Tag Archives: teaching

“Schools in crisis as graduates turn their backs on teaching” Guardian 26 Dec 2015

“It is SOOOOO annoying to have to read yet another article linking teacher recruitment and/or retention to teacher pay. This is simply NOT the issue!!!!!! It’s parents’ complaining, hours spent on data analysis, the serious lack of life/work balance, and pressure to get every child “above average” – despite this being statistically impossible, this is the main focus in education – from parents as much as the government. Employers all want their skill-set ‘taught’ by schools – so the curriculum is paradoxically both so broad (nearly every subject has to be offered) and yet so narrow (only English and Maths really count) – I assume because their own training budgets have been squeezed – it’s just impossible to satisfy anyone, never mind everyone.

And parents seem to have practically abandoned input – from teaching infants colours and nursery rhymes to older children about their immediate heritage (no-one knows who Churchill is any more).

Children themselves do not ‘know’ any less than when I started teaching 30 years ago, but they ‘know’ a lot about ‘stuff’ which doesn’t support an archaic curriculum still aiming to churn out factory fodder with a decent percentage of admin staff thrown in for good measure. (State schools are not expected to produce ‘the elite’ – Eaton still does that.)

Frankly, British education needs a major shake-up to bring our kids into the 21st century – starting with educating parents what they need to do/know, the curriculum and the exam system as well as school leadership training. Articles and media focus on teacher pay continues to miss the point – instead of looking at statistics and talking to spokesmen, why not actually visit some schools before your next edition?”

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In response to oldcornishlefty

+ parents and their constant ‘passing the buck’ complaints because it’s easier to blame and complain about teachers than it is to get their kids off social media and do their homework, talk to their kids about their heritage and contemporary issues, teach their infants their colours, a few nursery rhymes/fairy tales. etc. Kids do not know any less than they ever did, they just know different stuff – unfortunately, what they do know is of little use to the archaic curriculum the Tories have imposed.

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+ parents and their constant ‘passing the buck’ complaints because it’s easier to blame and complain about teachers than it is to get their kids off social media and do their homework

This is very true. I know several dedicated teachers who are giving their all for young pupils, but are up against this kind of thing. It’s funny – restricting TV and computer use is commonplace, particularly among middle-class parents, in North America. Here it seems to be regarded as fascist! No government advice that I know has ever included this to parents. I can’t imagine why so many people have children just to fob them off most of the time with electronic gizmos.

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A Right Royal Rant from 2 years ago!

The Guardian published a very ‘sensible’ article about preparing for the new school year: I wasn’t in the mood for it at the time – classic response from a fellow Guardian reader !
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Totally patronising, ill-informed article !

Whilst I may kid myself that I can imagine the stress of a brain surgeon or the pressure of stock broker, when it comes down to it, what do teachers actually do that is so stressful?

Let’s be honest: I drift into school at 1/4 to 9 five days a week for 39 weeks – talk to some kids for a few hours, fill in a couple of forms, do a bit of writing on the board, do a bit more reading and then dart out of the place just after 1/2 3, when most people are still on their afternoon tea break. After tea I do a bit more reading, ticking as I go and – crawl into bed totally exhausted.

Teaching is a bit like football – anyone who has ‘watched enough games’ and of course, read enough back pages can do a better job than Jose Mourinho – and everyone knows what teachers are doing wrong, why kids aren’t learning and hate school.

Of course, teaching may be so stressful because in order to do my ‘talking’ to kids I need to have a degree in my subject and to maintain that level of knowledge regardless of the amount of new material constantly available. I also need to have to stay up-to-date with the latest teaching methods to squeeze every last mark out of every last child, and despite the population not getting any more intelligent, produce better and better exam results every year. I have to absorb a range of details about every child – I teach up to 150 different ones a day in my high school – I have pages and pages of rules and regulations to bear in mind before a single sentence comes out of my mouth – language awareness, school and government policies, as well as dividing my attention between 28 pre-adults who really really would rather be somewhere else. I have to keep them physically safe, emotionally secure and educationally motivated. I must not be political or evangelical – but I must be politically aware and correct, and imbue the Catholic ethos of my school – without disparaging or undermining any other religious beliefs of a single pre-adult in my care.

