happy (would have been) 105th birthday Dr Seuss

Sometimes I may not tell you how much I appreciate you and your ridiculous rhymes - but I know you know in your heart that, Theodore Geisel, or do you prefer Dr Seuss, I salute you

it's gone mad i tell you - mad!

If there's one phrase I can't stand above all others it's 'political correctness gone mad.' I cringe visibly every time I hear it. And, considering the number of newspapers I read and talk radio stations I listen to, I hear it a lot.

This morning, for instance, the breakfast show on radio 5 devoted an entire segment to political correctness. While waking, dressing, through eating breakfast and the entirety of my drive to school I listened to call after call after text after email after call - all providing examples of PC gone mad. Rarely have I wanted to scream so much. I probably would have had there not been one dissenting voice on air as I pulled into the staff car park. One sane voice among the masses.

"...Libraries forced to put the Qu'ran on the top shelf so it is raised above everything... not able to use the word foreign to describe international students... was told I'm not allowed to ask for white tea, it must be tea with milk... quotas... limits... immoral... banning common sense... banning fun... banning... banning... banning..." It's Political Correctness gone mad!

What does that even mean? When someone probibits something in case it offends people who actually aren't all that offended and may take more offense that something is being banned in their name - thats not political correctness; that's a general lack of humour and common sense brought about by legalism and a fear of litigation.

Political Correctness has become a dirty word that the Daily Mail and the rest of the right wing press like to trot out when they can't be bothered to come up with an intelligent argument. It's easy to blame anything on Political Correctness gone mad. I mean after all, that's surely why we find it impossible to agree on an education system, its why England lost the test match, its clearly why there is still war and poverty in the world. If anything goes wrong then it is a sure sign that political correctness needs to check in for a frontal labotomy.

It wasn't alwas the case. The fact that it has become such a pejorative term of abuse both disturbs and depresses me. Does it make me insufferably liberal when I say that I would much rather live in a politically correct gone mad than a politically incorrect gone mad world? So I want to reclaim political correctness. I want to embrace political correctness. I want to use the phrase, political correctness, so much that everyone gets so sick of hearing about political correctness that even the right wing press get sick of it and I NEVER hear someone say 'political correctness gone mad' again - EVER.

catch the pigeon, catch the pigeon...

I love this story. It seems the Irish Police have been chasing a notorious polish immigrant driver for the past few years. 'The worst driver in Ireland' he's been called. A man so inconsiderate and dangerous he was wanted in counties across the country - north, south, east and west. Speeding, disobeying road signs, illegal parking, driving without due care and attention - you name it he did it.

But he was too clever for the Irish justice system - you see although he was caught red handed plenty of times he evaded trouble by providing a different address each time - crafty sod! A manhunt was organised. No stone would be unturned in pursuit of this devil driver.

So who is this polish scarlet pimpernel? His name, Mr Prawo Jazdy.

The polish speakers among you are already smirking. For it turns out that 'Prawo Jazdy' is polish for 'Driving License.'

Oh yes.

The police, unaccustomed to polish id recorded the most prominent writing assuming it was the culprit's name. Blinded by the sheer panic of facing a bizarre foreign language they wrote down the first thing they saw rather than taking a bit of time and working it out. Check out the photo - would you be taken in?

Actually if I'm honest I am sometimes at a bit of a loss when faced with some of the foreign names in my classes in recent years. I think I may actually empathise with the poor traffic cops - I have felt similar panic when I first see a Chui, Franciszek Ksawery or Kuivina in the register book - knowing that in a few seconds I will have to try and call it out. Even Irish names like Caoimhe, Dearbhla or Medb fill me with dread. But that is no excuse for three years chasing a man called Driving License.

As for the seemingly elusive Mr Prawo Jazdy, he has presumably become a cult hero among Ireland's largest immigrant population.

