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.