that's some good parking

my momma told me there'll be days like this

When it's not always raining
there'll be days like this
When there's noone complaining
there'll be days like this

Well today it was raining - and today I did a lot of complaining. In fact you (as in the internet and all who sail in her) are collectively the 23rd person to whom I have complained today about today. I hate today. I wish there was no today. I'd be more than happy for yesterday and tomorrow to cosy up on the sofa and watch movies forgetting today exists.

This morning I was woken at some unearthly hour by the phone ringing. I ignored it. I've a bad dose of a cold and I hadn't slept very well - I needed my rest.

Twenty minutes later it started up again and I raised myself and plodded slowly to the phone - which stopped ringing as I reached to answer it - of course.

A couple of minutes and it was ringing again. I was beside it. The third different number to phone. I answered it.

Apparently, according to the neighbour, my father had sheep in a field beside his house. My father is on a wee trip to visit my brother and his family in Scotland. My father's sheep, the neighbour informed me, were no longer in the field and had just gone running past his house. Of course they were - they never break out when Dad is actually in the country; they save all their troubles to take out on me when he's not around.

No time to have any breakfast, shower or shave, I threw on my school clothes and jumped in my car. By the time I arrived there was no sign of any sheep. I checked in the verges, in peoples' gardens, below parked vehicles... nothing... anywhere. Assuming they had run up a local dirt track I blocked the end of it with my car and set off - in my suit - in the rain - through the mud - up the lane.

The rain was in torrents. What had been puddles once became mighty rivers and lakes. The wind beat the rain drops into my face like leather whips - my eyes stinging and my lips cracked and raw. As I checked in holes and gaps in hedges the briars wrapped themselves round my legs and ripped at my skin through my drenched suit.

A little under a mile up the lane I stopped, ankle deep in mud, in my tracks. In the distance I saw the lost sheep come running back in my direction - another neighbour behind them pushing them along. I don't know if there were tears of joy, tears of pain - or just more rain in my eyes but my relief was palpable. Between us we got them into a vacant field and I thanked James as I counted the sheep in through the gate.

My relief was short lived. We were one short.

I set off again checking fields, crossing streams, climbing gates... I was just about to give up when eventually I found her and was able to herd her into the field with her friends. I now had less than ten minutes before the start of my first class and I was a ten minute drive away from school. Driving faster than I should have down a tiny, bumpy lane led to some worrying sounds coming from various parts of my car. I also cursed the fact that I had washed it the day before as thick mud sprayed up all around me. But I got there. I arrived at school and heard the bell go for first lesson.

Have you ever had one of those days that started so badly you knew it could only get better? Well this wasn't one of them. As the mud dried on my suit and my hair took on shapes I've never seen before, and as I tried to ignore the agricultural smell that seemed to be fermenting as time passed, I had nightmare class after nightmare class. Each seemed more unsettled than the last and more mischievous. I didn't have a break at break because I do break duty on Thursdays and even my lunch time had been recommissioned as an English Department Meeting.

By the end of the day I could feel a blood vessel pulsing behind my eye - I took that as a bad sign.

As I walked out the door and made my way over to my mud coloured car I pondered on the events of the day. A curious thing struck me.

I was so unable to cope with it all. The fact that it was a one off is the redemption in the tale. If I thought that tomorrow held more of the same I don't know what I would do (It won't - not after the job I did on the hole the sheep got out of this morning -- NOTHING is getting out of that field until their rightful owner returns.)

I thought about teachers who do have to put up with that kind of stress more regularly. The ones with young families - sleepless nights, ill children, the constraints of parental responsibility. There are people out there who have that level of stress and teach full time - on a daily basis. They're insane! I both admire and pity them to extremes. Hundreds of them. Probably thousands.

And it's not just teachers. Every job that requires commitment, stress, dedication - to do that and bring up a family. I shake my head.

So when, as Van Morrison sang, my mama told me there'd be days like this - it's probably cause she'd been through plenty of them herself. And plenty much better.

When noone steps on my dreams
there'll be days like this
When people understand what I mean
there'll be days like this
When you bring out the changes
of how everything is
Well my momma told me
there'll be days like this

because you read this blog, I'd recommend you also try...

Is it just me or are Amazon's recommendations becoming a little more random? So because I bought a lead to charge my ipod in my car I'm likely to enjoy the music of Tiffany Page? Really? Um... why?

Actually the ploy worked. I checked some of her songs and a couple of videos. She's not bad. Very pretty - the guitar slinging is a good look for her - quite deep voice, very moody - I heard shadows of eighties female punk in there, and bizarrely Joan Jett in some tracks - as well as some faintly intelligent lyrics...

But try as I might I couldn't find any reference to the joys of charging mp3 players on the go. Not a single mention. But they must be right. I'll just buy the album to make sure.

writing is improved - if a little robotic

Mr C responds creatively and imaginatively to a variety of texts and a range of stimuli. He writes showing reasonable development with basic accuracy. Mr C has the potential to do well in this subject but he must learn to make sensible, relevant contributions to class discussion. Mr C must improve his standard of presentation. Mr C hates, with a passion normally reserved for avocado based salads, this new system for writing end of year school reports.

