The Thoughts of a Special Needs Teacher

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2012-02-15T04:55:00.001-08:00

You don't fatten a pig by weighing it

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2012-02-14T12:38:00.001-08:00

Bible Belt (Portrush) #1

2012-02-12T07:35:00.001-08:00

getting out there

2012-02-12T07:20:00.001-08:00

I've decided I have to start getting more serious about photography. And if I'm going to start getting serious then I'm going to have to start getting better, which means more practice. I reckon, with a pro-consumer SLR, a handy little compact, a couple of professional DV Cameras and a camera phone, I should be taking photos everyday. That's exactly what I intend to do. Good, bad, horrendous - high def, low def, no def.I also think I need to start making these photos available for the world (that's you) to see, comment, sneer at, steal, print, parody... So I am going to start doing that right now. I got myself a little web thing called Posterous that I will be using to distribute my photos across various social networking platforms. If I annoy you with a constant stream of mediocre images then I apologise. I'm hoping the odd glimmer of gold in the pan will make up for the tonnes of grit.
Regards, Sam.

Steve Jobs 1955-2011

2011-10-06T01:56:00.000-07:00

‎"Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary."
- Steve Jobs

don't tell me the score

2011-09-03T11:23:00.000-07:00

I'm a Coleraine FC fan. I'm not obsessive - I don't have a CFC duvet and pillow set; I don't even have a season ticket. I simply go to a match or two each month and keep an eye on their scores and league position. I am the only one of my friends who ever pulls on the blue and white stripes to go shout at a bunch of footballers in the rain at the showgrounds - so I was more than a little surprised when a friend asked me if I fancied going to the game today. He is the least likely football fan on the planet - he had very recently gone and got himself engaged so I just assumed he was in a weakened mental state and, thinking this was not an occurrence likely to happen again, bit his arm off.

We set off - I in my retro 1960s CFC jersey with the big red number 6 on the back - he in a sports jacket (refusing to wear the blue and white striped scarf I brought specially.) It turns out we weren't just going for the match. A project involving local children and our resident world renowned artist, Ross Wilson, had culminated in a piece of art being unveiled at the showgrounds before the match. Lots of different agencies/organisations were involved. Coleraine Rural and Urban Network, Coleraine Borough Council, PSNI... sometimes I worry that things like this involve more committees and subcommittees than the young people they are actually designed to help. But that isn't to devalue this particular project - it actually involved young people in three areas of the town. Each group identified a sporting legend, three heros who embodied something special - positive role models. Each of the legends were to be immortalised in pieces of public art - which brings me to why I was turning up to the Coleraine Showgrounds, two hours too early for the match.

A group of young people had chosen Paul Gaston as the subject for their mural. Unless you're a Coleraine fan you may not know a lot about Gacky but for me, and apparently those young folk, he is a modern legend. He made his debut for Coleraine in 1989 and was still playing for them 600 games later in 2007. My personal favourite memory was watching him play in the cup final in 2003 - the year Coleraine took the Irish Cup home from Belfast. A player who embodied pride and loyalty for his club - a firm fan favourite if ever there was one.

Ross, I'm sure I've mentioned before. This wasn't his first connection to Coleraine FC. He was the artist who created the statue of Bertie Peacock which stands in the town centre. The man is steadily making his way through my list of footballing heroes. If I had my way he'd be creating murals of each of Coleraine's players from history. Take a look at the depressing corrugated metal wall at the back of the terrace in this photo. Imagine each section covered with a mural for Bertie Peacock, Des Dickson, Victor Hunter, Felix Healey... Can you imagine how inspiring it would be for the young people of our town - the disenfranchised, the disillusioned young people - to look up when they're at a soccer match to see themselves surrounded by role models who understood the concept of overcoming difficulties, learning from failures, striving to succeed and fulfil dreams? Even as I write this I can feel how twee it all is - and yet I want it to happen all the more.

So what do Coleraine football club do? They take this mural of a loyal servant to the club - someone who gave his heart and soul for the Coleraine fans - and they stick it on the end of a stand in the corner of the ground so people can only see it if they crane their necks round. It is a crying shame that they don't take more pride in someone who showed such pride in pulling on their colours every week for eighteen years. The people that run the club should maybe try to remember what it's like to be a fan again sometimes - I think that their lovely smart crested blazers and ties suppress the memory occasionally.

So onto the match. That's what I was there for - well that and to get the opportunity to have a chat and grab a photo of Gacky. I sat through the speeches - I endured the pleasantries - I forced down the finger food - all because I was going to watch the Coleraine v Portadown match from the posh boxes at the back of the stand. I was looking forward to it. Unfortunately my friend had got his calculations wrong and informed me that we were due to meet up with his sister and her family and that we were late. It was okay, I assured him, I didn't mind; it'd probably be a pretty dull match anyway. And off we went just before kick off. It felt odd leaving the stadium as everyone else was arriving but I didn't mind. It was only a football match...

It was only the football match of the year! Twice Coleraine came from behind before scoring in the closing moments to win 4 goals to 3. A match packed with goals (including one that travelled from within Coleraine's own half of the pitch), sendings off and all kinds of excitement. I could have been watching it from the posh boxes. Instead I left before it had even begun. I won't hold it against Dave though - he's getting married - that's punishment enough.

get your cupcakes - get your cupcakes here

2011-08-27T06:20:00.000-07:00

How often do you look at someone doing a different job and think, 'I could do that. I'd be good at that. Why am I wasting my life away teaching when I could be a train driver... a traffic warden... a park keeper... yes, I have had occasion to envy each of these professions - don't judge me - and today I am a cupcake seller. I love it.

