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.

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.

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…

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!

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…

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!

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.