Any of you who are teachers will know the joy that is writing annual reports for a few thousand pupils. The numbing effect it has on your brain, the ebbing of your will to breathe, and the inevitable repetitive strain injuries are surely some of the reasons we became teachers in the first place. Those of you who aren’t teachers will undoubtedly remember reports written about you. Pride, shame, amusement, despair, anger… They, love them or not, affected a little bit of who you were to become.

“The stick and carrot must be very much in evidence before this particular donkey decides to exert itself.”

"When the workers of the world unite it would be presumptuous of Dewhurst to include himself among their number."

“The improvement in his handwriting has revealed his inability to spell.”

I have been teaching long enough to (just) predate the influence of digital technology on reports. At the end of my first year a huge book was sent around the staff for each class. The reports were hand written and every mistake, no matter how tiny, became catastrophes. If you made one you had to reject the whole sheet for that pupil and all the teachers would have to rewrite their comments. The trick was either to be the first to comment (thus fewer teachers would be affected by any incompetence on your part) or to invest in an erasable ink pen. I did neither. I wasn’t liked that year.

“He has given me a new definition of stoicism: he grins and I bear it.”

“This boy does not need a Scripture teacher. He needs a missionary.”

“Would be lazy but for absence.”

Of course all of this was no longer a problem with the introduction of computers and such. Mistakes could be corrected easily and the copy and paste functions were a Godsend.

But, perhaps like so many aspects of the modern world, it’s all gone too far now. The system we use in this school now simply requires us to select five sentences from a preformed comment bank. We don’t write comments – we click buttons.

“He has an overdeveloped unawareness.”

“At least his education hasn’t gone to his head.”

“Your son sets low personal standards and then consistently fails to achieve them.”

And I can’t help but feel we’ve lost something special in the process. The quotes I’ve included here are genuine comments sent in to the letters page of the Daily Telegraph. They may seem harsh – but then I only close the ones I thought would raise a smile. Sure they show a concerning level of derision and sarcasm – but they also show individualism, and wit. We can no longer show our individualism it seems – we can no longer possess wit. But it’s not just that.
Gone is the ability to qualify statements with personal disclaimers; gone is the ability to encode hidden meanings and the art of the backhanded compliment. Maybe that’s the whole point of this new system – maybe by controlling what comments can be used we remove all risk of ‘misunderstandings.’

But it’s all so robotic and impersonal. Will parents/pupils really find “________ lacks confidence when speaking but can listen actively and respond with understanding. _______ can read numerous types of texts, including fiction, non fiction and media with a high level of understanding, attempting to use evidence, and he writes confidently in a range of forms that suit different audiences with good levels of accuracy. If he is to improve he must show a more positive attitude to his work” more useful than a couple of sentences written specifically for that pupil with some personal points for improvement? Somehow I doubt it.

ambition vrs apathy

Its sad I know, but I live in a part of the world where, for a large part of the population, ambition and a desire to succeed is viewed with suspicion and derision.

I just had a young man come to me looking for extra revision materials for his GCSEs. Nothing untoward about that. I actually had a booklet of such material made up already for a girl the year below him. What struck me was the manner in which he asked for it.

I was in my classroom catching up on some marking after school. A shadow passed my door – then paused – then passed again. Eventually a face peered in, looked in each corner of the room, as if checking that it was completely empty. Quietly he opened the door and backed into the room checking the corridor as he went, and closed the door behind him before approaching the desk in a decidedly embarrassed fashion.

“Sir, sir, um, sir. I was wondering if you had anything I could use to revise for this exam.”

“For this exam?”

“The GCSE exam.”

“Paper 1 or 2?”

“Um, both.”

“Actually I think I may just have. Hold on till I check if I have an extra copy.”

I started to root around in my drawer for the sheaves of paper. He looked panicked and slammed a USB pen drive on my desk, shutting the drawer with his thigh as he did so.

“I was thinking you could copy the files onto this – you know – to save you any hassle.”

“Not a problem, give me a sec and I’ll do it now.”

Again the panic. He was looking at the door as much as he was looking at me now. It was obvious he didn’t want to be seen.

“I was thinking I could maybe pick them up in a bit. You’ll still be here in half an hour?”

And with that he was gone. And I was left holding a memory pen wondering what on earth had just happened.

It was simple of course. The young man, who incidentally had spent most of the three weeks I’d been teaching him with his feet on the desk pretending to sleep, wanted to pass his exam – but he didn’t want anyone to know that it mattered to him. I honestly believe that, if he’d been discovered in his English room, he would have come up with some excuse before disappearing and gone into the exam revision-material-less. His image was more important to him than his exams. Hopefully I won’t sound overly dramatic when I say that his image was more important to him than his future.

It’s a real problem here. Working in secondary schools I see it all the time – and it’s not easy to break through. Maybe it’s different in the grammar school sector with their super ambitious career students - but try getting any of the pupils here to admit that they like school or specific subjects is very difficult – getting them to admit that they want to be good at something like English is almost impossible.

The problem is they do want to be good at it. They do want to pass. They want to pass with the greatest marks ever achieved in the history of GCSEs. There is real tragedy then in the way their pride engages their logic in an horrific battle to the death; their relationship with success like the doomed potential love affair between two passing strangers in a William Trevor short story.