It's not my first time. I've helped a friend on and off with his american cookies and cupcakes business. When he's overstretched and can't be in three places at once I help him out. I also spent a glorious part of my life working night shift in a Tim Hortons coffee shop. That was the best time of my life - no question.

Don't get me wrong, I love teaching; but sometimes it's easy to get a little jaded. Sometimes the pressures involved take a little shine off it. Sometimes it's easy to feel underappreciated and unloved. Selling baked goods just makes me happy. People like you when you sell them cupcakes. They smile when they see you; they are genuinely happy you exist in their lives. I'm not sure that can be said of all my pupils as a teacher. I love the cut and thrust - the banter - the twinkle in the eye - a bit of charm - a bit of a flirt (I can't be doing that as a teacher either) - give the customer a smile and an extra cookie thrown in, since they've been so nice.

I should probably come clean at this point and admit that, personally, I don't even like cupcakes. They are generally a sickly waste of the planets resources. They have no reason to exist (Though it has to be said that my friend, Nathan's, cupcakes are a pretty special waste of Earth's resources - truly the lightest, fluffiest, smoothest tasting waste available.) But do you have to like something to sell it? I certainly don't have to like silly iced pieces of fluff (sorry Nathan, delicious silly iced pieces of fluff) to have a great time selling cupcakes. I'd hate to think how miserable it would be to teach a subject I didn't love myself. There are teachers out there - teaching subjects they have no love for. I am so incredibly lucky to love what I teach.

Could I really leave education to sell cupcakes or donuts full time? No, of course not. I would soon get bored. I'd miss the dramas and challenges of the classroom too much. But for today I am not a teacher - I am a purveyor of cupcakes. So if you happen to be in Coleraine and feel the urge for a little drop of sugary happiness, come and say hello.

the narrow path to the super highway

2011-08-24T11:51:00.000-07:00

It's an image thing I know, but I like to see myself as someone who travels the path less trod when it comes to popular culture. I always have done. Aged ten I was in a primary school surrounded by Manchester United and Liverpool football fans - so I support Newcastle United. In secondary school all my friends supported the Ulster rugby team - I chose to follow London Irish instead. At university I started watching a new american sitcom, rather uninspiringly called 'Friends.' I quite liked it, until everyone seemed to be watching it and I lost interest. The same thing happened with the West Wing, and so on and so on.

And now I'm in a quandary. I was browsing the shelves of my local second hand book school when I happened upon a little orange paperback that looked like it hadn't been read at all. Intrigued I took a quick scan, checked the blurb, and eventually bought it thinking I might have found another hidden gem.

A few days later my sister was talking to me when she spotted the book lying on my desk. "Ah" she said, "You're reading 'One Day'"
"I haven't started it yet. Have you heard of it then?"

And so it turns out that my little orange paperback is not so much a hidden gem as a glittering jewel that's been on display in a national museum for the past two years. It has been extensively reviewd and garnered mainly positive write ups. It was the best selling british novel in 2010 and has sold over a million copies. According to the Times "it is only a matter of time before you read 'One Day'" And to make matters worse a screenplay version of it has just opened in the cinemas this week.

How can I be so far behind the Zeitgeist? You've all heard of it - so how have I missed it? When did I wander off my little less trod path and veer onto the slip road for the M1?

So you see my dilemma. Do I ignore my image issues and become the 60,141st person to read it this week; or do I return it, spine unbroken, to a little secondhand bookshop somewhere. Dammit! That's already been done!

music in the (open) air

2011-07-27T23:45:00.000-07:00

I think it has become my music venue of choice - the Cornmarket in Belfast, Arthur Square. It's not a grand concert hall with pristine acoustics - in fact the acoustics are horrible. It's not an intimate little basement venue where the artists can truly engage with their audience - in fact 90% of the audience only pause briefly to listen before continuing to go about the daily business of existence. It's not a space filled with music history, where legends have belted out crowd pleasers to their adoring fans. It is simply a junction of five pedestrianised street in the city centre, and a rather odd sculpture.

And yet on three separate occasions I have found myself abandoning plans to sit in mesmerised awe as a musician or group entertain the shopping masses free of charge. Well, for spare change anyway.

Most recently it was a latin jazz group over from Edinburgh. I sat for an entire afternoon as they performed the most unlikely covers - who would have thought 'Jenny from the Block' would work so well cuban style? And as for 'Come Together' ... I don't say this lightly ... better than the original. Absolutely incredible. I've never been as moved by a Lennon/McCartney song.

They're called Tequila Mocking-bird. A collective of music students from Edinburgh University. I was on my way to a first date. I may have been a little late. But it was their fault. I was in Belfast in plenty of time - I'd even had time to do a recce of the location. When I was wandering round Belfast city centre and heard the music I checked - I had time to listen to a couple of songs. Maybe a couple more... Everytime I got up to move on they would kick in with another salsa beat and I would be glued down. I ended up staying until the very end of their set and chatting to them briefly. To my horror they were just coming to the end of an Irish tour and were heading back to Scotland the next day. Even worse - they had played a gig only five miles from home the day before. I bought a cd of their new composition and promised to keep an eye on their list of upcoming live performances. Then ran to the pub, trying to think up a suitable excuse for being late. Great first impression.

