this when stressed out (as if that excused anything!) and that I shouldn't worry cause she will have forgotten all about it by Monday. SHE will have forgotten?!
I am outraged. I am paid to deal with rude children, but not rude colleagues! And she is clearly bullying a lot of teachers (if not all staff) and no one is doing anything about it! But I am not sure if anything can be done. I am however sure that going on any crusade here would cost me more than it would benefit me or others. So I suppose that the only thing for me to do is to start staying longer after hours than I already do and make my copies sneakingly in the staff room...
Saturday 14 November 2009
Thursday 12 November 2009
Cheddington
Another walk last weekend – this time without any animals ganging up on us. We did walk past a few horses who observed us attentively making us feel uneasy after the Wing cows experience, but luckily they made no attempt at intimidation.
The walk is picturesque, a big part goes along the Grand Union Canal with a double lock and we’ve spotted a few lovely thatched cottages – apparently it is very expensive to own a thatched roof as it requires a lot of maintenance.
This time we also managed to eat at the pub – The Old Swan – and it was delicious! I had a roast with the best Yorkshire pudding I have ever had. I do recommend it (in case you’re ever in Cheddington…).
The walk is picturesque, a big part goes along the Grand Union Canal with a double lock and we’ve spotted a few lovely thatched cottages – apparently it is very expensive to own a thatched roof as it requires a lot of maintenance.
This time we also managed to eat at the pub – The Old Swan – and it was delicious! I had a roast with the best Yorkshire pudding I have ever had. I do recommend it (in case you’re ever in Cheddington…).
Saturday 7 November 2009
"I love you. Will you do a French GCSE please?"
I think everyone finds parents evenings draining. I know I do. But then maybe no everyone gets as emotional about them as me? Who knows.
We had a year 9 parents evening on Thursday, and as my form is year 9, I spent over 3 hours talking non-stop. At 7 most teachers had left - I was still there talking. I have to say that I'm kind of grateful to have been abandoned for the day today - at least I don't have to open my mouth!
It is always interesting to meet your students' parents - helps you understand your students better. Also, you can sometimes make powerful allies. Or reward the nice kids, who never get enough of your attention because you're busy dealing with the culprits.
But it is draining - you talk, and you talk and there is often an emotional response to what you say, people getting all proud and happy, others almost crying (I know some teachers find it wrong, but I tend to tell the truth as it is, without embelishing it too much).
By the end of the night I had managed to tell one student I loved her, tell another one he was an idiot (in front of his mother of course), promise another one that I will wear my glasses if he wears his, promise to tell X's teachers she can't sit next to Y, to tell Z's teachers he should sit alone in the front cause then he's less tempted to mess about, to find out for A why her science teacher wants her to do triple science while she feels she's rubbish at it, etc. On top of that I'll have to go through endless sheets of statistical info and past results to help all 30 of my little monsters make informed decisions when it comes to choosing GCSE options. I don't think I'm going to leave school at all next week.
Any volunteers willing to mark my books for me? There's only some 200 of them to do...
We had a year 9 parents evening on Thursday, and as my form is year 9, I spent over 3 hours talking non-stop. At 7 most teachers had left - I was still there talking. I have to say that I'm kind of grateful to have been abandoned for the day today - at least I don't have to open my mouth!
It is always interesting to meet your students' parents - helps you understand your students better. Also, you can sometimes make powerful allies. Or reward the nice kids, who never get enough of your attention because you're busy dealing with the culprits.
But it is draining - you talk, and you talk and there is often an emotional response to what you say, people getting all proud and happy, others almost crying (I know some teachers find it wrong, but I tend to tell the truth as it is, without embelishing it too much).
By the end of the night I had managed to tell one student I loved her, tell another one he was an idiot (in front of his mother of course), promise another one that I will wear my glasses if he wears his, promise to tell X's teachers she can't sit next to Y, to tell Z's teachers he should sit alone in the front cause then he's less tempted to mess about, to find out for A why her science teacher wants her to do triple science while she feels she's rubbish at it, etc. On top of that I'll have to go through endless sheets of statistical info and past results to help all 30 of my little monsters make informed decisions when it comes to choosing GCSE options. I don't think I'm going to leave school at all next week.
Any volunteers willing to mark my books for me? There's only some 200 of them to do...
Tuesday 3 November 2009
7 am
The school is eerie, like a little ghost town of its own. Everything is dark, in the reception area the lights go automatically on as I walk in and I know they will switch themselves off soon after I'll have walked out. The corridors, which are usually full of chatter and noise, are empty and hollow. I feel like I'm the only person there. I know that I am, cause as I left the reception, my name was the only one with 'in' marked next to it.
But I'm wrong.
In the early morning, the school belongs to the caretakers. They walk the grounds and the corridors silently, ghostlike. They go about their business, checking things, fixing things, making sure everyone is safe and warm as the day begins. They smile and greet me as I walk past them, and I feel reassured by their presence.
As soon as I get to my own classroom however, it's just the empty building and me all over again. So I put music on loud and sing along as I get ready for the day to begin. And it's great, because I have lots of time to do all the things I have to do and all the energy I need to do them.
If you had ever told me that I would enjoy being at work at 7am, I would think you were crazy. But there we go.
The only bit I don't like about it is having to get out of bed. But I would hate that part regardless of the hour!
But I'm wrong.
In the early morning, the school belongs to the caretakers. They walk the grounds and the corridors silently, ghostlike. They go about their business, checking things, fixing things, making sure everyone is safe and warm as the day begins. They smile and greet me as I walk past them, and I feel reassured by their presence.
As soon as I get to my own classroom however, it's just the empty building and me all over again. So I put music on loud and sing along as I get ready for the day to begin. And it's great, because I have lots of time to do all the things I have to do and all the energy I need to do them.
If you had ever told me that I would enjoy being at work at 7am, I would think you were crazy. But there we go.
The only bit I don't like about it is having to get out of bed. But I would hate that part regardless of the hour!
Saturday 31 October 2009
Half-term
Half-term is almost over.
I've been sick for most of it, a really nasty cold, which was made worse by travelling and stress.
We went to Poland for a couple of days for my parents' 40th anniversary (!) and it was good, but tiring and hard in some ways as Mother wasn't very well at all and Parents were Parents, so I mainly got back feeling fat and worthless. They mean well, I know they do, but the message getting through is that I don't really have anything interesting to say (at least not anything that would call for a response or a question aiming to find out more, not to speak of letting me finish my sentence), that I'm gaining weight (even if I've actually lost some) and that the only reason why I'm actually taking care of myself and am going somewhere is that I'm with Paul.
It's really curious how some people express their love!
So now I could really use a few days to get over it all but Monday is back to school. And I feel completely out of it, I am sure that there were things I should follow up etc. but I just don't have it in me.
I need a holiday.
I've been sick for most of it, a really nasty cold, which was made worse by travelling and stress.
We went to Poland for a couple of days for my parents' 40th anniversary (!) and it was good, but tiring and hard in some ways as Mother wasn't very well at all and Parents were Parents, so I mainly got back feeling fat and worthless. They mean well, I know they do, but the message getting through is that I don't really have anything interesting to say (at least not anything that would call for a response or a question aiming to find out more, not to speak of letting me finish my sentence), that I'm gaining weight (even if I've actually lost some) and that the only reason why I'm actually taking care of myself and am going somewhere is that I'm with Paul.
It's really curious how some people express their love!
So now I could really use a few days to get over it all but Monday is back to school. And I feel completely out of it, I am sure that there were things I should follow up etc. but I just don't have it in me.
I need a holiday.
Sunday 11 October 2009
Wing cows are vicious
At one point it became clear that weekends couldn’t be about just sorting the house out anymore – we needed a break, even if it meant some boxes staying around for longer. So we decided to go walking. I had bought myself a pair of outdoor shoes I didn’t really need (and yay to that!) and a “Pub Walks in Buckinghamshire” book, and yesterday we set off to do the closest one – in Wing.
It quickly became clear that this particular pub walk would not include the pub bit, there was however nothing I could do about the pub stopping serving food and not serving again until several hours later. Oh well, if I wanted pubs serving food all day long I should have stayed in Brum.
The walk started off lovely, the sun was shining, the countryside was picturesque, following the route indicated in the book was easy. The first obstacle we encountered was a large group of cows scattered in a field we were supposed to cross. We joked that the guide should really be saying “go over the stile and among the cows” and that we hoped they would not gang up on us. They didn’t. They gave us strange looks as we went past but resumed munching almost immediately.
Encouraged by this experience, we approached our second herd of cows with more confidence, especially while they were lazily lying in the grass and looked oblivious to our presence. As we got closer they stood up and walked away, which was even better. However, as soon as we were on their level, they hurried back towards us and the next thing we knew we were ducking under the electric fence and desperately trying to get through overgrown bushes which would sting and scratch but not give way. The cows stayed put on their side and watched us as we retracted our steps through the bushes on the other side of the fence getting stung and scratched until we were far enough to venture getting back into the field.
Uh oh. Scary!
It quickly became clear that this particular pub walk would not include the pub bit, there was however nothing I could do about the pub stopping serving food and not serving again until several hours later. Oh well, if I wanted pubs serving food all day long I should have stayed in Brum.