That student came and picked up his memory pen. When he’s gone through the notes he’ll understand what is expected of him better than he did before he read it – but whether it will be enough to make up for two years of self imposed apathy is doubtful. It may well be too late for him.

As for me – well I start doing what I can for people like the girl in the year below him. It pains me that I can’t effortlessly inspire every one of the little people - o captain! my captain! But I can’t. And I have to keep telling myself that three weeks is never going to be enough time to perform miracles. Tiny steps great journeys make... Or something like that.
Next year that girl will be sitting those exams and hopefully she, and those around her, will take more pride in their successes than their indifference. We can but hope and pray.

cheese pushers

The best things in life are worth that little bit of extra effort.

I was brought up to acknowledge this as a truism - and I firmly believe that there is a lot of truth in it... whether it refers to amazing socks or danish cheese.

But really. Enough is enough!

Somewhere out there someone is bound to stock havarti cheese so I no longer have to drive the fifty miles (exactly - I google mapped it) to buy some in Sprucefield when I get the cravings.

Based on a conservative 40p per mile for travel costs, adding on the £1.70 that Sainsbury's charge for the 200g blocks, that works out at almost £220 per kilo! Over $9 an ounce for those of you living stateside.

All of this leads me to four conclusions:

1. It had better be some mighty fine cheese.

2. My mental arithmetic skills are on fire today.

3. I have far too much thinking time on my hands.

and 4. Someone could make a killing selling the stuff on street corners.

the shyest teacher in the west

I’m fairly shy in real life [how ironic is it that just as I finished writing that sentence I flew out of the coffee shop, tipping my table (and coffee) over, and ran through a busy shopping mall screaming “Seán” repeatedly at the top of my voice?] Okay, well, apart from the obvious exceptions that prove the rule I am quite the introvert.

As a teacher it doesn’t pay to be too retiring however, and I manage to fight my shyness quite effectively in the class room. In many ways I am a completely different person standing in front of thirty teenagers than I am in real life. This, of course, means that my pupils often find it odd that I struggle to maintain eye contact let alone conversation once they leave school.

A few minutes ago Helena, a pupil of mine from a few years back, saw me in the distance and came running (literally) to take me for a coffee as I seemed “to have fallen off the edge of the universe” since I stopped teaching her class.
Off the edge of the universe - well, I suppose that’s one way to describe where I’m teaching now.

Helena was, in many ways, such a stereotypical emo when I taught her. She had massive parent issues on a daily basis, had become completely disillusioned with a society she wanted to reject before it rejected her, and somehow managed to turn a rather generic, bland, school uniform into a theatrical dark gothic creation. Even outside of school she was never to be seen in anything that wasn’t black.
But it wasn’t just an image thing for her; she really saw the world in various shades of purple and black.

She loved art and would always come to my class to show me what she was drawing. She was always (rightfully) proud of whatever it was and after thirty seconds of false modesty she would beam as I told her how good I thought they were. They were always dark and haunting and always absolutely beautiful. Intensely mystical worlds filled with so much detail and emotion. Epic fantasies showing an imagination I could only - well - imagine. It frustrated me, as an english teacher, that she was unable to express these worlds in words and paragraphs but I loved the fact that she shared them with me projected onto paper - and I thought they were amazing. She would explain all the various elements in that breathless excited way she always spoke - as if she had just seen something amazing and had to tell someone about it.

Every morning in form class she would plop herself in front of me, flip open her sketch pad, grin broadly and say, “Well? What d’ya think?”

And here she was, talking non stop in that excited, breathless, stream about the old times. Reminding me of the characters in our class; bringing up embarrassing incidents I had long eradicated from my memory; asking - no, interrogating - me about why I hadn’t made more effort to become a permanent fixture in that school. She was no longer the girl dressed in long black coats and platform boots with attachments, wearing far too much eye makeup. She was now a young adult; still with a rather distinctive style; but not a hint of black. In her eagerness to ask questions about what I was doing with my life now, she was forgetting to wait for answers and seemed completely oblivious to my lack of conversation. A couple of times I tried to join in - but my social ineptitude kicked in and I was reduced to smiles and nods as she told me all about art college and how she was experimenting with photography now. She told me that I’d always been her favourite teacher, qualifying it by saying that I was the only one not up their own ass. I, she informed me, cared. She said that as a teacher I tried to encourage her, not change her.

But I wasn’t her teacher any more. The different circumstances threw me somewhat. I no longer had to establish authority in the situation. I didn’t have to control the environment around me; didn’t need to fill any vacuum with constructive learning. I didn’t have to present myself as a figure deserving of pedagogical respect... and so I was completely unsure of what type of figure to present -- That is until she pulled out her sketch pad, flipped it open, grinning, and said, “Well? What d’ya think?”

indecision reigns (again)

So, it seems we are about to have a little election over here. At least I’m assuming that there will be a little election over here based on the fact that every lamppost has a poster with some smug looking politician’s likeness, my post has become a daily deluge of flyers and the TV and newspapers are beginning to bore me.

The trouble is, as ever, that I don’t know who to vote for. I look at my options and despair. The candidates for East Londonderry include:


Gregory Campbell (DUP) – our current MP. The DUP, and specifically Campbell, have held the seat since 2001 and that isn’t likely to change any time soon. The DUP’s stance on education make them really difficult for me to support. Campbell’s somewhat belligerent attitudes tend to turn me off as well.