I thoroughly encourage you to track them down and listen to them live if you get the opportunity. They are a talented bunch and ridiculously young. Attractive young things should not be allowed to be so talented - blessings should be shared around all of us a bit more. I look forward to hearing them again - for they will return - and I will not miss them next time. If it means rearranging dates or bringing the date along; I will see them live in an actual venue - not a street corner.

On the subject of the date - you may be wondering why this isn't in the 'reasons why I'm single' series. Well, actually the date went pretty well - but better yet - she got caught up in work and turned up even later than me. Guilt free tardiness and a free music performance... does life get better?

I am the best teacher you never had

2011-06-20T12:28:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-19T00:24:00.000-07:00

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!

2011-06-18T07:21:00.000-07:00

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.

changing ties

2011-05-06T04:49:00.000-07:00

I don't know whether it's a sub conscious thing or just stupidity - but I have developed an unfortunate habit when it comes to choosing which tie to wear to work.

I used to hate wearing ties. As a pupil, and then as a young teacher I found them restrictive and conformist. I wanted to teach in a knitted turtle neck and Che Guevara beret. I railed against the idea that a piece of fabric tied, noose-like, across my adam's apple somehow illicited authority or respect. It appeared unfair to me that female teachers seemed able to wear whatever they wanted while male teachers (excluding PE staff of course - but then can they really be considered teachers?) were required to wear a shirt and tie. I didn't see the point.

I still don't see the point. Honestly I don't. I will fix anyone who claims that we instinctively imbue people in ties with more authority with an icy stare. It isn't about the tie - it's about looking smart and professional. Whether I'm wearing a tie or not is immaterial.

But I'm bringing back the tie. Not only do I wear one with a suit to work, weddings, church, going to court - I've started wearing them on nights out and soon I hope to introduce them to my day-to-day attire. I'm not doing so to appear sagely or mature - in the same way a tie can't overcome my inherent untidiness it could never fool anyone regarding my levels of maturity. I'm doing it because I've come to see value in wearing something pointless.

Everyone needs to put on something that serves no purpose whatsoever - not because they have to, but because they can. Go on. Wear a cravat, a flower in your hair, an elastic band round your wrist, a broken pocket watch, an empty briefcase, a key chain full of redundant keys; carry an umbrella - but never open it.

In the meantime I will wear a tie to school because it is expected of me. Which brings me back to my unfortunate habit. As I look at the pupils in front of me it occurs that their ties look awfully familiar. The shade of green, the red diagonal stripe, the black accents - I'm wearing a tie that is almost identical to the school uniform tie. Vaguely embarrassing coincidence maybe - except I have form. This has happened before at two other schools. So far the pupils here have been too polite to mention it. The pupils had no such coyness in one of the previous schools. In that case the pupils took only seconds to ask with massive grins, "How come you're wearing the school uniform?" They continue to remind me any time they see me in the real world - three years later.

It's only a matter of time before someone does comment, so I better get my excuse ready - maybe something about the value of doing something for no reason?

shapes and sounds

2011-05-05T09:49:00.000-07:00

What is the most powerful thing you can imagine? Nuclear weapons? Stars? Planets? Emotions?

It'll come as no surprise to anyone when I reveal that I truly believe there are few things as powerful as language. It's the kind of thing I'd say in a job interview, but it also happens to be true.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God.
John 1: 1-2

I love language. It fascinates me, it intimidates me, it terrifies me. Many of you already know this - so why am I describing my fixation all over again? Well, shocking as it may seem, not everyone shares my view. Some people actually see truth in that old saying, "Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never harm me." But why?

In my opinion it has a lot to do with the diet of limp, flavourless drivel we are spoon-fed and which we spoon-feed those around us. Honestly, I am no language ludite wishing we still spoke Jacobite english. I recognise that language evolves and I embrace the fact. It shows that language is an organic thing - and something living is always more powerful than something inert.

As a teacher I can see the reason behind simplifying language and what can happen when people use language to exclude certain members of our community. But I also see the need to constantly challenge our understanding of the world though increasingly complex questioning.

For everyone who partakes only of milk is unskilled in the world of righteousness, for he is a babe. But solid food belongs to those who are of full age, that is, those who by reason of use have their senses exercised to discern both good and evil.
Hebrews 5:13-14

The more we simplify the language the more we remove the colour and the power of those words. Let me give you an example from the world of education. Take a look at this monologue. You may have read it before; it is the moment Romeo first sets eye on Juliet - a moment that changes his character profoundly:

O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!

 It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night  Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear;

Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!

So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows,  

As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.  The measure done,

I'll watch her place of stand,  And, touching hers,

make blessed my rude hand.  

Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight!  

For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.

Now read the modern translation from a text book I picked up in a classroom this morning:

Oh, torches look dim beside her! She embellishes night time like a rich jewel in an Ethiopian’s ear – too beautiful for everyday use, too valuable for this world. She stands out like a snow-white dove amongst the crows.
Once the dance is over I’ll see where she stands and make my rough hand blessed by touching hers. Did my heart know real love till now? My eyes need look no further: I hadn’t seen true beauty till tonight.

I do understand why it is helpful to simply the language for young students (and atleast this translation didn’t cut most of the speech completely the way Baz Luhrmann did in his film version.) The most common complaint I hear in school about Shakespeare is that they “don’t understand what he’s on about.” It is testament to the power of the language that they, without perhaps always understanding the meaning of every word, could still experience the control and power contained in them.