In order to continue my bit of reading/ticking at home I need to take in and assess each pre-adult’s performance, correct their errors (without proof-reading for them) and despite the number of hours spent on lectures, activities, discussions etc in class, now find two sentences which will finally force that penny down, so that the pre-adult learner will finally ‘get it’ and improve their next piece of work – which must be written by the way – despite most other real-life performances being assessed by ‘doing’ (think marital arts belts, sports trials, performance auditions, etc). I do all this with the memory of reams of level descriptors and their numerical demarkers at the back of my numbed brain.

I haven’t even mentioned dealing with parents – who whilst generally giving in to their child’s every whim to keep them quiet (See – Christmas now begins in the middle of November) and who has failed to entertain them for the summer six-weeks, who deals with most confrontations by shouting/grounding/slapping/threats of pocket money withdrawal etc etc – (see tantrums in super-markets) now expect me to be Mother Theresa, the entire Disney Channel and Socrates rolled into one – despite having 30 of them with the only serious sanction is some form of raised eyebrow – parents don’t ‘do’ teaching raising their voices to their loved ones anymore.

SO excuse me if I rant off the day before my GCSE results – with Sainsbury’s Back to School adverts stuffed into my eye balls, Mrs Psychologist – if it were as simple as you make out vodka shares would drop like the second Depression.

Teaching … and learning.

Gove is gone.

And GM has just received a conditional offer (medical, CRB) for a primary school PGCE course from Liverpool Hope. [Apparently ‘the woman’ couldn’t stop smiling, nodding and writing ‘like mad’.] As I break up from school, my son is hurling himself head first into a profession that every current practioner seems to be trying to get out of. And my daughter is undertaking her annual fitness test for the Specials – the unpaid but fully ‘armed’ branch of the police.

We’re a strange little family, I reflect. We seem drawn to being ‘ruled by rules’ – teaching them, enforcing them – and me, well, I try to break them as often as possible.

Teacher. The Police. A pair of wonderfully dehumanising nouns. Labels which seem to entitle anyone and everyone to totally, completely and without a shadow of any guilt whatsoever conveniently remove any trace of humanity from their attitudes and behaviour, view and treatment of the said ‘non-people’.

‘The police’ are scary. It’s the uniform. When my daughter first got hers she appeared in the back garden unexpectedly and all I saw was a blur of black and the badge: Heddlu. I was shocked at my reaction at the sight of the uniform on my property and it took a long second or two to ‘see’ my daughter behind it.  My son wasn’t too affected by the day-kit but when she tried on her formal silver-buttons one, his heart raced at the sight of it.

Teachers are scary. It’s the name-thing: ‘Sir’, ‘Miss’. You’re not allowed to call them by their personal name – if you find out a teacher’s first name, it’s like some great treasure or trench warfare – there’s a little bit of ground taken back.

The summer holidays is one of my favourite times of year. Not because I’m not in school – I’m too zonked out and / or bored to think about that – it’s because it’s the only time of year parents hail teachers – and not for what we actually do, but for simply ‘having’ their children.

It costs parents a fortune to occupy and amuse their own children. Just keeping them under some level of control seems to challenge most parents nowadays. What disturbs me most is that these parents feel it’s their job to keep their children busy and engaged in some ‘gainful’ activity every single day. Children are not taught, let alone expected to amuse themselves any more. And children have to do this amusing activity under constant and vigilant adult supervision – because despite research repeatedly demonstrating that it is known family members who abuse children the most frequently, parents continue to be glued to the belief that every corner is hiding some lurking stranger out to steal and harm their child.

So it is little wonder that people who teach, like the people who police, are pretty stressed people. The responsibility of looking after their little wonders, just keeping them safe and occupied, is pretty massive. And then there are those who demand they are educated as well – everyone must be in the top set – as this is seen as some ‘ticket’ to a guaranteed future of gainful and lucatrative employment, and thus a rewarding and happy life. And despite there being little evidence of humanity as a species getting even in the slightest more intelligent, every year, children must leave school with more and better qualifications – whilst standards are maintained.

Stressed Young Teacher writing for The Guardian (click on title for article) is a classic case of a young teacher who clearly has ‘not got it’. The end of term reports, trips and picnics is the icing on the cake – they are not the camel back’s breaking straw ! Nearly every single thing this teacher bemoans is what I love about my job. He is considering giving up – he needs to realise he already has.