Thomas Conway (SDLP) – a councillor from Derry. Despite the fact that Coleraine is the largest and greatest populated town in the constituency his reams of literature only seemed to mention it once. Or maybe I just fell asleep halfway through reading it. Inspiring it certainly isn’t.



Barney Fitzpatrick (Alliance) – I’d love to be able to vote for the Alliance, I really would. But supporting them is like sucking a huge ice cube, it makes you look silly and it’s a lot of pain for no gain. Until there’s some form of electoral reform there’s no point in Alliance even running in East Derry.

Billy Leonard (Sinn Fein) – as novelty value goes Billy has it all. A Sinn Feiner who used to be an RUC officer – and worse still – a member of the Orange Order! It makes me wonder if SF have to run him to fulfil some equal opportunities legislation. Having said that it would take much more than that to make me forgive the sins of the decades that hinder me voting for Sinn Fein. And I’ve just found out he’s not actually standing… It was just assumed he would be. Sorry about that.

Cathal Ó hOISÍN (Sinn Fein) – the actual Sinn Fein candidate. Pretty much everything that I said about Mr Leonard stands… except the interesting past bit. So, despite the fact that I could only find one of his posters littering Coleraine, and thus am extremely grateful to him, I won’t be voting for him.




Lesley McAuley (UCU) – for those who don’t know UCU stands for Unionist… Collation… Ulster… um… Conservatives…. United Cameron… All you need to know is that this is the Ulster Unionist party standing on a joint platform with the Conservative Party. I know little about the woman in question (although a much more political friend did make the point that I “couldn’t vote for THAT woman whatever party she ran for”) All that matters is the C in their name. The Conservatives will cut funding to Northern Ireland, make major cuts to the Public sector, cut funding to education, cut the number of teachers, give marrieds tax breaks, cut inheritance tax… David Cameron may as well have held up a photo of me and said “We’re going to take everything from him and give it to rich married English couples instead, ok?”
And just to show I was only pretending: Ulster Conservatives and Unionists.

William Ross (TUV) – Now I know you don’t need me to tell you how slim the chances are that I would even consider voting Traditional Unionist Voice. Apart for the silly name they are the least progressive, single issue driven, negative party I have known in a long time. Their leader, Jim Allister, comes across as a tired, bitter old man each time he appears on TV. Being asked to vote for them is like someone nudging you and saying “So… the troubles… those were great times, eh?” William Ross used to be our MP when he was a member of the Ulster Unionists. He did nothing of worth then so I can’t see myself putting an X beside his name on Thursday.

So you see, I really am in a pickle. I’d close my eyes and stick a pin into the candidates list if the danger of picking a TUV or Conservative candidate didn’t haunt my dreams every night. I wish I lived in Brighton so I could vote for the Green Party.
Okay. I’ve thought long and hard about it. I’ve weighed the pros and cons. I’ve decided. I’m going to vote for the bald headed one with the red nose (and I don’t mean Jim Allister)


word of the day (part 6 in a 73 part series)

Echolalia (,εkǝu’lelıǝ) [ěk'ō-lā'lē-ə] n. Psychiatry. 1. the tendency to repeat mechanically words just spoken by another person 2. the imitation by a baby of the vocal sounds produced by others, occurring as a natural phase of childhood development. [from New Latin, ECHO + Greek lalia - talk, chatter] echolalic adj

this world doesn't fit

“They’re not designed for you.”

The slightly accusatory tone of the old man’s comment took me aback a little as I stepped out of the public convenience in my local Marks and Spencer’s store. Was he being ageist? Did he feel the public toilets were solely for the elderly; who, fair enough, probably were in more need of them, what with all their bladder and bowel conditions.

Or was he being elitist? Had he inferred from my somewhat scruffy appearance that I was not a typical M&S customer? Perhaps he had me down as more of an ASDA sort...

It was at this point in my mental vacations that I noticed I was crouching in the rather small doorway of the toilet. I completely filled the the frame - and then some. He wasn’t being discriminatory at all; he was commenting on my height.

Which, of course, filled me with a whole new sense of righteous indignation. Why do complete strangers feel it is okay to comment on my height? If I were to remark upon his lack of hair, or age, or horrendous taste in shoes - if I were to comment on someone’s nose, hair colour, teeth colour, breast size, chin size, stomach size, eyebrow bushiness, armpit bushiness, weight, webbed fingers or (God forbid) lack of height - people would, rightly, consider me rude. Yet people think nothing of calling me “big lad” or saying “you’re a tall one, aren’t you?” or “let me guess -- 6’6” ” Dare I reply with “let me guess -- 5’1” ?”

I assume the reason they feel it’s okay to comment is because, unlike most features of our appearance, we are unlikely to have hang ups about being tall. They assume we like being tall - it is therefore a compliment. And actually I do like being tall. It sets me apart - it gives me a unique perspective on things and always causes a slight stir when I walk into a new school.

But not everyone is without hang ups. It can be tough being tall - probably even more so for tall women. I have at least one pupil in a year 9 class who puts up with a lot of silly comments because she’s taller than most of the boys in the class. And size discrimination doesn’t stop in our teens.