The walk started off lovely, the sun was shining, the countryside was picturesque, following the route indicated in the book was easy. The first obstacle we encountered was a large group of cows scattered in a field we were supposed to cross. We joked that the guide should really be saying “go over the stile and among the cows” and that we hoped they would not gang up on us. They didn’t. They gave us strange looks as we went past but resumed munching almost immediately.
Encouraged by this experience, we approached our second herd of cows with more confidence, especially while they were lazily lying in the grass and looked oblivious to our presence. As we got closer they stood up and walked away, which was even better. However, as soon as we were on their level, they hurried back towards us and the next thing we knew we were ducking under the electric fence and desperately trying to get through overgrown bushes which would sting and scratch but not give way. The cows stayed put on their side and watched us as we retracted our steps through the bushes on the other side of the fence getting stung and scratched until we were far enough to venture getting back into the field.
Uh oh. Scary!
Saturday 26 September 2009
On idiots of various sorts
Ever since we have moved into our little cottage I have been cycling to school. I am proud to say that I am getting more and more confident on my bike and develop more and more normal speeds now. My first ride to school was 40 minutes. Now I’m at 25 and I tend to prefer roads to pavements (at least on my way to school – in the afternoon there are way too many cars!).
I have however quickly understood that most drivers don’t give much heed to us cyclists. Like the idiot who was stationary right across the red way the other day, even if he had plenty of driveway in front and in the back. Did he move when he saw me? No. What for if I can get off my bike and go around him like a good girl?
Like the idiot who sped off the roundabout the other day on a red light that he did not see because he was busy looking for something on the floor of his car. He probably didn’t notice the fact that he almost took my front wheel off either. Thank God I was slow getting on my bike!
And finally yesterday’s idiot – I was nearing a roundabout where I turn right so I needed to get into the right lane. Now, indicating right is really hard. I stick my arm out but I wobble and stress and all. So I hate doing it. Still, since I knew there was a car behind me, I stuck my arm out and after a few seconds started changing lanes. And that idiot decided to still take me over and get onto the roundabout a few centimetres in front of me sharply getting back into the left lane cause he was going straight.
Still, the most disgusting story of all is probably that of an 11 years old girl from Paul’s form who was knocked off her bike by a reversing car. The driver did not even get out. He stuck his head out of his window and shouted abuse at her.
Not even an idiot that. A sorry excuse for a human being.
Tuesday 22 September 2009
I’m back!
Until yesterday I have been completely cut off from the internet (if you don’t count school, but the network won’t let me access the interesting sites anyway) – hence the long silence. An update is therefore due – lots to tell, could type pages, but will do it in brief:
The school is great. Love it. Absolutely. As of yesterday I even have a form. Inherited from a teacher who was too burdened by his personal problems to remain a good form tutor. They’re spoilt. They lack both care and discipline. They’re year 9 so their hormones are through the roof. It will take a lot of hard work, sweat and tears before I break them into decent human beings. But I will. And in the meantime I shall be faithfully reporting on all the jewels coming out of their mouths.
We’ve moved into our little cottage on September 5th and it hasn’t stopped since. Boxes. CD towers. A drill. More boxes. Throws and cushions (cause we are happy owners of a very comfortable yet seriously ugly couch). Some more boxes. Mirror in the bathroom. Desk up into the loft – take it apart, put it together. Yet more boxes. Shower curtain (cause as it was taking a shower implied a flood in the bathroom). Change address with school, bank… Internet. Boxes… gah.
Weekend? Sorry, what?
At this point we are connected to the outside world (and right on time, as am expecting loads of birthday messages tomorrow!), we don’t have to mop the bathroom every morning, the living room is done and box-free.
The loft contains desk, computer, two chairs, some piles of books and… boxes.
The bedroom is ok but contains unpacked bags.
The conservatory is full of boxes (although some of them empty).
But we have bird feeders in the garden.
And we know how recycling works.
We’re home.
The school is great. Love it. Absolutely. As of yesterday I even have a form. Inherited from a teacher who was too burdened by his personal problems to remain a good form tutor. They’re spoilt. They lack both care and discipline. They’re year 9 so their hormones are through the roof. It will take a lot of hard work, sweat and tears before I break them into decent human beings. But I will. And in the meantime I shall be faithfully reporting on all the jewels coming out of their mouths.
We’ve moved into our little cottage on September 5th and it hasn’t stopped since. Boxes. CD towers. A drill. More boxes. Throws and cushions (cause we are happy owners of a very comfortable yet seriously ugly couch). Some more boxes. Mirror in the bathroom. Desk up into the loft – take it apart, put it together. Yet more boxes. Shower curtain (cause as it was taking a shower implied a flood in the bathroom). Change address with school, bank… Internet. Boxes… gah.
Weekend? Sorry, what?
At this point we are connected to the outside world (and right on time, as am expecting loads of birthday messages tomorrow!), we don’t have to mop the bathroom every morning, the living room is done and box-free.
The loft contains desk, computer, two chairs, some piles of books and… boxes.
The bedroom is ok but contains unpacked bags.
The conservatory is full of boxes (although some of them empty).
But we have bird feeders in the garden.
And we know how recycling works.
We’re home.
Sunday 23 August 2009
Moving
We had found this brilliant bungalow, perfect in every way, even with all inclusive rent and without agency fees - a miracle organised by the Head's PA from my new school.
Before we went off on different holidays, we had written the contract and sent it to our future landlord who was supposed to sign it and send it back.
He didn't, but we didn't worry much as had been travelling too.
We called him on our way back from the Lakes and arranged the contract signing and moving in for Saturday at 12.
We arrived to the house on Saturday at 12. No sign of the bloke.
After 15 minutes, we tried his mobile - not available.
After 30 minutes it changed to switched off.
After 45 minutes Paul called a friend who checked his e-mail for him - nothing.
After 65 minutes we gave up and left.
We sent the bloke and e-mail asking to contact us a.s.a.p. No reply.
Paul called him again, it rang and then it went busy. Twice.
I called him, he answered the phone and hung up on me immediately.
So I guess that's it. I'll have to chase that lovely picture of sitting on that porch with a glass of wine out of my head.
But.
We're supposed to be picking up Paul's sister's furniture and my stuff on Saturday, but we have nowhere to move it to.
I'm starting work on Friday. If we're still here, it will mean setting off every day at 6.40 so that Paul can drop me off before going to work himself.
The chances of us not being here anymore are very slim.
I don't know where my school clothes are. Quite possibly still in Birmingham.
Before we went off on different holidays, we had written the contract and sent it to our future landlord who was supposed to sign it and send it back.
He didn't, but we didn't worry much as had been travelling too.
We called him on our way back from the Lakes and arranged the contract signing and moving in for Saturday at 12.
We arrived to the house on Saturday at 12. No sign of the bloke.
After 15 minutes, we tried his mobile - not available.
After 30 minutes it changed to switched off.
After 45 minutes Paul called a friend who checked his e-mail for him - nothing.
After 65 minutes we gave up and left.
We sent the bloke and e-mail asking to contact us a.s.a.p. No reply.
Paul called him again, it rang and then it went busy. Twice.
I called him, he answered the phone and hung up on me immediately.
So I guess that's it. I'll have to chase that lovely picture of sitting on that porch with a glass of wine out of my head.
But.
We're supposed to be picking up Paul's sister's furniture and my stuff on Saturday, but we have nowhere to move it to.
I'm starting work on Friday. If we're still here, it will mean setting off every day at 6.40 so that Paul can drop me off before going to work himself.
The chances of us not being here anymore are very slim.
I don't know where my school clothes are. Quite possibly still in Birmingham.
Wednesday 12 August 2009
Shooting stars…
…are dead cool. There’s nothing like lying on the grass staring at the sky even if your bum gets slightly cold. Peace, people.
Wednesday 22 July 2009
On not being adapted to living on this planet
I realise that I haven’t been posting as much lately but to be honest, there wasn’t much to post about. Unless I would keep posting about being disillusioned with the system and drained into numbness.
And now the school’s over. I should be jubilant. When I think back at how I felt most of the time, I can’t help thinking that the main thing I should feel is relief.
It isn’t.
I’ve spent last three days just crying uncontrollably and being angry about it, cause look, my life is great, there’s lots of good stuff happening and lots of good stuff to look forward to, but I can’t help it.
I think it’s because I’m just so exhausted and I have been sucking it up for such a long time.
And because whatever I might have been saying and however horrid these kids have been to me most of the time, I did get attached to them, I did get somewhere with some of them, and some of them really did care for me too. I had a proof of that last few days when I was inundated in cards, flowers, presents and hugs.
And because yes, the upcoming changes are good, but they are also scary. In any case – I’m off to France now, where there are people who know me with a big supply of wine and tissues. And I’ll drink, talk, cry and relax and hopefully eventually I’ll stop crying at last.
And now the school’s over. I should be jubilant. When I think back at how I felt most of the time, I can’t help thinking that the main thing I should feel is relief.
It isn’t.
I’ve spent last three days just crying uncontrollably and being angry about it, cause look, my life is great, there’s lots of good stuff happening and lots of good stuff to look forward to, but I can’t help it.
I think it’s because I’m just so exhausted and I have been sucking it up for such a long time.
And because whatever I might have been saying and however horrid these kids have been to me most of the time, I did get attached to them, I did get somewhere with some of them, and some of them really did care for me too. I had a proof of that last few days when I was inundated in cards, flowers, presents and hugs.