People don’t ‘get’ teachers – or the police. Some days I really mind this. Today is one of them. Everything that happens in our society is because of what these two groups of people do. Without the police and teachers, no one can get on with the lives we in our society take for granted. Lots of these people who teach and police get it wrong, make mistakes and get worn out and careless sometimes. There are complete ‘wrong-uns’ as well – corrupt, ill-equipped and incompetent members of these professions tarnish our image and reputations, and damage the lives of individuals, sometimes irreparably.  But by and large, most of them are hard-working and enjoy their work. And are not stressed out of their minds and the job long before they have paid off their student loans for the PGCEs they mistakenly undertook.

Gove is gone. There will be more change – and little will change at the same time. This paradox is about administrative systems, what labels are given to activities and the layout of forms. Little in the English classroom can change – you read the texts and get the kids to think about them. You train them to write about them to earn marks – a little more of this, a little less of that. Unlike science we don’t have to re-evaluate what we know, unlike history we don’t have to re-evaluate what we think, and unlike geography we don’t have re-evaluate what we do. More like mathematics, in English we look at unchanging things – like relationships and emotions, challenges and injustices. We look at how these things have been explored and expressed. Kids still gasp when they realise Romeo and Juliet look into each other eyes for a split second before his poison kicks in – girls still cry when George pulls that trigger.

I swing between resenting having to prove I do my job well and arrogantly enjoying the opportunity to show off; I veer between thinking I’m crap and must do better, and wondering how do I manage to do it so well after all these years. As my son and daughter embark upon the wonderful adventures ahead of them, I am beginning to reflect upon the adventure that has been my pleasure and priviledge to ‘get away with’ – and it’s even paid some bills and kept me fed along the way.

 

 

How deluded is Mr Gove ?

The problem with me is that I’m too subjective and get ‘all emotional’ about things which immediately, it seems to me, are wrong. So when I hear or read snippets about Mr Gove and his reforms, I instinctively ‘know’ he is wrong – about everything. But I have been fairly dismissive of all the Gove reforms in England because I teach in Wales and we have a hugely different agenda, so hugely different that we are almost as different to England as the Scottish curriculum and examination system is to the misnomered ‘England and Wales’ one.

This week’s NUT conference and Twitter links to Guardian articles have however, finally led me  to investigate what all the fuss over the border is actually about. And personally I find it hilarious.

Teaching, like medicine and policing, is a very closed shop: it is full of attitudes and practices which are based on pragmatism best kept well away from the public. Teaching has a public face which has to be maintained at all costs: pupils come first, everyone is equally valued, teachers slave for long hours after school EVERY night and this one is the cracker: government initiatives force teachers and schools into massive upheavals that will have a serious and real affect on lessons. Of course, this facade has to be maintained. But facade it is.

The NUT would have the public believe that the changes being proposed by Mr Gove will actually make some kind of difference to the average – and good – teacher’s methods and approaches. What the public must never know is what ever changes the government thinks it may be bringing about, the only real difference they will possibly make will be to the language and, God forbid, possibly the layout of schemes of work and lessons plans – neither of which bear the slightest resemblance to what goes on in the classroom anyway.

The government is seriously deluded if it thinks its changing of ‘the curriculum’, the syllabi recycling which takes place every few years or even the lecturers in teacher training establishments have the slightest influence on what goes on in the classrooms of Britain.

There is only one influence on what and how the curriculum is taught in Britain and that is the experienced teacher, usually the Head of Department, who issues forth on the only thing that matters to any young teacher fresh from a four year course on the ‘shoulds’ and ‘coulds’ of education – and that is how to survive an hour with 30 hormonally rampant teenagers whose only real interests in life are a) being fancied by another equally hormonally rampant teenager, b) being accepted by the bitches in Set 3 (otherwise known as their peers),  and c) who is going to win ‘the league’ this year,  whilst at the same time delivering a sufficient number of exam passes  to keep their Head of Department from having a mental breakdown each September before, during or after the exam results meeting with The Head.

Mr Gove is right. History teaching in this country has now over-taken maths as probably the most poorly taught subject on the curriculum. (And kids do not know how to use commas. You’ve probably spotted a few places where my own sentences would have benefitted from a few strategically placed little mini-slashes.) Discovering my own daughter did not know who Winston Churchill was, I must admit,  a bit of a shock – not the least because she has a GCSE Grade C in History.

On reflection of course, why should she? The syllabus she studied included the history of medicine, the American West and the local castle built by Edward II. Before that, in the lower school, she will have had a series of single lessons on various aspects of the Victorians, the Romans and the Normans (– notice we are still not admitting that this actually means Italians and French! God forbid we were invaded by a bunch of opera-loving facists and snail-eating fashion designers. No, the Romans and Normans were eventually overcome and are now obsolete with no further modern relevance or living descendants.).