Isn't it bad enough that we've had to put up with jokes about how stupid the Irish are without us actually proving that we really are a bit thick when it comes down to it? Really makes you proud, doesn't it?

moving on

We nearly always have a feeling of a job unfinished. I am leaving pupils mid season – in the middle of their secondary education.

I feel old now. As if in a direct answer to my last entry where I complained that subs never get to see how their pupils progress, a pupil in my new school stopped me in the corridor today. She’s in her final year of secondary education – just a few months from university and adult life.

“Mr C!!! It’s me. Don’t you remember me?”

I should point out that this is not my first time teaching at this particular school. Towards the end of my PGCE (teacher training) I had a placement there. After the placement they took me on as a classroom assistant while I completed my training – and, once I became a fully trained teacher of English language and literature, they took me on as a teacher – a technology, art and maths teacher.

I was in my first year teaching and this particular pupil was in her first year of secondary school. I taught her technology. “Isn’t it weird? You were here when I started out – and now you’re here as I finish.”

As I struggled to remember what her name was I came to the realisation that I have now been teaching for one complete cycle – an educational generation. I have been here for the lifespan of a secondary pupil – just not the same ‘here’

There are many landmarks in a teacher's career. I’ve been told you only really feel old when you find out that one of your pupils is the son or daughter of someone you taught. Perhaps my next one will be when I see a pupil leaving school who was only starting primary school in 2001. But for now let me pause, sigh and reflect upon the last seven years, and the vocation that has swallowed them whole.

The end of another day – the end of another school.

Have you ever left one job after a period of time to start somewhere else? Have you felt that strange sensation of mixed relief, excitement, melancholy and trepidation? Have you experienced that sense that you are leaving something unfinished, or that you haven’t quite cleared your desk completely, that you’ve left something important behind?
Have you ever wondered what it feels like to go through that two or three times annually?

This always feels like a new sensation even though it really isn’t – REALLY isn’t. A lot of you will have experienced something similar when you switched careers, or maybe left school or university. Maybe I’m being a bit parochial but I think that it’s different for teachers. Every pupil feels that their class is special to you, that they stand out in your conscious (for good reason or bad) beyond all the rest. For that reason a teacher leaving is a big deal for them (for a day or two anyway); and for THAT reason it’s a big deal for the teacher.

Maybe I’m being parochial but I think it’s different for substitute teachers. We nearly always have a feeling of a job unfinished. I am leaving pupils mid season – in the middle of their secondary education. I don’t get to see what happens next. In some cases all I got to see was the very start of the secondary education journey. There are biblical allusions involving the different roles of the planter and the reaper – but Friday afternoon is not the time for me to use my brain on too many levels so I’ll leave the reference open and let you finish it off.

When the weekend finishes I will be starting all over again with a whole new set of kids in a school by the ocean. A whole new set of kids with a whole new set of values, loves, loathes, and methods of substitute teacher abuse. At this point I know nothing about them but within a short time they will become convinced that their class is my most memorable class and that they, individually, have had the biggest impact on my life of all the pupils I have ever taught – and I will let them think it. Maybe in 9 weeks time I will be writing something very similar to this when I leave them to move on to a different school, this time in a small North Antrim town.
Or maybe I’ll imagine that each new set of pupils is simply the old set with new hair styles. Maybe I’ll convince myself that I got to see them move from childhood to adulthood and a life beyond secondary school.

But until I can do that I’ll continue to be the littlest hobo of the teaching profession. I’ll just keep moving on.

i'm not a young as i once was

Another year older - and for a change I think actually this time I do feel it.

Today i am 32. I can no longer kid myself that I am anything other than a thirty-something. As a child I assumed by this stage I would have a permanent career, a mortgage, a wife, a dog, and at least two kids. I assumed I would be driving sensible cars and wearing sensible shoes.

What I didn't assume is that I would have the aches and pains of an old man.

My ankle is still hurting - I can walk normally but the idea of running, jumping, even cycling, fills me with concern. As soon as I put any strain on the ankle it swears at me and threatens dire punishments.