That old man was right - that toilet door wasn’t designed with me in mind, nor are the vast majority of doors in public buildings, buses, planes, cars or trains; theatre or cinema seats; school desks; and (apparently) if I were to use a jet fighter’s ejector seat at my height I would be at risk of having my legs ripped off.

So next time you see someone towering above the rest of the crowd - suppress the desire to stare, or ask if they play basketball, or ask what the weather is like up there - give them a sympathetic smile instead.

triangular socks

Sometimes, in an effort of conform to those around me, I often find that I am a triangular peg. A peg that fits neither the round nor the square hole. My liberal friends see me as spawn of Thatcher while my more conservative friends think I am political correctness gone mad.
I am a climate change fearing environmentalist who loves nothing better than emitting CO2 on a pointless drive (skudging)

As a local business (cough) person – of sorts – I am acutely aware of the importance of supporting local business and industry. But as a webaphilic geek I am all to aware of the huge benefits of ecommerce. I bemoan the likes of Amazon and Play.com for killing the independent book and music industries – then I use them to do almost the entirety of my Christmas shopping. They may be putting our high streets at risk – but they also preserve my sanity in a world of crazy high streets.

I am a contradiction; and a hypocritical one at that.

Honestly I’d love to be the saviour of the local high street. I’d love to live in a world where I teach the children of the butcher from whom I buy my meat, the farmer who grew the grain in my bread, the editor of the newspaper on my desk… I’d love to live in a world where I can buy my clothes, my meat, my fish, my newspaper, and have a (fair-trade) coffee all in separate shops on my walk home from work… I’d love to live in a world where I access my finances through a human being, someone with whom I am on first name terms, rather than a screen, a mouse and the name of my first pet.

I’d love that. I think technology is both filling the future with excitement, and the past with nostalgic regret. Who doesn’t look back at historical community spirit with a sigh?

Lets be realistic. I am huge. The clothes shops in my local town are fine so long as I don’t mind having a three inch gap at my ankles and the top three buttons undone. Much as it pains me to say it, why would I settle for that when the huge impersonal faceless national chain supermarket at the bottom of the town sells everything in sizes up to mine and beyond; as well as my paper, my humus, my nail clippers, and everything in between.

A few months ago I heard of an amazing new type of socks. Socks that would make the cold snap we’re having a pleasurable experience - a dream. And where could I find them? I checked Ballymena, Coleraine, Londonderry. This was December - i told people I was Christmas shopping when really I was on a quest for socks. I check the Internet, Catalogues, Classified Ads; I checked everywhere. They were nowhere to be seen. I was distraught.

And then one day I had a breakthrough - Someone listed a pair on ebay.

I big high. No one was going to hold me from my socks. No one! I won the auction and then had to wait while they made their way from the US (apparently on a coal ship going by the length of time it took.) But they were worth he wait.

They were amazing. They were everything I was told to expect and more - the kind of socks you could wear with any outfit and feel well dressed. The kind of socks that just make your feet feel - happy.

The kind of socks you could wearing lounging round the house, walking along the beach, or even walking to the little convenience shop down the hill - where I found an entire shelf full of my elusive wonder socks. A mile away! In five different styles and a range of colours!

The moral of the story? You haven’t checked everywhere until you’ve checked the little convenience store down the street.

exit persued by cynicism

Are you really going? Where to? Is it true that this is your last day? Is it? Is it? Is it?

Actually, sweet as their concern is, I’ve grown a little tired of hearing these questions today. Yes I am moving on. The regular teacher has recovered. I have another job in another town. Winter is being replaced by Spring. Snowdrops are fading, daffodils are sprouting.

I didn’t meant to sound so flippant but I really have had it up to my neck and eventually even I begin to get tetchy sometimes. As it happens every time I spend a length of time in a school I do grow attached; it is a wrench when I move on - but I have become used to it and perhaps a little desensitised.
Tonight I will file away my literature resources and clear my room of all traces of one school and start preparing space for another. It’s a routine I’ve grown accustomed to. To be perfectly honest the toughest part is retraining my car to go South rather than East in the mornings when I am still half asleep. I try not to let it affect me too much.

But this time it is slightly different. For one thing I have to be careful what I write. Never before have I taught in a school where so many pupils actually track down my blog. And worse still, several of them actually read it. I know of some who inform me that they are working their way through the older posts - I even had one girl who complained that my standard was slipping. I was taken aback - I agree with her but I was still taken aback.

Does it worry me that they are reading this blog? Indeed it does. Greatly. The last time that happened (coincidentally at the same school) I ended up closing the blog down for a while until they lost interest. This time I reckon I’ll just watch my words and avoid all controversy - until they lose interest.

In the meantime my sixth years will be upset if I don’t mention them. I think they taught me more about the confusing modern teen ecosystem than I taught them about Street Car or Kite Runner. An entertaining bunch indeed. I won’t admit it but secretly I’ll miss them a little. The dramas caused by errant yoghurt, the random sidetracks, the torrent of abuse they shared - the pupil of the week badge is on its way and never let anyone say you’re sad for reading this.

My year 12s. Poetry buddies. I eventually got round to reading your blogs - and saw your kind comments. I was both a little embarrassed and a little touched - that was kind of you. Thank you. I’ll miss the power walks round the park, the highly competitive badminton matches, the posh Eastern European accents (who knew Shakespeare was polish?) and all the arguments in class. If poetry wasn’t mean’t to cause arguments it wouldn’t be worth studying.