So, how or why have I managed to assimilate so much historical ‘knowledge’ despite only studying History at O level myself? The only topics I remember revising for my O level was the Agricultural Revolution – and some inane stuff entitled ‘Welsh History’ which only succeeded in teaching us that, in fact, according to the English Secretary of State who sanctioned that particular little section of the syllabus that particular year, Wales, does not actually have much of a history of its own.

The answer is: my parents, television and most importantly literature.

I learned about Winston Churchill and World War II because my parents and grandparents were still living it. My father was a war-baby and was brought up on what is now called recycling – they called it ‘Make Do and Mend’. It meant nothing was to be discarded, everything had multiple uses and Hitler was only going to be defeated by every newspaper, tin can and bit of metal being used and reused time and time again. They were taught that the war was being fought because Hitler wanted to take over the world – there was no element of  disgust at the persecution of the Jews because the mass extermination of them was largely only discovered when the Allies stumbled across Auschwitz and the other concentration camps at the end of the war – the persecution of Catholics, gypsies, blacks and the disabled was equally not a driving concern behind  the resistance to the Nazis. Which of course was why, within a decade the great British public was so easily able to dish out their own brand of racial hatred and suspicion towards the West Indians lured to Britain to man our buses and clean our hospitals in the 1950s. It is also why to this day my father has difficulty binning anything made of aluminium and why ‘broken’ doesn’t mean ‘useless’ it means ‘find a different use for it’ – and why he still refers to people from other cultures with a language which dehumanises them.

My father missed going to Korea because he had the flu and had ten days of ‘leave’ due to him. He used them to go home to recuperate and missed the posting. Consequently,  I know very little about the Korean war except what I learned from ‘Mash’, a sitcom starring Alan Alder set in an army medical unit. I do know about Vietnam though. It was on the BBC news daily when I was a small child. One day I noticed that it had been ages since there had been any stories about it and thought nothing more about it until I was much older and realised it must have ended. The next time the Vietnam war entered my consciousness was when I went to see a film called ‘Rambo’ in 1982. It was still some time before I made the connection to all those news stories I had walked in to in our kitchen throughout most of my primary school years.

And this leads me to the second source of my awareness of the past: film and television. My generation was hugely influenced and informed by dramas and films set in the past: ‘Roots’ practically wiped out racism for a whole generation, ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’ bred a hatred of class distinction and the weekly western reinforced what was later to be exposed as the fallacy of the American Dream. As a child, Wyatt Earp and Jesse James were as real to me as Robin Hood and the daleks. And like the films set in India and Africa such as  ‘Zulu’, the western presented the white Europeans as the civilising force which took democracy and the railroad to savage barbarians in the nether regions of a hitherto dark, ‘uninhabited’ (by white Europeans) and mysterious continent just waiting and begging to be colonised by some European adventurer or entrepreneur.

The 60s and 70s were also littered with films set in World War II: two people in particular were responsible for the Allies victory and they were both called John – no not Winston or Montgomery – John: as in John Wayne and John Mills. These two guys were everywhere – flying planes, captaining ships and leading infantry attacks on Germans all over the world. There was also a really important person who lost his legs, a chap called Douglas Bader who apparently fell in love with a waitress who admired his determination to take her to the pictures and another bloke who was responsible for some bouncing bombs blowing up some dams.

So when I was thrown into pre-1914 literature at university it was all rather a shock to discover that things which had happened in the past had actually influenced who we were today. In deed, it soon been apparent that things called social reformers had influenced the ending of slavery and not as I had previously assumed, that the government had one day decided to simply pass a law because the prime minister wanted it that way. I also discovered that writers and artists as well as politicians and kings and queens had had a hand in historical changes which had taken place and had helped bring about shifts in attitudes and thus the laws of the land. I discovered the reason we had so many Latin roots in the English language had something to do with the Anglo-Saxon language absorbing words from people who had actually lived and governed Britain for four hundred years – yes, four hundred years – not a ‘term’ as I had been led to believe from studying them for 12 weeks in Year 8 at school. And there was more – Wales apparently really did have its own history before the Industrial Revolution, before hundreds of thousands of English men and women had swarmed into the South Wales valleys and the mining areas of North Wales, bringing with them little in the way of any significant cultural influence but their usual resistance to learning the indigenous language – thus explaining the ease with which your average Welsh person communicates with people from the West Indies and South Africa alike.