And therein lies the evidence for my views of language. The power contained is threefold – the message carried, the knowledge shared, and the very living words themselves. You must surely agree with that if not with my final assertion that the greatest of these three powers is the third. I won’t force you to believe that the shape of words, the sound of words, this is where the beauty lies as much as in the message. In fact you are more than welcome to disagree about the power of words at all. I will happily consider your argument – as soon as you work out how to present it without language.

reasons why I'm single (part 4 of a 78 part series)

2011-05-05T08:38:00.000-07:00

I admit that most of the reasons in this series are to do with my social ineptitude; but once in a while it isn't my fault. Every so often I get to blame someone else's social ineptitude.

I went on a blind date a short while ago. Until recently the very idea of that statement would have brought a little sick up in my mouth - but I've given up worrying about these things now and I was at a loss for something to do.

I say it was a blind date but actually I had met the woman before. I knew her to be incredibly intelligent, attractive, complex... unreliable. So when I arrived at the restaurant right on time I wasn't surprised to receive a text from her saying she was running late and I should just go on in and wait. That's never a good look - the sitting at a restaurant table by yourself knocking back glass after glass of sparkling spring water; so I didn't. I checked at the desk to make sure the table was in order and, since it was a pleasant evening, waited outside for my date to arrive.

While I was waiting I people watched. There are three restaurants very close together at that end of Coleraine and they were all really busy. I watched an arguing couple arrive and make their way into one of the restaurants - the wife ordering her husband not to make a scene "like the last time." I watched a little old lady, so stooped that her face seemed inches from the ground, struggle to get out of a volvo - the young driver (her son?) making no effort to help her and seemingly growing impatient at her difficulty. I watched a car arrive at some speed and cruise round the car park looking for a space. There was only one and a mercedes in the next bay was over the lines, making the available bay tight - maybe too tight. The driver thought it worth a try anyway and began to squeeze into the space. 'She'll never make it at that angle' I thought aloud. She didn't - but that didn't stop her trying. Seconds later there was a gut wrenching screech as her black car scraped along the metallic silver paint job of the Mercedes.

There was a pause. Then, instead of pulling out and trying a better angle, the driver pushed further forward and the screeching started up again. My teeth were on edge just watching it from 20 yards away. Eventually the driver gave up and pulled out to change the angle. It was then that I noticed I hadn't taken a breath for a while - so I took a quick gulp of air. The driver changed the angle and went in for a second attempt. And got it completely wrong again. The screeching began even sooner than the previous attempt and sounded, if anything, louder and more painful. And there was no pause this time. The driver pushed on through until she had squeezed her little car completely into the space - and left a huge scar in its expensive neighbour.

The stooped old lady had witnessed the whole thing, and with a look that suggested she may know the owner of the Mercedes, took off surprisingly quickly to inform them that their car had been abused. In some cruel, twisted way I was enjoying the spectacle and began to hope my date would be a bit later so I could see what happened next. What did happen next was that the driver of the little black car was clearly spooked by the old lady sprinting for the restaurant, and pulled out of the space, scraping up the side of the Merc one last time - in reverse - before taking off round the back of the building. Seconds later a large, red faced man came running out of the restaurant and practically began to wail when he saw the side of his car. The old lady was at his side and was looking around, searching for the black car. I too looked to see where it was hidden. It was then that I saw it, parked round the side of the restaurant, and my date was getting out of the drivers seat.

With barely a flick of her hair and a deep breath she made her way to the restaurant, her long elegant strides seemingly effortless, even on some of the highest heels I'd ever seen. As I met her by the door she proffered her cheek for a kiss and apologised for being late, saying she'd "had a little trouble finding a parking space."

I was dumbstruck. We went on to have a lovely meal, full of incredible conversation - and all I could think of was what she'd done to that car - and just how easily she was able to act like nothing had happened. There is no doubt that she is an amazing person, and whoever she chooses to share her life with will be one incredibly fortunate man - but I knew there and then it wouldn't be me. How could I go out with someone knowing that the more I saw her the more chance there'd be that the car beside the only available parking space would someday be mine.

three observations about losing weight

2011-04-26T11:16:00.000-07:00

There are three observations I would like to give you in terms of weight loss if I may.

Over the course of the past four months i have been trying to shed a few pounds in an effort to take some control of my health and raise a bit of money for charity in the process. I just about managed to squeeze past my target of 20kg and it was an amazing feeling.

It has to be said, however, that I did become somewhat addicted to the supportive/flattering comments I received from those around me. I'm worried how I'll deal with the inevitable slowing down of these bite-sized ego boosts over time. I must find something to fill the void - suggestions welcome.

My new found vanity expresses itself in many forms: I definitely spend more time looking in mirrors; I walk with a straighter back, simply because my chin looks better that way; I tuck my shirts into my jeans - just to show I can.

It would be trite and overegging to describe the past few months as life-changing - but personality changing they have definitely been if nothing else. And actually not all good changes. I am certainly proud of achieving my targets - the fact that it was such a struggle makes the pride all the sweeter; I am certainly more positive about my self image and indeed my health; but, sometimes when I catch myself studying my reflection in a shop window, I pull up short and wonder what on earth was it all about.

In my mind I am 100 times more attractive, but I am certainly no looker even now. In my mind I am 100 times healthier, but my published ideal weight is still a good 20kgs further south. In my mind I am 100 times fitter, but I still struggle to run more than a mile.
I have a long way to go yet and, if anything, these next targets will be tougher than the last. I want to succeed. I want to be able to buy fashionable jeans rather than any that happen to fit me. But I don't want to feed that ego any more than it needs fed.