Right, now I’ve had a chance to keep them all happy I’ll assure both my regular readers that normal service will be resumed. Just maybe with a touch less cynicism. For a week or two.

old man beyes

sometimes my mind wanders between lessons and I think about what I will be teaching in half an hour - or I draw strange figures. This one I call Old Mr Beyes.

spinning pins

Pupils are very perceptive - nothing get past past them. Whichever school I go to my pupils very quickly suss out my various quirks.

1) I hate having the top button of my shirt done - it’s not a fashion thing; I just don’t like the constrictive sensation of something round my neck. The pupils have to have theirs buttoned as part of their uniform so I do make the effort to set an example - but if it’s still in place come 11:15 I’ve done well. I’ve heard of pupils actually taking sweepstakes on when I reach for that button.

2) I have to bend down to get through doors. For some reason this causes them great mirth. Especially in the corridors where there is a fire door every 15 yards or so. On particularly long stretches they get to see me bend four or five times - and it never fails to amuse them.

3) I’m a fiddler. I don’t mean I play violin. I hate having nothing to do with my hands. Even when I’m teaching I’ll invariably reach for something to move around in my fingers. One class decided they wanted to see how far this would go and began placing different objects on my desk each morning. They started off small with pens and rulers, then they went a bit stranger with lipstick tubes, and then it got gradually bigger. I was standing at the front of a classroom unravelling a wire coat hanger before I finally caught on.

4) This may be related to number three - but I am the teacher who spins drawing pins (thumb tacks) on their point. Now, when I’m bored, if there’s a pin or two around, I’ll wind it up and let it go. The younger kids appear fascinated by this - especially when I get one spinning so well that it stands upright and appears to be almost motionless, balancing magically on its tip. I claim it’s educational - all about centrifugal forces etc etc. They always want to know how to do it. At one school I had about twelve pupils spending their breaktime in the playground seeing who could spin a pin the longest (my record is six minutes)

When I say they all appear fascinated that may be a little misleading. A lot of them appear fascinated - the rest all, probably accurately, see it as a sign of a misspent youth.

I sentence you to five years hard reading

There is something a bit odd about setting reading as a punishment.

I was covering a class today when another teacher poked her head round the door and asked if she could dump a disruptive pupil on me. The class I had was particularly small and deeply engrossed in what they were doing so I said it would be ok.
She brought him in, set him at a desk, gave him a novel and a sheet of questions and said “Read that chapter and answer those!”

I don’t get it - in much the same way I don’t get it anytime a teacher sets reading a story or writing something as a punishment for bad behavior.
Surely, as people trying to encourage enjoyment through reading and writing, we are being a little self defeating if we then use reading and writing as a punishment.

I love both - always have done. Perhaps that’s why I allowed myself to get detention so often when I was a school kid. But I know not everyone does. I know there are people for whom R&W is a necessity rather than a luxury. Personally I think it’s hard enough encouraging reading for enjoyment without throwing in reading for pain at the same time.

mobile?

I'm teaching in a mobile classroom today. Mobile 5. I'm never quite sure why they're called that - they're not very mobile. In my opinion anything that requires a plumber, an electrician, a crane, several labourers, a fleet of HGVs and a cement truck to install cannot be called portable, handipack, funsize, or mobile. If it came with its own wheels, steering wheel, and wasn't the width of three buses then maybe, just maybe, I would be happy to call it a mobile - but it doesn't. This one is much bigger than most of the classrooms inside the actual school building, is wired into the phone system, electricity, computer network, water pipes, and has been here longer than four generations of pupils have; and it's not going anywhere anytime soon... Mobile?!

So where was I? Today I'm teaching in a hut, a prefab, a portakabin, a (relatively) temporary, an outdoor, a cardboard classroom. And I must say that I quite like the experience. Yes it goes through temperature extremes with frightening speed; yes there is a weird musty smell; yes you have to stumble over snow banks to get to and from it - but I can forgive all of that.

There is a wonderful sense of isolation out here. It's like a tiny school on its own rather than just another little brick in a big pile of bricks. And the fact that I don't share a wall with anyone means that my classes can be as noisy as I like without worrying about distracting someone else's lesson. I can have pupils shout and stamp and sing and clap without that nagging feeling that my next door neighbour disapproves of my teaching methods.
I should probably have the confidence to teach the way I feel is right whether people can hear me or not - it's just easier this way. But it's much bigger than that.
It's the sense that civilisation ends at the doorway - beyond only wilderness, long stretches of uneducated wilderness - unknowns. But here, in our little cardboard oasis of culture we are safe - safe and civilised. This little island of learning with extreme temperatures and a musty smell becomes the last outpost for true education of the soul.

Is that roof leaking?

word of the day (part 5 in a 73 part series)

Somniloquy (som’nılǝ,kwı) [sŏm-nĭl'ə-kwē] n. plural -quies. the act of talking in one’s sleep [from Latin, somnus sleep + loqui to speak] somnniloquest n somnioloquous adj

To be honest I think I personally prefer the sound of somnioloquous. It has a pleasing finish. However it is a lot easier to describe sleeptalking than something with an air of sleeptalking-ishness.