And because yes, the upcoming changes are good, but they are also scary. In any case – I’m off to France now, where there are people who know me with a big supply of wine and tissues. And I’ll drink, talk, cry and relax and hopefully eventually I’ll stop crying at last.
Friday 10 July 2009
Miiiiss! Tiiiiits!
Give a year 10 students, recently promoted to year 11 by a controversial decision to start the new school year early, a cultural book called “Germany Live” with a task to carry out using it. Most of them will open it to keep up the appearances, and immediately relax into a conversation. One or two of them will diligently set about to do what they were told to. One of them will start flicking through the book and suddenly cry out: “Miiiiss! Tiiits! Guys, look at page 34, there’s a naked broad! Miss, look at page 34!”
All of the male students will immediately revive and find page 34. Some of them will join in with “Miss, tits, no really, look at page 34, there’s a naked broad”.
“I know what breasts look like dear” I’ll say and reluctantly open the book on page 34. Sure enough there is a picture of people on a beach and one woman indeed is topless.
Follows a lengthy discussion about nudist beaches in Germany and Poland and my acquaintance with such beaches, at the end of which one of them states a firm decision to go to Germany.
“There is a slight problem” I say. “You’d need to actually speak some German.”
“Oh no, miss. I’d just wink and say ‘bedroom’.”
“Well, do you know how to say ‘bedroom’ in German?”
Ah, the educational side effects of naked women in secondary school textbooks…
All of the male students will immediately revive and find page 34. Some of them will join in with “Miss, tits, no really, look at page 34, there’s a naked broad”.
“I know what breasts look like dear” I’ll say and reluctantly open the book on page 34. Sure enough there is a picture of people on a beach and one woman indeed is topless.
Follows a lengthy discussion about nudist beaches in Germany and Poland and my acquaintance with such beaches, at the end of which one of them states a firm decision to go to Germany.
“There is a slight problem” I say. “You’d need to actually speak some German.”
“Oh no, miss. I’d just wink and say ‘bedroom’.”
“Well, do you know how to say ‘bedroom’ in German?”
Ah, the educational side effects of naked women in secondary school textbooks…
Monday 29 June 2009
On playing God
On Thursday night Paul came up from MK and we went to the Yardbird for a gig. We were standing outside, sipping at our drinks and enjoying the music, the weather was warm – bliss. Just what I needed to forget all the other shit and remember how it feels to just feel plain happy.
At one point, I spotted a guy walking hastily towards the club. He got there and sat at a table where a woman sat with two drinks, waiting for him. As he was sitting down, he took his I-pod out of his pocket and a business card flew out onto the pavement. He didn’t notice.
The natural reaction would have been to pick it up and hand it to him, but I was in the middle of a conversation that I didn’t want to lose anything of.
A little later, I looked back and the business card was still on the ground. I hesitated – at this point, it would have been much less natural to pick it up and hand it to him. Besides, after all it was just a business card, which could not be of importance if he’d put it rather carelessly into his back pocket. But what if it was important? What if, for instance, the details on it was of a person who could change his life? Absorbed as he was in his conversation with the woman, he wasn’t going to check his pocket for it. So if I didn’t say anything, his life could have changed forever. For a brief moment, his destiny was in my hands…
I did pick it up and give it to him. He thanked me but barely acknowledged the card, just shoved it back into his pocket. So maybe it wasn’t important after all. Or maybe the woman sitting in front of him was more important than the person whose details where on the card.
At one point, I spotted a guy walking hastily towards the club. He got there and sat at a table where a woman sat with two drinks, waiting for him. As he was sitting down, he took his I-pod out of his pocket and a business card flew out onto the pavement. He didn’t notice.
The natural reaction would have been to pick it up and hand it to him, but I was in the middle of a conversation that I didn’t want to lose anything of.
A little later, I looked back and the business card was still on the ground. I hesitated – at this point, it would have been much less natural to pick it up and hand it to him. Besides, after all it was just a business card, which could not be of importance if he’d put it rather carelessly into his back pocket. But what if it was important? What if, for instance, the details on it was of a person who could change his life? Absorbed as he was in his conversation with the woman, he wasn’t going to check his pocket for it. So if I didn’t say anything, his life could have changed forever. For a brief moment, his destiny was in my hands…
I did pick it up and give it to him. He thanked me but barely acknowledged the card, just shoved it back into his pocket. So maybe it wasn’t important after all. Or maybe the woman sitting in front of him was more important than the person whose details where on the card.
Monday 15 June 2009
On new arrivals
There's a Polish girl in my school who recently approached me asking for help preparing for her exams. I accepted willingly, cause God knows I needed something good, ie. to work with a kid who actually cares. But this is not good. She is hard working and puts every effort in, but her English is just not good enough. And what I don't understand is how could a child be schooled in the UK for almost two years and still not speak any English? From what I gathered, she had initially refused to learn English, a rebellions teenager angry about having to moved into a foreign country and into a school where her and her brother are constantly bullied. But how come no one ever cared enough to talk her out of it? Why nobody cared to check how long she's really been here before denying her the right to a dictionary and extra time in exams? And actually, how come kids have that right only for two years after their arrival regardless of their level of English?
She has special provision. A translator for two lessons a week. How is she supposed to cope? Why no one asked me earlier if I would be willing to help?
And, in the first place, what is the point in putting new arrivals straight into mainstream schools? I knew a girl who was put straight into year 11 and forced to take her GCSE's while all she could say in English was 'hello'.
From what I've heard, there used to be special centres for new arrivals, where they were schooled for up to a year learning English only. I wonder who decided it was a bad idea. I wonder how the current way of doing things could possibly be seen as better.
It just makes me so angry - all those kids arriving here and so absolutely failed by the education system. What are their chances to succeed? None, unless of course their parents are wealthy enough to provide them with private tutoring.
She has special provision. A translator for two lessons a week. How is she supposed to cope? Why no one asked me earlier if I would be willing to help?
And, in the first place, what is the point in putting new arrivals straight into mainstream schools? I knew a girl who was put straight into year 11 and forced to take her GCSE's while all she could say in English was 'hello'.
From what I've heard, there used to be special centres for new arrivals, where they were schooled for up to a year learning English only. I wonder who decided it was a bad idea. I wonder how the current way of doing things could possibly be seen as better.
It just makes me so angry - all those kids arriving here and so absolutely failed by the education system. What are their chances to succeed? None, unless of course their parents are wealthy enough to provide them with private tutoring.
Monday 8 June 2009
Taking a cab
Relatively often I take a cab from work. Mostly to New Street when I'm on my way to MK. Sometimes home. There are four gates to the school, in three different roads. I always book it for the main entrance. I once booked it for gate B, when I had a meeting on that side of the school. And ever since, no matter how many times I repeat that I want it from the main entrance my cab gets inevitably sent to gate B. And the scenario's always the same - the poor cab driver calls me cause he can't see me, I can't see him either cause he's in a different parking lot, and he has to drive to where I am or I run like an idiot to where he is. Which bit of 'main gate' is so hard to understand?
And today, while waiting for my cabbie to make his way to where I was once we'd agreed that it wasn't where he'd got sent to, I called the company again and ranted about it. I mean, how many times can you do that? I expected an apology. I got: If the driver didn't listen then it's not my problem! I said: Well, it would be something like 6 different drivers by now that didn't listen. That's not very likely, is it? To which he replied: I said gate C lady, not my problem.
How nice.
And then the driver told me that the guy did not say anything at all. He sent a message through a thingy which, as clear as day, said 'M School, Gate B'.
Idiot.
Another thing: when the cab gets into my street, I invariably say: Anywhere here, on the right will be fine. And the cab driver invariably pulls in on the left.
Maybe they don't listen after all.
Regardless of the thingy.
And today, while waiting for my cabbie to make his way to where I was once we'd agreed that it wasn't where he'd got sent to, I called the company again and ranted about it. I mean, how many times can you do that? I expected an apology. I got: If the driver didn't listen then it's not my problem! I said: Well, it would be something like 6 different drivers by now that didn't listen. That's not very likely, is it? To which he replied: I said gate C lady, not my problem.
How nice.
And then the driver told me that the guy did not say anything at all. He sent a message through a thingy which, as clear as day, said 'M School, Gate B'.
Idiot.
Another thing: when the cab gets into my street, I invariably say: Anywhere here, on the right will be fine. And the cab driver invariably pulls in on the left.
Maybe they don't listen after all.
Regardless of the thingy.
Thursday 28 May 2009
On misbehaviour
Once she told me I had the job, my future Head of Department said that what made her mind up about me was how I had handled misbehaviour during my interview lesson.
I wanted to burst out laughing.
One kid turned around to speak to a friend a couple of times and another one wrote a note, then apologetically handed the note over to me. That’s nothing.
Try this: you have two of them punching the crap out of each other, one of them running around the classroom with someone else’s bag, that someone else following them trying to retrieve the said bag, four or five of them just carelessly walking around socialising with their friends, a couple listening to music on their phones/i-pods and a couple more shouting invectives out of the window. And then telling you to get out of their face when you try to get their attention.
That’s misbehaviour.
Even if the behaviour is in general three times worse than it was in my interview lesson, it’s going to be a friggin’ holiday.
I wanted to burst out laughing.
One kid turned around to speak to a friend a couple of times and another one wrote a note, then apologetically handed the note over to me. That’s nothing.