So, before I forget what I'm doing, my three observations:
1) Targets are always easier to achieve when they've been set by someone who knows you better than you know yourself. They are also easier to hit when you keep your eyes open.
2) Water costs nothing, is sugar free, and if you drink enough of it you start to like it. On the other hand coke is actually ridiculously expensive, has more sugar than Jamaica, and (much to my amazement) when you return to drinking it after a break of four months it tastes utterly repulsive.
3) Encouragement is important - but fawning flattery is destructive. Learn to listen to compliments with a discerning ear.

Having said that, don't stop with the flattery. I'd miss it.

not in my name

2011-04-06T18:55:00.000-07:00

The death of Ronan Kerr, a year 25 year old man from County Tyrone, rocked Northern Ireland on Saturday. When a bomb exploded under his car in Omagh the news sent a shudder down the spine of the country that I haven’t experienced for a long time.

When I heard about it I was on a film set sixty miles away near Ballynahinch. During a break in filming I took out my phone to check the BBC website and saw the headline “Policeman killed in Omagh car bomb attack.” Immediately the words 'Omagh' and 'bomb' were enough to bring back awful memories; and then when I continued to read the story it shook me for a moment. I debated whether or not to tell the rest of the cast and crew there and then or wait until filming had ended for the day. It all seemed a bit raw and close to the bone.

It was something of a dreadful coincidence, you see, that around four o’clock – about the time the bomb went off under Constable Kerr’s car – I was playing the part of a policeman in the RUC during the troubles. I was surrounded by people who were, or had been, directly affected by the traumas imposed on the Police back then. One scene in particular involved me being filmed checking below my car for a bomb. To me it had been a little bit of screen business to carry out twelve times from four different angles – to the officers back then it was a routine that could be a matter of life and death.

Do we really want to return to such a time of paranoia and fear? Where lack of trust makes us suspicious of strangers? Could we really feel proud of a society where our police officers have to check below their cars before every journey – where they have to walk down streets in pairs – where they carry rifles and wear body armour if they leave the confines of police stations fortified by huge security walls and netting? Do we feel the need to return to a time where random searches and check points are needed?

I remember those times, and not with a nostalgic smile. The idea of returning to them – or anything like them – fills me with dread. However it seems some others (who may not even have been born at the time) don’t have those same memories. Perhaps they have built up some kind of idealistic, glamorised view of the past – minds filled with causes, and honour, and calls to arms. Surely if they had lived through it they’d know just how little honour there actually was back then.

This action and those responsible for it must be totally rejected. I am calling upon those involved to stop, and to stop now.

-Gerry Adams – Sinn Fein President

So it was with relief that I saw just how much outrage there was over Ronan’s murder – from all sides of the community. As politicians, public leaders, church leaders, sporting figures, journalists, celebrities, bloggers… everyone, united against the people who carried out the killing; as social networking sites lit up with messages of support and condolence for his grieving family; as GAA players and fans (not known in the past for their love of the police force in Northern Ireland) observed a minute of respectful silence for one of their own who also happened to be a police officer; as rival politicians united to speak out in support of the peace process… I allowed myself to feel a glimmer of hope that this young man’s death would not be in vain.

The people of the Bogside are angry this morning [about the graffiti], they have been angry since Saturday, just like the rest of the north. They do not deserve to be tarnished with this and the good name of PC Kerr does not deserve to be tarnished like this.

-Pat Ramsey SDLP MLA

If those who planned and carried out this young man’s death (and those ignorants who daubed the sickening graffiti lauding it in the Bogside area of Derry) realise that the rest of the population don’t see them as plucky little underdogs fighting against the malevolent colonial oppressors, but as a pariah, an evil, backward anomaly in a society that is trying to move forward. If they see that then I hope Ronan’s family can take comfort from the fact that, in his death, Ronan changed attitudes and helped lasting peace take a foothold in our troubled little province.

It is difficult to comprehend how a young man with the best interests of our community at heart, and who contributed so positively to our community, could be attacked in this way. His death demeans humanity and is detrimental to the development of a shared future based on mutual respect.

-GAA statement

Today we finished filming, and my time as a policeman came to an end. It’s a decent little movie – touching and quite thought provoking – but I doubt many, if any, of you will ever see it. And I doubt it will change society greatly. Today Constable Ronan Kerr was buried – I pray that his courage in life and in death will leave a much more important and lasting legacy. Actually, call me an optimistic fool but I have a feeling it just might.

image is nothing - thirst is everything

2011-04-01T10:42:00.000-07:00

In today’s society, young people care more about external appearance than inner character.

A year 12 class I’m covering have been set this as a discursive essay title. It’s not bad as titles go – plenty of material to work on. But if I’m honest, the whole experience has scarred me a little.

The discussion we had about the issue was extraordinarily enlightening, slightly depressing, and intensely terrifying. Kids today – these ones at least – are completely obsessed with image, to the extent that they don’t see the need, nor want of looking any deeper. Everything you need to know about someone can be gleaned without delving any further than dermatologically deep.

I explained to them that their attitude worried me – that, if personality and character didn’t count in the world, I was screwed. It got a laugh, but I was only half joking.

In a class of eighteen girls and two boys the criteria for dating was ‘hotness’ (fair enough), for friendship was 'attractiveness' (hmmm), for career success was 'presentation' (could be argued I suppose), for success in life – 'appearance' (oh dear.)