I heard both these words, along with Somnambulate (sleep walking) on a rather odd radio show a few weeks back. Since then I've been trying to decide between somnioloquous or somnambulation. Both, I think you'll agree pleasant sounds. The sleeptalking won simply because I gives me a chance to link to a blog imaginatively called Sleep Talkin' Man - where a woman records the words her husband says while sleeping. Be warned - most of it is hilarious, some of it disturbing, occasionally offensive, (he swears a lot in his sleep) all of it just plain daft.

"Squid wrestling: all tentacles and no substance."

...

the laziest cat on the planet

It seems my cat is too lazy to catch birds - he expects them to come to him now:

clarkson school of meterology

So they call this global warming?

Yes, we’ve just come through a sustained period of cold weather; yes the country came to an abrupt standstill because no one can function at less than -2° or if half an inch of snow frosts our roads; yes some experts have been predicting that this could be the coldest winter in forty or something years;

but...

Will people please stop using this sentence along with a knowing (smug) smile as if it is some kind of irrefutable evidence that global warming is a myth cooked up by the liberal press and scientists in need to funding. As far as I am aware no one ever said that global warming was going to do away with winter - now if the snow’s still here come June...


Climate warming skeptics confuse me. Now I don’t claim to have all the evidence at hand - I haven’t read every study published on temperature since the mid 1800s - I don’t suggest that human caused CO2 emissions are 100%, definitely, irrefutably, unquestionably, undeniably, directly leading to global temperature rises - but all things considered I think it does look pretty likely that what we take from our rocks and pump into the atmosphere in great quantities may have some effect down the line.

What I struggle to understand is why climate skeptics refuse to even listen to both sides of the argument. I’m an English teacher who grew up doing debates and the like, just for the fun of it. I remember making the most ludicrous arguments seem almost plausible by the mystical power the human voice has over logic. But I also remember that the best way to win any debate was to listen closely to both sides of the argument. Putting your hands over your ears and going “nah-nah-nah-nah-nana” when your opponent was speaking was never seen as a good tactic.
Yet it seems that skeptics take every little jot of evidence they uncover as proof that the huge weight of research for human influenced warming is completely wrong.

In Northern Ireland we used to have an Environment Minister who was a Global Warming skeptic - yes, Environment. The man we had appointed to look after our interests environmentally didn’t believe in global warming! About a year ago he banned a UK government information initiative on climate change because he said it was an “insidious propaganda campaign” This was the man speaking on our behalf on environmentally issues!


For the fourth time in five minutes I’ve explained the meaning of the word ‘unconventional.’ I used it in a description of Atticus Finch’s parenting style in To Kill a Mockingbird. I used it as a positive thing - to show him in a favourable light - but let me be very clear on this:

Just because something is unconventional does not make it valid.

In fact, quite often, the weight of public and scientific opinion gets things right.

The idea that being different simply for the sake of being different, while interesting, isn’t admirable. I say this as someone who has had his own Devil’s Advocate hat made up. I’m saying this as someone with a heavy heart - for I know many people who smile smugly, look at the snow and say “Global warming? Can’t wait.” I have friends who are skeptics. And they are too good to descend to argumental depths like this.

It’s an argument directly from the Jeremy Clarkson school of scientific opinion. Jeremy Clarkson; the man whose day job is staging ‘spontaneous’ crisis in car related challenges; the man who’s policy on immigration involves sinking all boats bound for these shores; whose favourite page three girl is Zoe, 28, London; a man whose main arguments against global warming seem to be that he likes cars - and he’s not French - so he must be right. And if you disagree - you smell. A man whose hair style, dress sense, gender opinions and politics got trapped somewhere in the 70s. A man who writes one of the most widely read newspaper columns in the country, who is seemingly on a least one TV channel 24 hrs a day, who has written several highly selling books (two of which I have read and enjoyed - I love his tongue in cheek tone) He has sold ‘quite literally’ millions of copies. He has fans throughout the world and a petition to make him Prime Minister of the UK attracted 49,457 signatures...

Actually, perhaps public opinion isn’t always right after all.


[update] Shortly after writing I was pointed towards the column Mr Clarkson had published in the Sun that day. Coincidence abound.

Now that the whole global warming argument is buried under seven feet of snow, eco campaigners are getting desperate.
In a last ditch attempt to keep the debate going, they are now claiming that polar bears are being poisoned by the electronics in your laptop.
They seem to have arrived at this amazing conclusion by poisoning a fox. And then saying that if you poison an animal it will not be very well.
My suggestion is: They all shut up and get jobs as council snowplough drivers.

accompanied by a photo of Clarkson wearing a winter coat and a furry hat. Well then. I guess that proves it. Sorry for wasting your time.

gorilla missioning

I noted with some amusement today, as I browsed my local Currys, that some bright spark had tuned all the Digital Radios in the Audio section to the Christian Station, UCB Christian Radio UK.

It meant that everyone got a good ole dose of the gospel as they went about their shopping.
Bright spark - whoever you are - in terms of the ingenious, the pointless, the simply beauty of this act - I salute you.

and you are....?

Today I returned to teach in a school I hadn’t been to for a while. Long enough for me to forget most of their names, but not their faces.

It was a strange sensation. On the previous occasion I ended up teaching there for several months - eventually I began to feel more like a regular teacher than a substitute. I had all the benefits (and challenges) that familiarity with the individual pupils breeds.