Try this: you have two of them punching the crap out of each other, one of them running around the classroom with someone else’s bag, that someone else following them trying to retrieve the said bag, four or five of them just carelessly walking around socialising with their friends, a couple listening to music on their phones/i-pods and a couple more shouting invectives out of the window. And then telling you to get out of their face when you try to get their attention.
That’s misbehaviour.
Even if the behaviour is in general three times worse than it was in my interview lesson, it’s going to be a friggin’ holiday.
Saturday 23 May 2009
And now dear children...
There was this TV presenter ages ago in communist Poland who had the misfortune to have said or done something to offend the Party (I’m not quite sure, I only know the story from my parents). The Party decided to punish him by moving him from evening news to a children’s programme where he read stories live on TV. He loathed it absolutely. And one day, once the story was done and he thought the cameras were off, he stood up, pulled his trousers down and said dramatically: ‘And now, dear children, kiss my arse!’. Unfortunately, the cameras were not off just yet…
The reason why I’m telling this story is because it reminds me of how I feel these days in my hectic crazy classroom full of nasty vile children who are betting on who will make me cry first, and all because I finally got a job for September – in a nice school with nice kids who are genuinely happy to be there.
So these dear children can kiss my arse.
The reason why I’m telling this story is because it reminds me of how I feel these days in my hectic crazy classroom full of nasty vile children who are betting on who will make me cry first, and all because I finally got a job for September – in a nice school with nice kids who are genuinely happy to be there.
So these dear children can kiss my arse.
Wednesday 6 May 2009
Knee-high white socks and pony tails
A week ago cycling was something I remotely thought of as potentially enjoyable and something Paul did without me. I pushed for us to go on a bike ride together mostly because of the ‘without me’ bit, quite pathetic, I know. So on Saturday we set off for a ride, him in all his gear on his serious road bike, me on his old hybrid, way too big for me, but I made it go forward so it was fine with me. It was hard work though – it is true you never forget how to ride a bike, but when you haven’t done it for over 16 years you’re all wobbly and it is rather strenuous trying to keep it straight up and going where you want it to go.
We got to the hill where Paul did some of his up-hill training while I sat on a bench reading and getting sun burnt (I tried the hill, got something like a quarter of the way up and decided that as much as it was within my capacities to get all the way up, there’s no reason why I should be doing this to myself). And then we set on our way back home. The ride was pleasant, the surroundings picturesque, Paul pointed some bluebells to me, I looked to see the bluebells therefore failing to look where I was going and the next thing I knew I was flat on the road. As soon as I stood up, I realised that in addition to a couple of small grazes on my forearm, I had a bloody mess where my knee used to be and a huge hole in my favourite trousers. But I wasn’t going to cry, oh no, I was going to be very brave.
We had no first aid kit, so we used what we had to clean my knee and just as we were doing that a neighbour of Paul’s pulled up – what are the chances! He offered to take us home by car and I was really, really tempted, cause my knee was hurting like hell and needed proper cleaning, and it had been all scary and all. But I was going to be very brave and a good sport, so I declined the offer and decided to get back on the bike. And then I spent most of the remaining ride cursing under my breath. But once we got home I had a huge sense of achievement, almost as huge as the scab on my knee (all I need now are white knee-high socks and pony tails to go with it!).
One would think that would put me off cycling for a while. Well – no.
On Sunday I went and actually bought myself a bike.
On Monday we went out for a ride again, me on my new bike in my pretty new helmet and this time I didn’t fall (although I was really close a couple of times! – can’t bloody aim with this thing…).
And next Sunday I’m doing a 30 miles long charity ride.
I must not be in my right senses…
We got to the hill where Paul did some of his up-hill training while I sat on a bench reading and getting sun burnt (I tried the hill, got something like a quarter of the way up and decided that as much as it was within my capacities to get all the way up, there’s no reason why I should be doing this to myself). And then we set on our way back home. The ride was pleasant, the surroundings picturesque, Paul pointed some bluebells to me, I looked to see the bluebells therefore failing to look where I was going and the next thing I knew I was flat on the road. As soon as I stood up, I realised that in addition to a couple of small grazes on my forearm, I had a bloody mess where my knee used to be and a huge hole in my favourite trousers. But I wasn’t going to cry, oh no, I was going to be very brave.
We had no first aid kit, so we used what we had to clean my knee and just as we were doing that a neighbour of Paul’s pulled up – what are the chances! He offered to take us home by car and I was really, really tempted, cause my knee was hurting like hell and needed proper cleaning, and it had been all scary and all. But I was going to be very brave and a good sport, so I declined the offer and decided to get back on the bike. And then I spent most of the remaining ride cursing under my breath. But once we got home I had a huge sense of achievement, almost as huge as the scab on my knee (all I need now are white knee-high socks and pony tails to go with it!).
One would think that would put me off cycling for a while. Well – no.
On Sunday I went and actually bought myself a bike.
On Monday we went out for a ride again, me on my new bike in my pretty new helmet and this time I didn’t fall (although I was really close a couple of times! – can’t bloody aim with this thing…).
And next Sunday I’m doing a 30 miles long charity ride.
I must not be in my right senses…
Monday 27 April 2009
On survival
This weekend we went to see Craig and Ann in their home in the middle of nowhere and it was brilliant – I hadn’t seen them for too long and I’ve missed their faces. We got way too drunk eating a delicious barbecue , playing cards and sharing horror stories (we’re all teachers). The next morning Ann made banana and chocolate chip muffins (that I had too many of) and Craig shared some of his wisdom with me (he used to work at a school that was possibly even worse than mine). And what he said was 10.000 times more useful than all the advice I get at school. Simply because instead of focusing on ‘good practice’ he focused on my sanity and getting my classes to a state where I can actually attempt proper teaching. Here are my two favourite ones:
1. Time out.
Put a chair outside the room. Spot the most disruptive kid and offer him ‘time out’ as in ‘I think you need to chill for 5 minutes, so why don’t you sit outside for a bit.’ If you’re lucky, he will simply bugger off. If not, at least you will have 5 minutes to get the rest of them going. Cover your arse – send a note to behaviour management that the bugger is at large.
2. Note.
Again, spot the most disruptive kid and ask him to take a note to your head of department or anyone else for that matter. The note should say: ‘I’ve sent XY to you because I need him out for 5 minutes so that I can start the others on their work. Thank you!’ It needs to be sealed of course. Again – if you’re lucky, the kid will just bugger off. If not, etc.
I shall put those in practice and we’ll see how it goes!
1. Time out.
Put a chair outside the room. Spot the most disruptive kid and offer him ‘time out’ as in ‘I think you need to chill for 5 minutes, so why don’t you sit outside for a bit.’ If you’re lucky, he will simply bugger off. If not, at least you will have 5 minutes to get the rest of them going. Cover your arse – send a note to behaviour management that the bugger is at large.
2. Note.
Again, spot the most disruptive kid and ask him to take a note to your head of department or anyone else for that matter. The note should say: ‘I’ve sent XY to you because I need him out for 5 minutes so that I can start the others on their work. Thank you!’ It needs to be sealed of course. Again – if you’re lucky, the kid will just bugger off. If not, etc.
I shall put those in practice and we’ll see how it goes!
Friday 24 April 2009
On swearing in the classroom yet again
It was a horrid week. Last night I’ve spent an hour sobbing on the phone to Paul about how I didn’t want to go back. And today, which could have potentially been a bit better, given the groups I had, was not. Possibly because some of the kids I have in my Spanish class are the same ones who were so totally horrid yesterday. So just seeing their faces made me want to get out of there as quickly as I could. Or maybe I just didn’t have it in me today.
Anyway, by the time I got to my year 8, I was more than overwhelmed. And they were as horrid as I’ve ever known them to be. So at the end of the lesson, when they were all ready to go, I stood in front of them and told them, in clear loud voice, to ‘f*** the f*** off’.
It was beautiful.
And I won’t even get in trouble for it, cause I said it in Polish and therefore no one understood. But I knew what I was saying and it felt wonderful. I left the classroom with a huge smile on my face.
I'll have to do it more often. I’m just afraid that the effect will wear off rather quickly…
Anyway, by the time I got to my year 8, I was more than overwhelmed. And they were as horrid as I’ve ever known them to be. So at the end of the lesson, when they were all ready to go, I stood in front of them and told them, in clear loud voice, to ‘f*** the f*** off’.
It was beautiful.
And I won’t even get in trouble for it, cause I said it in Polish and therefore no one understood. But I knew what I was saying and it felt wonderful. I left the classroom with a huge smile on my face.
I'll have to do it more often. I’m just afraid that the effect will wear off rather quickly…
Thursday 23 April 2009
Technology
Paul’s got a new phone which is equipped with this fancy technology called ‘face recognition’. It means that when you’re taking a photo with it, it will put squares around up to three people’s faces and focus on them.
A couple of nights ago, Paul tried taking a photo of his friend Matt, the camera has however decided to focus on… the wheel of Matt’s bike.
Paul’s dad says its because Matt’s bike’s wheel looks more human than Matt’s face.
I say: ach, technology!
A couple of nights ago, Paul tried taking a photo of his friend Matt, the camera has however decided to focus on… the wheel of Matt’s bike.
Paul’s dad says its because Matt’s bike’s wheel looks more human than Matt’s face.
I say: ach, technology!
Monday 20 April 2009
Homeless
Last time we went to Aix, in late October, just like any time I had gone back after my move to the UK, it felt like going home and being there was both great and really difficult, cause, of course, I didn’t have a home there anymore.