I found it sad that the popular set were putting their successes down to their looks; and sadder that the rest put their status down to lack of looks. Maybe that’s the crux of it all. Maybe it becomes a self fulfilling prophecy. Conceivably a perception of attractiveness could lead to greater confidence, in turn helping to achieve success. And on the other side of the coin, a lack of confidence resulting from a perceived lack of attractiveness could be a stumbling block on the road to achieving potential.

As the discussion progressed that was the conclusion the group seemed to reach anyway. They went on to explain that it’s not about what you’ve got, it’s about what you do with it – a statement vague enough to worry me for a moment. I chose to take a positive message from it.

So maybe I shouldn’t despair of modern youth culture just yet. Maybe there is hope for them yet. Maybe there are hidden depths that will work their way to the top with time and maturity. Maybe these teenagers will come to rate the true character traits and values as much as the packaging in which they come.

The conversation was certainly becoming much more reassuring – right up to the point where one of the girls looked at a builder who was erecting a security fence outside the window, and exclaimed loudly,
“Oh! He’s hot!”

everywhere's different

2011-03-09T13:17:00.000-08:00

It’s always completely different. Every time I start in a new school I always feel surprise at how dissimilar schools are. As communities. The most recent two schools I’ve worked in are geographically close – less than a mile as the crow flies – but in every other way they are poles apart.

I take memories from every school in which I teach; (all eight of them now) even when, as in these two most recent, I was only there a day or two. In the last one it’ll be the way a senior pupil walked into the classroom halfway through a lesson I had with a junior class. He pulled up a chair, sat down, and watched me teach. Now the fact that he appeared to be paying more attention to my teaching than the year eights notwithstanding, I was confused and a little intimidated. He was huge and somewhat terrifying. He wore a uniform, of sorts – he’d ripped the sleeves off his shirt, presumably to show off his muscles and numerous tattoos; and he wore his tie around his shaved head, Rambo style. On his left arm was a ragged looking cast with various anatomical sketches and badly spelt swear words. I started to ask if I could help him with something but something in his swagger, his confident stance, his bulging arm muscles, and his assorted scars, told me he was in confrontation mode, and it’d be a confrontation he wasn’t going to lose.

Luckily the school VP walked in that very second to speak to me about something administrative. My saviour. When he saw the teenager he paused, looked a bit nervous, and said,

“Darren? What are you doing here?”

“I was in Ms Clover’s class but it was boring so I took a bit of a walk. But my leg’s hurting so I thought I’d come in here to sit down for a while.”

“It wasn’t hurting when you were kicking young McKeown around the playground at lunchtime.”

“Must’ve been how I hurt it then.”

“Well, if you’re not doing anyone any harm…”

With that he slinked out into the corridor leaving me with a look of astonishment and an extra pupil (one who clearly runs the school.) The whole thing troubled me greatly.

Another thing troubling me greatly is what I’ll remember about the next school – the one in which I currently exist. This is my first time here. It seems nice enough – the pupils are polite and attentive, the staff are friendly and helpful. But why? Why in the name of all that’s right and true? Why are the rest of the teachers in the English department dressed in costumes? We have here a ghost bride, a gothic witch, a fairy princess, someone who looks like they’re straight out of Little House on the Prairie…

They want me to come back tomorrow; but to be honest I’m not sure if my Robocop costume still fits.

mr c goes global

2011-03-08T08:50:00.000-08:00

Today I almost crashed into a Google streetview car. I was just turning onto my road when it came round a corner in the middle of the road. That road is hardly wide enough for two cars at the best of times but it's especially difficult when one of them is in the (non-existent) middle lane and the driver of the other is staring at the weird black column on its roof. In a short while I fully anticipate providing a link to a street-view image of my car at very close quarters - hopefully with my terrified face blurred out.

Of course as soon as I'd parked for a few seconds to regain my breath, I did what any self-obsessed narcissist would do - I took off after it to make sure I appeared as much as possible.

If any of you have tried this you'll know how difficult it actually is. Those drivers have obviously been trained in the bank-robbery-getaway school of driving. He took turns I didn't know existed (and I've lived in the area for 34 years.) I found myself guessing his route - and failing miserably. By the time I had tracked him down properly he was clearly finished for the day - parked up with his camera laid flat on the roof of the car.

I am now determined to find as many Google cars as I can in the next few weeks. I am going to own Google North Antrim/Derry. I'm going to make sure that whenever you type in Cloyfin, or Blagh, or Craigahulier, or Beardiville - who knows? you might someday - you will see my little silver VW with a slightly scared looking teacher behind the wheel. How proud you'll be to know me.

take a tab

2011-03-06T11:57:00.000-08:00

O'Brien ton helps Ireland shock England

2011-03-02T09:41:00.000-08:00

Brilliant Ireland Shock England

bbc.co.uk

I sometimes wonder what it is that makes me so anti-English. Some of my best friends are English or live in England. I have several English relatives - my dearly beloved brother married an English woman and my equally dearly beloved sister lives in Derbyshire. Most of the people who read this blog are English. And yet every time I see a headline like that one up there it fills my heart with joy.

There is an element of patriotism - living on a wee island like this we rarely get to savour sporting success. It is also partly because little Ireland took on the mighty English at a game the English invented and won. I imagine it also has something to do with having a preference for the colour green over blue. But mainly I just like it when England lose at something - especially to the Irish.

They've not done anything to deserve my vitriol. Okay, they didn't exactly behave particularly well towards the Irish in the 18th Century - or various points since; they could have probably conducted themselves better to put it mildly. But mass evictions, national persecution and a decidedly cruel stance during famines aside - they've never done anything to me personally.