Today I was just there for the day - yet it felt almost as if I was still that regular teacher. As if I was returning from a period away to resume where I left off. As if they’d had substitute to cover for me.

A very odd feeling.

And eventually, in my mind, the names did start to reappear beside their respective faces - although, rather strangely, they seemed to come after everything else - the names came last.

It appears my memory works like this:
First the face, then the rest of the appearance. Next come the shadows - the people they got on well with, and those with whom they fought; the voices and the conversations. That was, bizarrely, followed by the memory of the comments I wrote about them in their report cards - what does that say about me? And finally the names - first names first, surnames struggling along behind.

The human mind is a wonderful, crazy thing. I’ll wager that the different people reading this will have altogether different memory sequences and patterns.

I’ve always envied people with good memories - mine is shocking. But in this job it’ll certainly get plenty of exercise.

winter 2010

Isn't winter wonderful? Clean, fresh, crisp...



it's almost enough to have you forgive the egg sized bump formed on the back of your head after slipping on the ice on the pavement.

the trouble with mrs robinson

And so I join the ranks of the hundreds of other blogs and newspaper articles this week to begin with the phrase: “here’s to you Mrs Robinson.” I almost didn’t. It was almost too easy - but how many other times will I get the chance to use a Graduate reference with such delicious relevance?

Most of you will already know the story, but for those who don’t here’s a bit of exposition - I’ll try be brief.

Peter Robinson (aged 61) is Northern Ireland’s First Minister. He has a wife, Iris (aged 60). She is also a member of Parliament - as well as being an MLA and a Councillor. She is therefore quite a high profile politician in our little land - no more high profiled than when she publicly declared homosexuality an abomination a little over a year ago.

The problem is, as it turns out, that around the time she was proclaiming moral judgement she was also popping behind her husband's back for a spot of adultery with a young man called Kirk McCambley, aged (at the time) 19. [insert personal choice of Mrs Robinson seduction quote where appropriate.]

There was also some fuss about accounts and how she has broken parliamentary rules by not declaring some rather large loans she managed to secure for her toyboy’s business plans. She also didn’t declare her interest when Mr McCambley applied to the local council to lease that business - a council on which Mrs Robinson sat. It’s all a bit murky and the ramifications for her and her husband (if it is discovered that he knew about these breaches and did nothing about them) will be better discussed elsewhere.

Truth be told I care little for the woman. I felt slight sympathy when I heard she was quitting politics due to mental health issues - I felt even more when it was announced that she had attempted suicide. I still feel a little uneasy at the way people are querying the legitimacy of the suicide claims - it would surely be incredibly cynical to use something like that as a counter for anticipated bad press. I'd like to think even our politicians are above that. All of this is sordid and a touch sleazy - but I care not for the details of a stranger’s personal life - even if they are a public figure.

The problem with Mrs Robinson in my world became apparent when I opened facebook.

Mrs Robinson Jesus loves you more than you will know. Hahahahahahahahahahaha.

You see, the Robinsons are devout Christians. And the more I read the more I found my non-christian friends reveling in the opportunity to use this story as evidence that Christians are a bunch of war-mongering, red-necked, child killing hypocrites.

So infidelity isn't as much of a sin as homosexuallity(sic) then Mrs Robinson?

And this does worry me. It feels like if someone in the public eye professes to be a christian they are scrutinized and any flaw is further proof that christianity is the root of all evil.

If that is christian love then I think I'd prefer to be gay.

So here's to you Mrs. Robinson....HA HA HA (so apparantly its an abomination to be gay but she can waltz around cheating on her wifebeating husband?) Not the f***ing Waltons after all are we?

how I love it when people fall flat on their faces. isn't it great when the holy aren't holier than thou.

It's as if we go round telling everyone how perfect we are and make a point of letting them know how holier we are than they are. The quotes I put here are from friends of mine. They make me wonder how my friends see my faith. I knew they were atheists - but I always assumed they had a certain respect for my beliefs.

I can't keep up. OK so Homosexuality=bad; hypocrisy, homophobia, greed, lying & adultery = good? Is that right?

How does this work in reverse? If every time I saw someone spill out of a pub and start a fight with a stranger I went "atheists! aggressive bunch" would that be fair? If every time a non-christian was accused of fraud I pigeon-holed everyone as greedy, would that be justified.

I am no DUP supporter - and truth be told I've never really had much of a liking for the Robinsons. They're not perfect - they've committed some major sins. But, actually, I'm not perfect - I'm far from it. Luckily though, although I need to set an example and be aware of how others perceive me, I am not the role model to which the christian world aspire - nor are the Robinsons. Our role model is free from sin - flawless.

So don't paint us all with the Robinsons' brush - and don't paint them with my brush. We none of us are perfect - but maybe we'd get a bit closer to it if we concentrated on our own problems rather than glorying in others'.

tis the season to be wary

What is it about this time of year?

Last year I was falling off a wall onto my ankle (which, incidentally, has yet to heal fully); and this year I managed to snag a particularly sharp bit of my thumb nail on my forehead and gouge out a three inch strip of skin.

Who disfigures themselves taking off a T-shirt?!

I’m going to bed - wake me up in 2011!