This time the homey feeling was gone and it was just this place that used to be home and where people-who-know-me are. At least some of them, cause James is gone and Jannick is as good as gone in a way, besides, lets not kid ourselves, it is not the same as it was when I was actually there.
So Birmingham, but how much of a home is it really? I do have some friends, but none of them can be qualified as people-who-know-me just yet. I live in a house share, which is fun, but is by definition as un-homey as it gets, by definition temporary, no potential to settle down what so ever. And my local pub is in… Milton Keynes.
So Milton Keynes then? Well, I don’t even live there. The plan is for me to move there, but as long as I haven’t found a job, it isn’t so much a plan as a wish.
And so the sad truth is that I’m living on the boxes with no end to it in sight for now and, quite frankly, I’m growing more and more tired of it.
This time the homey feeling was gone and it was just this place that used to be home and where people-who-know-me are. At least some of them, cause James is gone and Jannick is as good as gone in a way, besides, lets not kid ourselves, it is not the same as it was when I was actually there.
So Birmingham, but how much of a home is it really? I do have some friends, but none of them can be qualified as people-who-know-me just yet. I live in a house share, which is fun, but is by definition as un-homey as it gets, by definition temporary, no potential to settle down what so ever. And my local pub is in… Milton Keynes.
So Milton Keynes then? Well, I don’t even live there. The plan is for me to move there, but as long as I haven’t found a job, it isn’t so much a plan as a wish.
And so the sad truth is that I’m living on the boxes with no end to it in sight for now and, quite frankly, I’m growing more and more tired of it.
Tuesday 14 April 2009
Flying Ryanair
Marseille Airport, 20:40 – so far so good, the luggage check-in started on time. I’m slightly worried that my suitcase is over 15 kg, in which case I would have to pay £8 or something per each excess kg on top of the £12 that I have already paid so they would let me take a suitcase at all. Luckily it isn't.
22:00 – Waiting Lounge. The screen announces that our flight is now boarding through gate F. The crowds rush forward and so do we (let’s note the abnormality of the situation: for once we’re actually boarding on time, my hitherto experiences show an average delay of at least 20 minutes).
22:15 – All passengers have been neatly crammed into three waiting lines, one Priority Line (for those who were silly enough to spend extra money on priority boarding, which in reality doesn’t give them anything at all or almost), two other lines, we’re waiting. The plane is noticeably not there (although it should have landed at 22:10).
22:25 – The plane is still not there. Everyone’s starting to get annoyed obviously having missed the point of boarding in the absence of a plane.
22.40 – Due take off time, the plane is still not there.
22:50 – The plane is there. We watch people get off it and then we are ushered through the doors and onto the plane. On the plane, the main stewardess, or whatever you call them nowadays, encourages the passengers to ‘move down the aisle and promptly take seats in order to allow for a quick take off’. That would have been ok if the frequency and the tone of these messages did not imply that it would be our fault if we landed late.
23:15 – The plane starts moving, the security briefing begins just to be almost immediately interrupted by the said stewardess in order to tell people off for not paying attention while it is for their safety. I turn my head and I don’t see anyone not paying attention. What I see is a steward rushing down the aisle to take his spot.
23:25 – We are finally airborne. I check that there is a life jacket under my seat and that neither the jacket nor the oxygen mask panel have been equipped with a coin slot. I mean, they were planning to fit those on the loos, so you never know right?
Other travel entertainment consisted in the same stewardess telling several passengers off for trying to use the toilet while the seat-belt sign was on. She had indeed informed us each time that the toilets would not be available, the intercom however was regulated at a volume where no one could have possibly heard it. I mean, I thought being nice was part of her job description… but then again, how long can you keep being nice if all you do all day is deal with frustrated passengers?
22:00 – Waiting Lounge. The screen announces that our flight is now boarding through gate F. The crowds rush forward and so do we (let’s note the abnormality of the situation: for once we’re actually boarding on time, my hitherto experiences show an average delay of at least 20 minutes).
22:15 – All passengers have been neatly crammed into three waiting lines, one Priority Line (for those who were silly enough to spend extra money on priority boarding, which in reality doesn’t give them anything at all or almost), two other lines, we’re waiting. The plane is noticeably not there (although it should have landed at 22:10).
22:25 – The plane is still not there. Everyone’s starting to get annoyed obviously having missed the point of boarding in the absence of a plane.
22.40 – Due take off time, the plane is still not there.
22:50 – The plane is there. We watch people get off it and then we are ushered through the doors and onto the plane. On the plane, the main stewardess, or whatever you call them nowadays, encourages the passengers to ‘move down the aisle and promptly take seats in order to allow for a quick take off’. That would have been ok if the frequency and the tone of these messages did not imply that it would be our fault if we landed late.
23:15 – The plane starts moving, the security briefing begins just to be almost immediately interrupted by the said stewardess in order to tell people off for not paying attention while it is for their safety. I turn my head and I don’t see anyone not paying attention. What I see is a steward rushing down the aisle to take his spot.
23:25 – We are finally airborne. I check that there is a life jacket under my seat and that neither the jacket nor the oxygen mask panel have been equipped with a coin slot. I mean, they were planning to fit those on the loos, so you never know right?
Other travel entertainment consisted in the same stewardess telling several passengers off for trying to use the toilet while the seat-belt sign was on. She had indeed informed us each time that the toilets would not be available, the intercom however was regulated at a volume where no one could have possibly heard it. I mean, I thought being nice was part of her job description… but then again, how long can you keep being nice if all you do all day is deal with frustrated passengers?
Tuesday 31 March 2009
On Sunshine
The spring is now officially here. We’ve changed the time, the sun is shining, the birds are singing – although none of them are coming to my brand new bird feeder Paul got me cause the goldfinches in his parents’ garden kept stubbornly refusing to feed when I was watching.
Last weekend we’ve spent a few glorious hours in the garden playing Scrabble – the initial plan had been to go fly our kite, but Paul’s foot does not yet allow for him running.
And in just 5 days I will be in Aix, sipping Pastis on Papi’s balcony warming my bones in the Provencal sun.
In the meantime, however, it’s the last week of school and last week of school means that try as you might, they will not co-operate. My lovely year 7s today were totally appalling when all I wanted them to do was a brief exercise summing up the most frequent mistakes I found in their books, which was supposed to be followed by a film. Yeah right. The film didn’t happen, cause the exercise didn’t either. I ended up going with them to their registration after school and having the Head of Year give them a proper bollocking. To my lovely year 7s. Seriously.
But then in my Year 9 Spanish group I have this boy with ADHD, whom I used to be sending with work to the Behaviour Manager every lesson, cause he made it absolutely impossible for me to teach. And lately he’s been just lovely. Yes, still fidgeting and still problematic but doing all his work and nothing compared to what it had been before. The Behaviour Manager would not believe me when I told him how good he’d been. And today they were doing posters about Spain using words of their choice and he came up with this absolutely amazing piece of work that I’m definitely going to laminate and put up on my wall. When I told the Behaviour Manager, he said that I must be doing something right, cause he gets just complaints from all his other teachers. That’s a lovely thought and it made me feel really good about myself for a while. But then I realised that Spanish being their second language, I have 15 of them, not 30, so I have time to give the boy all the attention he needs. But then again – it’s probably also because it’s the right kind of attention. So it could be not only about the group size. Maybe I am doing something right!
Thursday 26 March 2009
Hell has officially frozen
I had fun with my vile year 9. Actual fun. I’m not being sarcastic.
I had a game prepared for them, not for the first time, but for the first time I actually had an alternative worksheet in case they wouldn’t let me go through with the game like before.
But they did.
And we had fun.
They had fun.
I had fun.
The lad who assaulted me and is a pain in each and every lesson had his hand up all the time.
The lad who has learning difficulties and can never be bothered had his hand up all the time.
The girl who thinks that a lesson is where she can socialise with her friends squeaking and squirming and being all over the place stayed put and had her hand up all the time.
The girl who never says one word, always sits alone and doesn’t like being talked to had her hand up all the time.
Some of them came up to me and said ‘Miss, I didn’t win’. To which I invariably replied – ‘You did. You’re a bigger winner than the ones who actually got the prizes.’
Cause they did.
And I did.
And we had fun.
Together.
After the lesson, I went to the staffroom and sat there staring blankly at the wall for good ten minutes in a genuine state of shock.
I had fun with my vile year 9.
Miracles officially happen.
I had a game prepared for them, not for the first time, but for the first time I actually had an alternative worksheet in case they wouldn’t let me go through with the game like before.
But they did.
And we had fun.
They had fun.
I had fun.
The lad who assaulted me and is a pain in each and every lesson had his hand up all the time.
The lad who has learning difficulties and can never be bothered had his hand up all the time.
The girl who thinks that a lesson is where she can socialise with her friends squeaking and squirming and being all over the place stayed put and had her hand up all the time.
The girl who never says one word, always sits alone and doesn’t like being talked to had her hand up all the time.
Some of them came up to me and said ‘Miss, I didn’t win’. To which I invariably replied – ‘You did. You’re a bigger winner than the ones who actually got the prizes.’
Cause they did.
And I did.
And we had fun.
Together.
After the lesson, I went to the staffroom and sat there staring blankly at the wall for good ten minutes in a genuine state of shock.
I had fun with my vile year 9.