But here I am, grinning like a loon. All because I watched England take an unassailable lead in a cricket match - only to have it assailed by a courageous bunch of amateurs in green. As I watched Ed Joyce - the man who had been Irish, only for the English to poach him, only to become Irish again when the Englanders grew bored of him, rack up 32 runs I smiled. As I watched Kevin O'Brien score the fastest century in World Cup history (113 off 63 balls; he hit the 100 mark on his 50th delivery) I positively beamed; and when John Mooney smashed the ball for four to win the match with five balls to spare I was delirious. And I don't even like cricket that much.

Forgive me my unjustifiable prejudices. I accept I have them and shouldn't - but I just don't get to air them very often.

writing takes time... and preparation... and time

2011-02-25T10:41:00.001-08:00

I started back at fiction writing today. It's been ages and I needed to get back into the way of it. It's not that I have anything pressing to write about - I am lacking inspiration as much today as I was in dry mode yesterday.

When I was teaching more regularly I tended to set assignments that I wanted to do myself - that way I got to write a short story "as an example piece." I feel I may have mentioned that before one time - See how lacking originality I am right now? Rehashing earlier posts.

Anyway, for a short time there I forgot just how much I love the whole writing thing and it's about time I got back to doing what I love - even if I do churn out a lot of old dross warming up.

When I say "started" writing - of course you know I mean I took out an old notebook, ruled a few margins, covered it in vinegar and brown paper, reinforced the corners and the spine, gave it a splash proof second covering, stuck a few blank post-its in random pages, re-ruled a few of the margins... you knew that though. As soon as I find a suitable pen I'll begin.

noddy's post

2011-02-21T06:22:00.001-08:00

Have you ever seen anything so out of place in its surroundings, in current society, in rational thinking, that you just have to know its back story?

Who is Noddy? Why has he a telegraph pole dedicated to him? Why is it in the middle of nowhere? Just what kind of person climbs a wooden pole to hammer a random sign to it? And why has it been there for so long without someone removing it or defacing it or firing an air rifle at it?

Actually, you know what? I don't want to know the back story. It would inevitably be a disappointment compared with what's going on in my imagination.

who turned off the lights?

2011-02-19T11:07:00.000-08:00

I discovered this entry that I had written out on paper but never published. For the sake of completeness I am adding it - but I can't remember when I wrote it. I do remember the incident and given that I last worked in that school about a year ago I'm going to suggest it was sometime in March 2010 - but I can't be sure. I give you 'Who turned off the lights!?!"

"Sir. That was you turned the lights out, wasn't it?"

This morning in Junior assemby we had a lovely rendition of "I'm Special" by the year 8 choir. They're a surprisingly numerous bunch who regularly serenade us with popular worship songs in the Assembly Hall.

The Headmaster had just warned the pupils that their full attention was required, that they could only appreciate the experience fully that way.
The choir finished the first verse, the accompaniest played the bridge, the angelic voices lauched with gusto into verse two, and every eye was trained on them.
Suddenly
BAM!
The lights went out. Pitch black darkness all around.

The music continued hesitantly but the singers were struggling to read the words in their hymn books and as our eyes became accustomed to the dark it became apparent that every eye was not trained on the choir anymore - they were trained on me - and my elbow.

In my defense I need to point out that I only wanted to lean against the wall for a second. I didn't know the light switch was there - and it's an easy mistake to make. Something in the headmaster's eyes told me he didn't agree.

but what is it?

2011-02-11T10:14:00.000-08:00

Facebook's a funny thing, isn't it? In five years it's gained 600 million users, been involved in several court cases, become the subject of an Academy Award nominated movie, and filled many a page of the Daily Mail. I have a facebook account, most people I know do - not many of them use it very often, but they have one. But it's an odd thing, isn't it.

Take today for example. I have a little over a hundred Facebook friends. In the past hour three of them have updated their status message - and each showed up in my news feed - look at all this jargon! I'm down with Zuckerburgspeak!
This is what my friends had to say on Facebook today.

1. Stop calling Bisto "proper gravy". It's not.

2. woo woo! going to the pub. It's FRIIDAY!!! (sic)

3. i am one of the proudest Egyptians that are filling every inch of Cairo & all of Egypt right now celebrating their freedom for the first time! I love you all and i thank everyone that believed in the revolution and supported me throughout my life.

So based on those what would you suggest Facebook is for? Observational comment? Long winded ways of saying TFIFriday? Orchestrating political revolutions? I really want to know.

Because it better be something worthwhile. From what I see it, and twitter, and the rest, have stiffled creativity more than created it. For every piece of original thinking there are three hundred inanities. And any piece of original thinking is quickly copied and pasted so copiously that it soon loses all sense of originality. For every reuniting of lost friends there are thirty other friends sitting neglected in some list on the left hand side of your screen. For every meaningful connection there is a flurry of one click pokes - what do they mean?

Recently I was seeing someone I didn't know a huge amount about. Facebook became a handy stalking device to find out a bit of background knowledge on her - see if we had any mutual friends, see if any of our friends had mutual friends. I would have felt worse about it if I didn't know she was doing exactly the same thing on me. It was useful. It was handy. It took all the joy out of learning about each other in an organic (slow) manner.