It is entirely through literature that I have learned anything really: the hypocrisy of the Catholic church and its influence through Chaucer; the social unrest at varying times, including apparently a civil war in Britain and of course the injustices of empirical ambition through Swift, Dickens and Yeats. And it was Wilfred Owen who taught me the reality of World War I: the conditions, the horrors and waste of human life which the history books dispense with so glibly with a few, and often poorly placed, adjectives whilst swiftly moving on to names and dates and conferences commentators at various times have deemed important.

When I look at the compulsory curriculum I wonder at its failures! PE does little but put children off most of the activities: children really inspired to pursue sports and athletics do so at after school clubs. Geography reduces our beautiful planet to contour lines and statistics; with cheap international travel, kids learn more from a fortnight on the Costa Nota Lotta (usually in term time).  Don’t even get me started on the teaching of art or music ! And my respect for science diminishes year on year. Are we really that better off after hundreds of years of it? Beyond destroying our planet, what exactly has it accomplished? And by discovering how the universe works – and even how it began –  we can … well, what ?… change anything that really matters? We will be able to cure all diseases so that one day a generation can finally live forever … bringing about what … the lack of necessity for anyone else to ever be born? Are we to believe that science will one day invent the ultimate fuel …to drive computers that will one day do everything for us … so that we will be able to do what – be entertained by computer generated literature, film and art ? Or maybe science will one day be able to eradicate suffering … in all its guises – physical pain, mental illness? What about the psychological and emotional pain of bereavement, romantic heartache and even that inconsolable, pit of emptiness you feel when your youngest child finally leaves home ?

For me there are only a small handful of subjects which are vital to the real enhancement of the human condition – literature, music, art and history. Learning who we are and being able to take part in and respond to the things which make life worthwhile is far more important than the average rainfall in Sweden or how many x’s y is worth.  Science, maths and all the rest could cheerfully be left to the options stage in secondary school in my opinion. Mr Gove is right. Being able to use punctuation effectively is vital to written communication. And a grasp of the lives and contributions of key players in our history is equally vital for us to comprehend why we should be welcoming the Polish and the Bulgarians alike into our country, why we already have so many immigrants from areas of the globe the Victorians colonised and why racial hatred leads to nothing but violence and war.

But teachers are not paid to do any of this. They are paid to get children through exams. They are paid to churn out economic commodities who with a little bit of luck may pick up a book or go to an art exhibition on their day off once in a while. And that is why it is not government initiatives or syllabus changes that will influence what or how a teacher delivers in a classroom.  What will influence them is what the Head of Department tells them works. What kids need to write in an hour and a half in the gym on a sunny afternoon in June. And this will not change from one year to the next. To get a C at English literature students will still need to know that Curley’s wife does not have a personal name to suggest she is just another of his possessions, that Wilfred Owen uses alliteration to imitate the sound and rhythm of bullets being fired and that Lady Macbeth – despite being viewed as weaker both physically and intellectually than her husband – is to blame for him killing Duncan.

How the syllabus is worded, the terms used in the scheme of work to convey this – VAK, AfL, brain gym, mindmaps – are all irrelevant. At the end of the day, the bottom line is, the English literature teacher will read these texts in class and tell her pupils what they need to write about them to get the ticks they need to pass. And the history teachers will continue to devise lists, acronyms and mnemonics to help her students remember the five key causes of World War I – because there never has been – and more importantly, probably never will be – any marks allocated for students to demonstrate empathy with the men who could distinguish between Shell and BP petrol cans used to carry drinking water in the trenches.

The Secret Teacher

Teenagers’ Ignorance

Using Mr Men to Teach History

You Really Couldn’t Make This One Up!

The Year 11 ‘Sixth Form’ evening is the ‘biggy’. It’s ‘time to shine’ time: to tell everyone who matters (pupils and parents of pupils considering taking A levels) how great your department area is, and what a great time they will have studying the most prestigious subject on the curriculum, English Literature.

Ah, English Literature. It conjures up all kinds of ‘greatness’ – articulacy, knowledge of great works, a grasp of the most subtle and sophisticated traits of human nature.

In preparation I arranged my tables and chairs into an amphithreatre shape. I removed all clutter and tidied up the shelves, window sills and cupboards – including the stuff inside! I hovered over the cleaner hoovering the carpet and then re-straightened the already straightened lines of chairs. I checked and corrected, and then rechecked the powerpoint. I left a copy on the top right-hand corner of the desktop on my laptop and then re-opened it. Preparation Heaven! Satisfied, I went to Maccie-D’s for a fillet.