Miracles officially happen.
Sunday 22 March 2009
The 'Spring Weakness'
The weather is nice, you have a loving boyfriend, a good even if difficult job, you’re learning new things, making plans and putting them into motion, you just made a new friend you get to see on a regular basis and are finally feeling less lonely, you name it, life is great and the future looks bright and sunny too. Yet, for some reason, you don’t enjoy it, worse, your eyes tear up constantly without any warning and without any apparent reason.
You think it must be cause you’re exhausted. After all the job is difficult and your chest is still rather painful as you have not yet fully recovered from your accident and recovering itself is a process needing more energy then you have given that you’re working.
Yes, sure, but it doesn’t explain it.
Ok, then it’s because, due to the said accident and the said chest, you haven’t been to the gym in a month – hence, instead of sweating the frustration out, you’re crying it out.
Yes, sure, but it still doesn’t really explain it.
Oh bollocks, you think, maybe you’re actually not that happy, maybe there’s something really wrong but you don’t see it yet if not subconsciously hence crying without apparent reason?
Oh boy. What is it then? What is it? Have you chosen a wrong career? Is the relationship not as good as you think? No? Maybe? What is it? You think about it, you talk about it, you make tiny inconveniences into huge problems, you start crying even more, vicious circle really.
And then your mother calls you. ‘Dear’ she says ‘I’m calling to check on you cause you must be in full spring weakness. Are you eating properly?’.
Right.
Apparently, according to Mother (but I’m sure she’s learnt from some serious and reliable source), in winter many vitamins and minerals get washed out of your body because they need sunlight to be absorbed properly. It gets worse if you’re not eating properly (and Mother being Mother knows that when I’m overworked I don’t eat properly). Some of these vitamins and minerals (can’t remember which ones, but I can ask Mother if you care to know) are apparently really important for mental and emotional processes in your system.
So I went and bought loads of veg and fruit and juices, vitamins and high-protein foods for an extra kick. And made a point of exposing self to sunlight.
And guess what – I’m happy. Yes, I’m still in pain, I’m still frustrated by the whole work situation, still in a desperate need of physical exercise, but happy.
To think I was worried I was getting clinically depressed!
It’s all in the fruit people. Take my word for it.
You think it must be cause you’re exhausted. After all the job is difficult and your chest is still rather painful as you have not yet fully recovered from your accident and recovering itself is a process needing more energy then you have given that you’re working.
Yes, sure, but it doesn’t explain it.
Ok, then it’s because, due to the said accident and the said chest, you haven’t been to the gym in a month – hence, instead of sweating the frustration out, you’re crying it out.
Yes, sure, but it still doesn’t really explain it.
Oh bollocks, you think, maybe you’re actually not that happy, maybe there’s something really wrong but you don’t see it yet if not subconsciously hence crying without apparent reason?
Oh boy. What is it then? What is it? Have you chosen a wrong career? Is the relationship not as good as you think? No? Maybe? What is it? You think about it, you talk about it, you make tiny inconveniences into huge problems, you start crying even more, vicious circle really.
And then your mother calls you. ‘Dear’ she says ‘I’m calling to check on you cause you must be in full spring weakness. Are you eating properly?’.
Right.
Apparently, according to Mother (but I’m sure she’s learnt from some serious and reliable source), in winter many vitamins and minerals get washed out of your body because they need sunlight to be absorbed properly. It gets worse if you’re not eating properly (and Mother being Mother knows that when I’m overworked I don’t eat properly). Some of these vitamins and minerals (can’t remember which ones, but I can ask Mother if you care to know) are apparently really important for mental and emotional processes in your system.
So I went and bought loads of veg and fruit and juices, vitamins and high-protein foods for an extra kick. And made a point of exposing self to sunlight.
And guess what – I’m happy. Yes, I’m still in pain, I’m still frustrated by the whole work situation, still in a desperate need of physical exercise, but happy.
To think I was worried I was getting clinically depressed!
It’s all in the fruit people. Take my word for it.
Thursday 12 March 2009
Wherever I end up in September, it will be a holiday
When a visit to the dentist’s is the highlight of your day, something’s definitely wrong.
I’ve had two unusually nice days at work, probably because of the training on Monday that made me miss out on one of my year 9s. But yesterday and today were just dreadful, year 9s, year8s, year 10s, you name it. If it wasn’t for year 7s I would seriously start questioning myself as a teacher.
At lunch break, I was sitting in Tabitha’s car, smoking a cigarette and ranting, feeling that I don’t want to go back to school, I can’t go back to school, please don’t make me go back to school.
My mentor meeting was all about me not being able to keep it together.
And everyone says it’s not me, it’s them. According to Ute, my mentor, I’m actually doing really good (sic!). And I know it is them, but I can’t help thinking that I’m failing. Cause I’m fighting and fighting and nothing changes. Cause when you have a group of 30 and 25 of them are playing up, there’s not much you can do really.
Every day, after school, my classroom looks like a battlefield.
First thing I do every morning is put my display into some order all over again and sort kids’ books into neat piles all over again.
And yes, this is a rough school and the kids are more difficult then elsewhere. But then, I have the same kids in my Spanish lessons, and those are all right, not perfect, not easy, but not dreadful to a point when all you want to do is sit down and cry.
The difference?
Well, there’s 30 of them in my German classes, and 15 in Spanish. There’s your difference. So maybe the important people up in London, who came up with the wonderful yet unrealistic policies of Every Child Matters and Personalised Learning, should go back into a classroom and see for themselves. How the f*** do you want me to cater for the needs of each of my students if I have 200 of them? How the f*** am I supposed to give attention to each and every one of them when I have 30 of them in a classroom? Maybe instead of putting shitloads of money into rebuilding schools, you should just build new ones, create more teaching posts, and reduce the number of kids in each class? Cause as it is, I am not teaching. As it is, I’m just growing more frustrated each day. And I seriously would not mind working in an old building with smaller classrooms with less modern equipment if that meant I had less kids in each lesson and could teach each and every one of them instead of hoping that the good ones learn something inadvertently while I waste my energy on shouting at the rest of them just to keep them in their seats.
I’ve had two unusually nice days at work, probably because of the training on Monday that made me miss out on one of my year 9s. But yesterday and today were just dreadful, year 9s, year8s, year 10s, you name it. If it wasn’t for year 7s I would seriously start questioning myself as a teacher.
At lunch break, I was sitting in Tabitha’s car, smoking a cigarette and ranting, feeling that I don’t want to go back to school, I can’t go back to school, please don’t make me go back to school.
My mentor meeting was all about me not being able to keep it together.
And everyone says it’s not me, it’s them. According to Ute, my mentor, I’m actually doing really good (sic!). And I know it is them, but I can’t help thinking that I’m failing. Cause I’m fighting and fighting and nothing changes. Cause when you have a group of 30 and 25 of them are playing up, there’s not much you can do really.
Every day, after school, my classroom looks like a battlefield.
First thing I do every morning is put my display into some order all over again and sort kids’ books into neat piles all over again.
And yes, this is a rough school and the kids are more difficult then elsewhere. But then, I have the same kids in my Spanish lessons, and those are all right, not perfect, not easy, but not dreadful to a point when all you want to do is sit down and cry.
The difference?
Well, there’s 30 of them in my German classes, and 15 in Spanish. There’s your difference. So maybe the important people up in London, who came up with the wonderful yet unrealistic policies of Every Child Matters and Personalised Learning, should go back into a classroom and see for themselves. How the f*** do you want me to cater for the needs of each of my students if I have 200 of them? How the f*** am I supposed to give attention to each and every one of them when I have 30 of them in a classroom? Maybe instead of putting shitloads of money into rebuilding schools, you should just build new ones, create more teaching posts, and reduce the number of kids in each class? Cause as it is, I am not teaching. As it is, I’m just growing more frustrated each day. And I seriously would not mind working in an old building with smaller classrooms with less modern equipment if that meant I had less kids in each lesson and could teach each and every one of them instead of hoping that the good ones learn something inadvertently while I waste my energy on shouting at the rest of them just to keep them in their seats.
Monday 9 March 2009
Common courtesy
While I was planning my lessons for tomorrow, GG (which is a Polish chat programme) informed me that my sister was online. I had not spoken to her in ages so I promptly sent a message. The conversation went as follows:
‘Hi there Fatty!’ (It’s a pet name, the whole family calls her that, probably because she’s always been skin on bones)
‘Hello Skinny’ - that surprised me a bit, but I didn’t think much of it.
‘How are you?’
‘Depends what you’re asking about’
‘Am asking in general’
‘And who are you? I don’t talk to unknown Skinnies’ - I thought that my contact info had disappeared from her GG while she reinstalled it or something, so I replied:
‘Your sister, dummy, how many people call you Fatty?’
‘Who?’
‘Your older sister. The one who lives on the other side of the Channel.’ - how many sisters did my sister think she had?
‘Should I whack you or fuck your face up?’ – WHAT?
I proceeded to apologising politely to the apparently unknown person I had messaged thinking they were my sister but insisted that the language was uncalled for. The apology was accepted, the person apologised for the language and explained that they always reacted like that to unknown contacts.
Ah, common courtesy.
Needless to say, I’ve deleted what I thought was my sister’s contact info from my GG…
‘Hi there Fatty!’ (It’s a pet name, the whole family calls her that, probably because she’s always been skin on bones)
‘Hello Skinny’ - that surprised me a bit, but I didn’t think much of it.