My pupils say it's cause I'm old. The PE teacher says its 'cause I never gave it a chance to heal and "what do you expect if you don't rest it. You're lucky you can walk on it." The lady who cleans my classroom says its just the cold weather. But if it isn't then she has the cure.

Yesterday she happened to see me as I was leaving and asked how my ankle was. I haven't been talking to her for almost a month. I told her it was ok but I still felt a bit of pain. She hmmed with the knowing hmm of an experienced practitioner. "What you need is some....." I say '.....' because my mind was already drifting off to the marking I had to do that evening and i don't actually know what it was that she was prescribing. But i must have been nodding encouragingly for five minutes ago she arrived at my door with two bottles. They would fix me she said - and when I made some comment about being willing to try anything she fixed me with an icy look and said "They WILL fix you."

So now I'm scared. Scared to try them - and scared what she'll do to me if I don't. Neither of the bottles contains its original contents. The Convent Garden Bath Soak bottle contains a fruity smelling gel that I am apparently supposed to bath in for as long as possible. The little foot softening cream jar is filled with a spicy concoction that I am to rub on the affected part.

The concern she showed for the sub teacher who leaves a messy room everyday for her to clean and smiles gormlessly when she is talking to him is touching. I feel like I want to repay her thoughtfulness - but my fear of her... well

I'll let you know if the smelly stuff works.

when am I not the best me I can be?

Sorry I disappeared for a while there. Based on previous experience you'd be forgiven for thinking it was due to incompetence or attention seeking - but not this time, I promise. "He's hit the wrong button again" I imagine you sighed when you arrived only to be confronted with a password protected notice. But no. For once it was deliberate. Let me explain.

One day I was teaching merrily away in class when someone quoted a blog entry I had written a week or so before. It turns out that some of my pupils had stumbled upon my blog. Now to be honest it's not a big deal - these are a nice bunch of kids who, while they may enjoy the odd giggle at my expense, have their heads and hearts in the right place. But at the same time I did stop and think. I'm not actually that keen on the idea of pupils in general reading my daily (or not so daily) frustrations with the education system, perusements on modern life and the persuit of happiness. I don't mind people knwing my personal opinions but I'm not too sure how I'd feel if my photocopier incident or the parent-in-the-supermarket thing became the subject of a piece of GCSE creative writing.

So I thought I'd lose ToaSNT for a while; safe in the knowledge that young people under 23 have a ridiculously short attention span and will have forgotten all about it by now. I guess we'll find out how valid this theory is soon enough

Anyway, I have to admit that I was actually a little put out. Not that they'd stumbled on the blog - but that they'd had to stumble upon it. How hard is it to find? Despite the fact that at 6'5" I am hardly the most elusive figure on the planet it appears that, in some ways, I am virtually invisible. They found me, not through my own blog, but through a link from someone else's. I'm trying not to take offense at the fact that Google clearly feels other people do a better job of me than I do. Apparently I am less relevent to me than I had been led to believe previously.

So I did a spot of research. You'll find me okay if you search for a "foot vasecomy" - despite the fact that I know not what they are. If you're looking to find a picture of Sammy Winward rolling about in a bed of daffodils sans clothing you'll possibly happen upon ToaSNT - despite the fact that the photo is nowhere to be seen in these pages. But if you actually go searching for me - well, you'll find a lot of stuff, but you'll be looking a long time before you actually see anything that pertains to me.

Now, as it turns out, I am enough of a narcissist to be troubled by this, but not enough of a narcissist to pay for google to make it better. I want the world to love me, to bow before my greatness - I'm just not sure whether I can be bothered to put in the effort to become great. Is it wrong to want to be admired for my existence rather than my achievement? It is? Oh.

Well, then, my loyal bunch of procrastinators (and those of you searching in vain for nudity and daffodils) I'll leave you with an expression of my gratitude - by reading my words you make me real - but if you happen to spot any of my pupils hanging around - you haven't seen me, ok?