I am the best teacher you never had

Don't take my word for it - I have a plethora of testimonials from pupils I never taught as evidence. Indeed it's an astonishing fact that pupils I haven't taught are statistically much more likely to rate my teaching ability than those I actually taught.

Recently I was asked about privately tutoring a couple of pupils from a previous school. I mentioned it in passing to the teacher I'd been covering back then. "Oh yes." she replied, "They thought you were a great teacher. Apparently they were hoping you'd take over their class when you were finished covering for me."
I didn't know these kids. I'd never taught them - and yet somehow they see me as their path to GCSE success. So much so that they are prepared to ask their parents to pay me for it. None of the pupils I taught came looking for private tutoring - actually, that's not true. One did; but she fell out with me over an exam mark.

I bumped into another pupil at the gym. I say bumped into, but it was really more a case of him bounding over with a hand thrust out, shouting, "Sir!" I didn't recognize him - I'd never taught him. He told me how much the school (he was speaking for them all?) missed me; and how, in the run-up to his exams, would I consider helping him out with a bit of private tuition. How did he get such a positive impression of someone who he'd never seen teach. At least if he had it would have been of me covering a single lesson in science of something weird. I thought maybe he was asking me because I was the only available English teacher he knew of - but his mother told me my style of teaching had impressed him. It must be good to affect someone in a classroom at the far end of the school. It didn't seem to affect the ones in my actual classroom as much.

For the record none of this is as much of a slight against my teaching as it sounds - we all know I'm an awesome teacher. It's simply that my awesomeness fades a little with familiarity - that's natural. It's easy to be that teacher when you're popping in and out of their educational lives.
One quip about how they're not to laugh when I bang my head on the hanging board light - because it will happen; or that I got my accent from extended exposure to Due South reruns on daytime TV, and they're putty in my hands; they want to like me.

It's when you find yourself responsible for ruining their weekends by making them do coursework, or ruining their lives by giving them a less than impressive mark on their less than impressive exam paper; that's when the gold loses a little of its glister. And heaven forbid, if ever you give them anything but glowing praise at a parents' consultation - you will be dead to them. Dead.

So I'll take whatever adulation I can get - and keep on not teaching most of the world so that almost everyone will love me.

Now excuse me while I "accidentally" bump my head on the board light.

I'd be cynical about this, but I tire of it

If I have a flaw - well, one that stands out above the rest, it would be that I am infected, and filled with a cynicism that shames me. I wish I didn’t have it – I wish I could at least control it better – but it’s always about there somewhere.

I have a good friend who hasn’t a cynical bone in his body. He is devoid of cynicism and when we are together it makes me all the more aware of the skepticism, the suspicious and sneering smog that floats around me. I mock his naivety and make knowing smirks when he refuses to see the bad in someone. I mock him but I envy him – I envy him so much.

Let me tell you a little story about something that happened a year or so ago. I was on route to Church one Sunday morning. My dad was driving my grandparents and I, as he did most weeks. And, as most weeks, he was listening to the Priests as he drove. (For those who’ve never heard of them, The Priests are a classical musical group made up of three Catholic priests all from Northern Ireland who have been singing together since they boarded as students at school in Garron Tower off the north coast)
It’s a short journey and quite soon into it the Priests began to sing ‘How Great Thou Art’ That’s when it began.

It started with a quiet humming, then gradually my grand father began to softly sing along; then my father; then my grand mother. As I listened I was surprised to hear four voices – I was singing too; picking out the bass line. There we were, three generations of Campbells belting out ‘How Great Thou Art’ in some form of four part harmony. It was a beautiful moment, a spontaneous moment, a hallmark moment, if you like. And then I ruined it.

As we approached the Church I thought of how people there would react to the spectacle. It was all okay when the only witnesses were the cows in the fields we passed out on the open road – but at the Church there would be actual people – people who knew me. They would stop and stare; they would think we were odd; they would point and laugh and commit the image to memory so they could bring it up in conversation with their family over the Sunday roast. From now on, any time they saw me they’d remember me as one of the motorcar choristers. That could not happen! I stopped abruptly. And immediately I wished I hadn’t. Quite honestly I wished people had seen me – I wished they had known me as one of the Motorcar Campbell Choristers – because I know it would have been with the affection that they always held us; not matter how strange we sometimes were.

I have just arrived home from taking my Dad to a Priests concert at Glenarm Castle (not too far from where they met at Garron Tower) They didn’t sing ‘How Great Thou Art’ but it was a wonderful experience to see them live, and it brought that Sunday Morning drive back to mind.
My grandfather passed away a month ago. There will never be a chance to relive that moment. I have committed it to my memory, not that I bring it up over the Sunday roast – but when I think of it I am reminded of how amazingly fortunate I am with the family in which I was placed. My grandfather was immensely wise, immensely gracious – he quietly lived a life filled with understanding, faith and love. If I learn anything from him it should be that a cynical attitude, while more and more prevalent, is not compulsory. It’s not even the default setting. If I am to make the most of this beautiful creation I need to start trying to see it through untainted eyes, and see the best in everything around me. My good friend and my family seem to have known that secret all along.

Then sings my soul, my Saviour God to Thee,
How great Thou art, how great Thou art.

we love it!

The Sun has a slogan - "The Sun. We love it!" and once in a while they do something that makes me think that they might be right. Today they were thinking of ways to enliven the process of page layout and came up with this little gem. Whoever it was that placed the photo of Cameron and Obama above the ad for New Look footwear must have been bored. A bored genius.