‘How are you?’
‘Depends what you’re asking about’
‘Am asking in general’
‘And who are you? I don’t talk to unknown Skinnies’ - I thought that my contact info had disappeared from her GG while she reinstalled it or something, so I replied:
‘Your sister, dummy, how many people call you Fatty?’
‘Who?’
‘Your older sister. The one who lives on the other side of the Channel.’ - how many sisters did my sister think she had?
‘Should I whack you or fuck your face up?’ – WHAT?
I proceeded to apologising politely to the apparently unknown person I had messaged thinking they were my sister but insisted that the language was uncalled for. The apology was accepted, the person apologised for the language and explained that they always reacted like that to unknown contacts.
Ah, common courtesy.
Needless to say, I’ve deleted what I thought was my sister’s contact info from my GG…
Thursday 5 March 2009
Back to school
I went back to work this week – not that I felt particularly ready to, but being paid through a supply agency means mainly that if you don’t work, you don’t earn. No sick pay for me. So I went back.
I should I have probably taken a few more days off but, in the same time, I think that I’m recovering faster now that I can’t lick my wounds at ease and have to suck it up and do what I have to do.
I decided to tell the kids the truth about my absence, simply because I needed them to understand why I ask them to move things that are within my reach for me or lean forward to cough (‘Oh, miss, you can bend over whenever you want, you know!’ – ‘Have I made it clear that I can’t laugh either, dear?’).
(But the worst bit is sneezing. If you ever suffer from a seat belt injury, whatever you do, do not sneeze. I did. It took me around 10 minutes to get over it.)
The general reactions to my return were heart warming – ‘Oh, miss, good you’re back, it was boring!’, ‘Miss, I missed you!’, ‘Miss, miss, where have you been?’. But, unfortunately, even if I do not doubt that the intentions were sincere, the reality of my come back to the classroom did not reflect all those warm feelings with the exception of my Vile Year 9 who were unusually good and cooperative. I have however no illusions that they will be back to their ‘best behaviour’ in no time. Like today.
I should I have probably taken a few more days off but, in the same time, I think that I’m recovering faster now that I can’t lick my wounds at ease and have to suck it up and do what I have to do.
I decided to tell the kids the truth about my absence, simply because I needed them to understand why I ask them to move things that are within my reach for me or lean forward to cough (‘Oh, miss, you can bend over whenever you want, you know!’ – ‘Have I made it clear that I can’t laugh either, dear?’).
(But the worst bit is sneezing. If you ever suffer from a seat belt injury, whatever you do, do not sneeze. I did. It took me around 10 minutes to get over it.)
The general reactions to my return were heart warming – ‘Oh, miss, good you’re back, it was boring!’, ‘Miss, I missed you!’, ‘Miss, miss, where have you been?’. But, unfortunately, even if I do not doubt that the intentions were sincere, the reality of my come back to the classroom did not reflect all those warm feelings with the exception of my Vile Year 9 who were unusually good and cooperative. I have however no illusions that they will be back to their ‘best behaviour’ in no time. Like today.
Sunday 22 February 2009
On near-death experiences yet again
The way Hollywood productions have it, a near-death experience is supposed to be a turning point in your life, because going through a near-death experience is illuminating and you suddenly have all the answers to the biggest of questions. Therefore, after going through a near-death experience you are supposed to do something dramatic: quit your job, get a divorce, move to the North pole, anything, as long as it entails spectacular changes to your life, makes you excruciatingly happy and successful and makes you live your hitherto average life to the fullest and happily ever after.
Last Thursday we’ve had a head on collision with a lorry at a combined speed of 60 mph. And trust me, when I saw that big white thing going straight into my face I thought that that was that. But my life did not fly before my eyes or anything of the kind. Yet, what my near-death experience made me understand was that, as cheesy as it may sound, I seriously love my life, just the way it is. Not sure if that counts as an illumination though. In any case, I’m not planning on doing anything dramatic about anything any time soon, which is possibly at least partly related to the fact that I feel like a sack of broken glass and even small completely un-dramatic gestures like pulling my trousers up send me into agony.
Last Thursday we’ve had a head on collision with a lorry at a combined speed of 60 mph. And trust me, when I saw that big white thing going straight into my face I thought that that was that. But my life did not fly before my eyes or anything of the kind. Yet, what my near-death experience made me understand was that, as cheesy as it may sound, I seriously love my life, just the way it is. Not sure if that counts as an illumination though. In any case, I’m not planning on doing anything dramatic about anything any time soon, which is possibly at least partly related to the fact that I feel like a sack of broken glass and even small completely un-dramatic gestures like pulling my trousers up send me into agony.
Tuesday 17 February 2009
On being a driver
Some time ago Paul and I decided that one of possible (at least partial) solutions to my moving-to-a-small-town paranoia would be for me to learn to drive.
I was a bit reluctant, as 14 years ago I already tried and failed miserably, and I've never actually felt the need to drive – or maybe I just talked myself into not feeling the need to drive after the aforementioned failure. Nevertheless, with the prospect of moving out of a big city with an excellent bus network I did concede that driving would definitely make me feel much less like if I was giving up my independence and I actually got all excited about the whole project.
So I applied for a provisional license and, since it’s half term and we have more free time, we’ve started driving lessons yesterday. And it’s going really good, but I have to say that I’m a bit worried...
Now, many people had said that him teaching me to drive would definitely be an interesting experience if not a trial to the relationship but I did not think about it twice cause they meant him getting annoyed with me getting things wrong and such. Which he doesn’t cause he’s the most patient and laid back person I know. And I don’t get that many things wrong and such. What I do however is talk.
‘Why are you waving at me stupid bitch, can’t you see I have an ‘L’ so I obviously don’t bloody know what I’m doing?’ The poor woman was actually thanking me for letting her through, happily she was beyond ear shot. Paul wasn’t. But it gets worse:
‘Yes Anna, maybe if you had put the clutch down.’
‘Handbrake you daft cow!’
‘Don’t be a mean gear box and don’t make that noise anymore please’.
‘You’ll be a good car now and you’ll start properly, ok?’.
‘Why, why, why are you doing this to me?’
And so I’m starting to wonder if him teaching me to drive was such a good idea after all…
I was a bit reluctant, as 14 years ago I already tried and failed miserably, and I've never actually felt the need to drive – or maybe I just talked myself into not feeling the need to drive after the aforementioned failure. Nevertheless, with the prospect of moving out of a big city with an excellent bus network I did concede that driving would definitely make me feel much less like if I was giving up my independence and I actually got all excited about the whole project.
So I applied for a provisional license and, since it’s half term and we have more free time, we’ve started driving lessons yesterday. And it’s going really good, but I have to say that I’m a bit worried...
Now, many people had said that him teaching me to drive would definitely be an interesting experience if not a trial to the relationship but I did not think about it twice cause they meant him getting annoyed with me getting things wrong and such. Which he doesn’t cause he’s the most patient and laid back person I know. And I don’t get that many things wrong and such. What I do however is talk.
‘Why are you waving at me stupid bitch, can’t you see I have an ‘L’ so I obviously don’t bloody know what I’m doing?’ The poor woman was actually thanking me for letting her through, happily she was beyond ear shot. Paul wasn’t. But it gets worse:
‘Yes Anna, maybe if you had put the clutch down.’
‘Handbrake you daft cow!’
‘Don’t be a mean gear box and don’t make that noise anymore please’.
‘You’ll be a good car now and you’ll start properly, ok?’.
‘Why, why, why are you doing this to me?’
And so I’m starting to wonder if him teaching me to drive was such a good idea after all…
Friday 13 February 2009
Ray
What do you do at the end of a last week of half-term, a week where you got hurt by your best friend, you got assaulted by your student, had an interview in that perfect school with students who don’t assault you and don’t throw things out of windows but actually let you teach them, in that cute little village where you could have had a little house with a piano in it and maybe even a cat, but didn’t get the job, and you’re just so tired of it all?
You go to see Ray. And Ray’s voice makes you cry like a baby all through the first part of the concert and then lifts you up, soothes you and rocks you into serenity. And then you move on. You forgive your friend, you write and incident report, you fill in another job application. And you hope for the best.
You go to see Ray. And Ray’s voice makes you cry like a baby all through the first part of the concert and then lifts you up, soothes you and rocks you into serenity. And then you move on. You forgive your friend, you write and incident report, you fill in another job application. And you hope for the best.
Tuesday 3 February 2009
Snow
Winter is my favourite season, but for winter to be winter, there must be snow. I love snow.
It snowed all Sunday night and all Monday. I got to school snowy cheerful and didn’t understand why people where saying the school should close. After all it was only snow, yes, there was a lot of it, but hell, I’d seen much worse!
Well, I soon realised that the kids were all over the place – probably because snow is such a rarity here. There was no work going on what so ever. Snowballs were flying inside the school as much as outside the school. They all arrived to the lessons late, excited and wet through and through. And as the day went by, as it snowed more and more, my frustration increased with every lesson I didn’t manage to teach, I gave in to the general ‘I don’t want to be here’ mood as well.
Once home, I spent my evening working, cause I didn’t find out that all schools were going to be closed today until everything was done. Well, what’s done is done I thought, at least I’ll get to sleep in.
Think again. The leadership suggested that the staff came to school anyway to catch up on work using the occasion that the kids weren’t there.