An hour later I waltzed into the school library as if I were Lady Muck and owned the manor and grounds of some Victorian utopian educational establishment. The buffet brought me down to earth slightly: jellied quiche and burned sausage rolls, curly tuna and translucent bits of green stuff,  and Aldi Value grated cheese poked out of white Value sliced bread sandwiches – no tea or coffee – packs of plastic-bottled waters lined the back corner of two of the library tables pushed together.

At 6.35 on the dot the parents and pupils ventured up the badly-lit corridor and climbed the steps to the farthest corner of the school which houses my classroom. Stilettos and Elizabeth Arden (shade 014 cocoa cream) at the ready, I greeted my ‘guests’, ready to blow them away. And promptly began my presentation – with a powerpoint I had never seen before. No, really – I had seen something like this powerpoint before – about 4 years ago when the course was first introduced I had something like this. But since then it had been altered, abandoned and replaced. The powerpoint glaring out at the parents and pupils in my post-Roman half-circle of plastic chairs was not the powerpoint I had corrected and updated at 3.30pm.

To say I was horrified and completely freaked out of my little brain is an understatement of Biblical proportions. I felt my face freeze into a rigid concrete expression of seriousness, and my left arm swept towards the whiteboard as I heard myself say, “And here we have some texts  you will be familiar with. This is the kind of thing we teach.” Oh my god. No, seriously, oh my god. What do you sound like woman. What the fuck is this ? Where did this thing come from? (Referring to the powerpoint, not myself, although I’m pretty sure that was the question the parents were asking about me.) And so it went on. What the fuck was this thing going to say next, I asked myself. As each new slide appeared I could feel myself getting more and more exasperated. This is bollocks, I told myself, but they don’t know that, so just keep going. And I did.

The worse of it was I had a current A level student standing by the side, waiting to talk about the use of wordpress blogs as the latest educational innovation. My panic-stricken, stoney face and edgy tone had clearly been transmitted to her. Where was the wit, wisdom and ironic, twisted sense of humour which was so characteristic of her English Literature lessons? Who was this rigid, stiff and clearly ill-informed maniac inhabiting her English teacher’s fat little bum at the front of the classroom? The poor child eventually rattled out her bit, and the parents and pupils were finally released from what must have been the most bizarre presentation ever.

And me? Well, I just collapsed in a heap and threw myself at the mercy of the suited and pearled headteacher from our new partner school, spluttering, “I can’t believe it… I don’t know … don’t understand… ” whilst waltzing around in a silly circle of embarrassment in front of her.

It’s now been two whole days and I still haven’t a clue how the powerpoints were mixed up. I have re-lived the last few minutes at my laptop over and over trying to spot the moment I pulled up the wrong one by mistake. I can’t find it. Neither can I find an alternative explanation. But I have to worship at the feet of the deputy head when he mentioned it: “It could only happen to you!” he told me. And that was all I needed to hear.

This post was first published on March 14th 2013

Points of Interest from This Weekend

This morning G, so E. tells me got up at 5. 30 to go to work; ten minutes later I finally went to bed.

Have only smoked 31 cigarettes this weekend – and am not having what G. calls a ‘goodnight fag’.

Have not drank any alcohol this weekend.

Neither have I left the house or even got dressed: yesterday because I was dying of a cold and today because I have had too much too do. Also it has been freezing cold outside.

Brother is packing up to leave Fiji as I write: both E. and I are really annoyed that upon his return from a month in the sun, he will be greeted by snow. It’s not fair.

Finally, as a result of all of the above and finally  getting a spreadsheet of the data I have been asking for for years at my school, finally writing a scheme of work for the poetry anthology and new GCSE English Language syllabus WAG have dropped on us, and my mixed ability Year 8s have so far turned in 100% Level 5 or above leaflets, I am thinking about changing my planet’s name from ‘Shit Happens’ to ‘Anything is Possible’ (with the sub-title ‘But Don’t Get Over-excited Yet’ – obvs !).

(PS For future reference this is one of those winter weekends when we have been promised snow  by the weathermen and teachers everywhere have spent the entire day checking out  of their windows every hour on the hour to see if it has started yet. No luck so far.)

*’finally’ has been italic-ed because I am aware of the horrid effect of repeating ‘finally’ so close together, but I simply couldn’t find another word to go there, 

This entry was first posted on January 13 2013.