So I went. And I think I was probably the only teacher there.
And by the time I left school, the snow had mostly frozen or disappeared.
And yes, I got a lot of work done, and yes, I will have free evenings for the rest of the week. But I can’t help thinking that I’ve missed out.
Cause it seems like I’m the only one who didn’t go mountain biking in the snow, didn’t make a snow man, didn’t make a snow angel, didn’t interact with the snow in any other way and hence doesn’t any have snowy photos to upload to Facebook. Not fair.
It snowed all Sunday night and all Monday. I got to school snowy cheerful and didn’t understand why people where saying the school should close. After all it was only snow, yes, there was a lot of it, but hell, I’d seen much worse!
Well, I soon realised that the kids were all over the place – probably because snow is such a rarity here. There was no work going on what so ever. Snowballs were flying inside the school as much as outside the school. They all arrived to the lessons late, excited and wet through and through. And as the day went by, as it snowed more and more, my frustration increased with every lesson I didn’t manage to teach, I gave in to the general ‘I don’t want to be here’ mood as well.
Once home, I spent my evening working, cause I didn’t find out that all schools were going to be closed today until everything was done. Well, what’s done is done I thought, at least I’ll get to sleep in.
Think again. The leadership suggested that the staff came to school anyway to catch up on work using the occasion that the kids weren’t there.
So I went. And I think I was probably the only teacher there.
And by the time I left school, the snow had mostly frozen or disappeared.
And yes, I got a lot of work done, and yes, I will have free evenings for the rest of the week. But I can’t help thinking that I’ve missed out.
Cause it seems like I’m the only one who didn’t go mountain biking in the snow, didn’t make a snow man, didn’t make a snow angel, didn’t interact with the snow in any other way and hence doesn’t any have snowy photos to upload to Facebook. Not fair.
Wednesday 21 January 2009
On memorable moments
Yesterday, as the first black president of the United States of America was being sworn in, I was sitting in a boring meeting struggling to stay awake. Was I aware that the first black president of the United States of America was being sworn in as I watched the clock hands move painfully forward? No. Big things are happening, people, and all I can do is try not to collapse with exhaustion.
‘You are different today, Miss’ said a year 7 boy to me today. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Oh, I don’t know, you’re more in control’.
Am I really? No, not really. Which he must have realised as four of his classmates stumbled into the classroom 15 minutes late and suddenly it was all about behaviour control all over again.
I’m starting to wonder if I will ever actually get to dealing with the behaviour as I teach rather than trying to teach while I’m struggling to control the behaviour.
‘You are different today, Miss’ said a year 7 boy to me today. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Oh, I don’t know, you’re more in control’.
Am I really? No, not really. Which he must have realised as four of his classmates stumbled into the classroom 15 minutes late and suddenly it was all about behaviour control all over again.
I’m starting to wonder if I will ever actually get to dealing with the behaviour as I teach rather than trying to teach while I’m struggling to control the behaviour.
Wednesday 14 January 2009
Almost half way through my first month at M. and still alive
It is 9 pm. and I have just finished planning my lessons for tomorrow (yet another 13 hrs long day of work but I’m not going to complain cause last week my days were even longer) and I have finally got around to putting some washing in (didn’t have a choice, ran out of socks…). The consequence is that I can’t go to bed just yet cause I have to wait for it to finish. So I thought I’d share some random thoughts about my hitherto experience of working at the M. school, which I’m really enjoying, I mean it, although I think I might be too exhausted to properly enjoy anything at this point.
I put a boy in detention for spitting on the floor. After that I started noticing spit all over the place and therefore concluded that he wasn’t the only one to do it, he was just the only one to get caught.
I have two Shannons in one class which wouldn’t be surprising at all if I wasn’t working in a school where white children are something like 5%. What are the odds.
To my great delight, I observed three of my year 9 troublemakers spending their lunch break picking up rubbish at the main gate. That’s what happens when you ignore your teacher’s detentions and end up referred to the Head. Subsequently I danced a little dance of victory after they’d come and apologised profusely after school. Oh yeah.
I have my own classroom, which would be even more exciting if I hadn’t inherited it in such a messy state. Cause I really don’t know when I will have time to go through all those piles of worksheets, revision booklets, workbooks and pupils’ work and decide what to chuck and what to keep. Happily, two boys in my year 7 helped by chucking a big part of one of those piles through the window. They were of course duly punished, including calling parents, but I couldn’t help feeling a bit grateful rather than angry. Possibly I’m also too exhausted to feel properly angry about anything…
Today I have finally managed to teach my year 8. It was our 3rd lesson.
I haven’t taught even one lesson to either of my year 9 groups and I’ve seen each of them 3 times already. All I do is shout and try to put them in a sitting plan. And call for SWEEP to take half of them away. Still my Head of Department says I’m doing much better than she’d expected.
So I guess I’ll take the compliment and try again tomorrow.
I put a boy in detention for spitting on the floor. After that I started noticing spit all over the place and therefore concluded that he wasn’t the only one to do it, he was just the only one to get caught.
I have two Shannons in one class which wouldn’t be surprising at all if I wasn’t working in a school where white children are something like 5%. What are the odds.
To my great delight, I observed three of my year 9 troublemakers spending their lunch break picking up rubbish at the main gate. That’s what happens when you ignore your teacher’s detentions and end up referred to the Head. Subsequently I danced a little dance of victory after they’d come and apologised profusely after school. Oh yeah.
I have my own classroom, which would be even more exciting if I hadn’t inherited it in such a messy state. Cause I really don’t know when I will have time to go through all those piles of worksheets, revision booklets, workbooks and pupils’ work and decide what to chuck and what to keep. Happily, two boys in my year 7 helped by chucking a big part of one of those piles through the window. They were of course duly punished, including calling parents, but I couldn’t help feeling a bit grateful rather than angry. Possibly I’m also too exhausted to feel properly angry about anything…
Today I have finally managed to teach my year 8. It was our 3rd lesson.
I haven’t taught even one lesson to either of my year 9 groups and I’ve seen each of them 3 times already. All I do is shout and try to put them in a sitting plan. And call for SWEEP to take half of them away. Still my Head of Department says I’m doing much better than she’d expected.
So I guess I’ll take the compliment and try again tomorrow.
Monday 12 January 2009
Piano
‘Can you remember what you were dreaming about just now?’ asks Paul.
‘Yes, why?’
‘Were you playing the piano?’
‘How do you know?!’
‘Cause you were moving your fingers like this’ he demonstrates on my arm.
I laugh and turn onto my other side.
‘So was it at your parents’ place?’
‘No’
‘Where was it then?’
‘I don’t know. In a house. I was playing and you came in and said something about dinner, and I said okay and went back to playing.’
‘Was it our house?’
‘Possibly.’
‘I like that dream’ he says and pulls me closer in.
I think I might see if there’s a piano at school I could play.
I think it’s time.
Cause this time it’s all about me. And the piano, of course.
Monday 5 January 2009
Update: in brief
I’m back! Sorry for the silence, limited internet access, lots to see and lots to do, catching up with people and places and so on – some stories to tell, I will try to include them as I go, but for now – in brief:
The holiday was amazing, although tiring as lots to see and lots to do etc.
Haven’t unfortunately managed to see everyone and those I did see I did not see enough of, a firm decision has been made that in the summer we’ll plan more than one day in Warsaw – a week preferably.
Paul met Mother and didn’t flee, which does prove something as those who also met Mother will undoubtedly easily understand. Especially since Mother really, really loved Paul. So did everyone actually. There were moments where I was worried that his ego might be slightly too flattered for his own good. But I have to admit that he absolutely deserved each and every one of the compliments bestowed on him.
Some stuff to process for me – after all I’ve spent more than 10 days with Parents – but I have to say that they surprised me in an unexpectedly positive way. To a certain extent at least.
And finally, first day at my new school today. The department seems great, all welcoming and helpful. The kids are kids, some are lovely some are horrid, two groups already are competing for the name of the Vile Year X, one year 11 and one year 9, but the year 9 is leading as for now. I’ve managed to go to a wrong classroom once and forget I had a lesson once, not too bad for the first day, but I was told not to worry about it. Hence so far so good.
So it’s back to sitting plans and lesson planning. Oh well, every holiday has its end!
The holiday was amazing, although tiring as lots to see and lots to do etc.
Haven’t unfortunately managed to see everyone and those I did see I did not see enough of, a firm decision has been made that in the summer we’ll plan more than one day in Warsaw – a week preferably.
Paul met Mother and didn’t flee, which does prove something as those who also met Mother will undoubtedly easily understand. Especially since Mother really, really loved Paul. So did everyone actually. There were moments where I was worried that his ego might be slightly too flattered for his own good. But I have to admit that he absolutely deserved each and every one of the compliments bestowed on him.
Some stuff to process for me – after all I’ve spent more than 10 days with Parents – but I have to say that they surprised me in an unexpectedly positive way. To a certain extent at least.
And finally, first day at my new school today. The department seems great, all welcoming and helpful. The kids are kids, some are lovely some are horrid, two groups already are competing for the name of the Vile Year X, one year 11 and one year 9, but the year 9 is leading as for now. I’ve managed to go to a wrong classroom once and forget I had a lesson once, not too bad for the first day, but I was told not to worry about it. Hence so far so good.
So it’s back to sitting plans and lesson planning. Oh well, every holiday has its end!
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