People with something to say used to develop it in blogs all those, oh two, three, years ago. I used to read amazing opinions and conversations and expositions over the course of a five or six paragraph essay, followed by pertinent and sometimes conflicting comments from interested readers. Now we are so busy squeezing it into single paragraphs (or Twitter's 140 characters) that we've lost something very important. "But it's a skill - being concise." Yes it is - but it's a skill not many people have apparently. And it's also a skill being complete - and I miss those days. I want to get in contact with all those bloggers I respected so much who have since disappeared. I want to get them to come back. I want to read their thoughts - not their thoughts condensed into a "what are you thinking" paragraph.

As I started using Facebook I know I started to lose the attention needed to write blogs. My entries became less and less frequent to the point where I was writing one every few months. Does that make me a hypocrite - perhaps. But I blame Facebook for it.

So. What was my Facebook status update today? On this world changing day that will go down in Egypt's history forever? How did I sum up all that was important to me?

I just made my first authentic tagine - in an authentic tagine. And it wasn't poisonous. In fact it was really good. Now just need ten or fifteen people for the leftovers - may have got the quantities a bit wrong.

The people of North Africa will be so proud of me.

soup wars - who'd have thought it

2011-02-07T07:23:00.000-08:00

I am so confused.

You may remember a rant I had a little over a year ago about the loss to our supermarket shelves of the famous Campbell's Soup tin. It seemed a strange decision to rebrand an iconic company with a less than iconic brand. A little further investigation (reading the BBC website) threw a little light on the situation but still didn't make a huge amount of sense to me. See if you can make something of it.

Basically a company over here bought the rights to make Campbell's Soup in the UK. A group called Premier foods (you may have heard of some of their licensed brands, Mr Kipling, Hovis, Birds, Oxo, Crosse & Blackwell, Angel Delight, SunPat, Sunblest, Smash, Lyod Grossman, Ambrosia, Bisto... etc etc etc.) They bought the rights to make the soup but not the rights to use the brand. So they make Campbell's Soup using the Campbell's Soup recipe, but can't call it Campbell's Soup - hence the rebrand to Bachelors Soup (or Erin Soup in Ireland.)

Still with me?

Meanwhile in the US they still have good old original Campbell's Soup, by the same recipe, in the same tins as they always had. They just can't sell it in the UK - well, not for another 5 years at least when Premier's exclusive license to make it in the UK runs out.

So why am I confused? Well, I've just been shopping and found a Campbell's logo at the end of aisle 30 along with an "introductory offer" It turns out that, while Bachelors have the license to make the tinned condensed soup, it doesn't cover instant or dried versions. So a company up in Leeds, Symingtons, have developed a dried version, got the ok from Campbell's, and have started selling cup soup, simmer soup and (rather confusingly) pasta & sauce and savoury rice. What makes me laugh about this is the remarkable similarity to existing products, (respectively) cup-a-soup, Express Soupfuls, Pasta n' Sauce, and Savoury rice - all made by... guess who. I'm just waiting to hear the annoucement that Campbells will be bringing out Campbell's Supa-Noodles.

So we now have Bachelors making a product that is intrinsically linked to Campbell's. Meanwhile Campbells are bringing out products that have always been best associated with Bachelors... Now can you understand my confusion.

I've just sent an email to Campbell's telling them to make sure they bring out a tinned soup as soon as the licensing allows. If you get a chance do the same and then wake me up in 5 years.

word of the day (part 7 in a 73 part series)

2011-01-18T03:06:00.000-08:00

Euphonics alt Phonaesthetics (‘yü-fǝ-nē) n. the study of inherent pleasantness or beauty (euphony) or unpleasantness (cacophony) of the sound of certain words and sentences. euphony n

Don't you love it when words actually work? When they look and sound the way they mean? People always comment on when it goes the other way - you know the stuff - Why is "abbreviation" such a long word? Why is the word "invisible" so prominent? Why is “infinitesimal” so much bigger than “big”? Why is “eternal” actually shorter than “momentary”? Why isn't "monosyllabic" monosyllabic? Why are there no other words that sound like homophone? Why isn't the word "phonic" spelt phonically? Shouldn't a "palindrome" be spelt the same backwards as it is forwards?

You've heard them all a thousand times before. So join with me in joy to celebrate Euphony - a word that does what it claims to for a change.

Friday the 14th - Or reasons why I'm single (part 3 of a 78 part series)

2011-01-15T07:57:00.000-08:00

I will begin this post by pointing out that I actually don't believe in luck. I honestly don't. Sometimes I tell someone I've been unlucky, or sometimes I wish someone good luck - but when it comes down to it I believe things happen for reasons known or unknown. Life can be easy or sometimes life can cruel - but never lucky or unlucky.
Even if I did believe in luck I was under the impression that Friday 13th was supposed to be the unlucky one.

But let me tell you about Friday the 14th.

It is the most horrendous day ever conceived.

On Friday the 14th January 2011 I...

a) got caught speeding less than a mile away from home. I had been meeting up with some friends from a previous school and was on my way back when a speed camera in a white van caught me doing 50mph in the 40mph zone. I wasn't in a rush to get anywhere - I'm not a fast driver normally - I have no idea what happened or why I was speeding - I just was. Just a day earlier I had been giving my girlfriend a lot of stick about the fact that she had just been caught speeding. I boasted about how I've never had any penalty points on my license and how I don't speed. I guess that's what they call divine retribution.

b) got a lovely letter from the Inland Revenue informing me that they would be looking over my tax and income details with a view to me paying more tax. I don't make any money! How can I owe more tax?!

c) got another lovely letter from the Inland Revenue (a different department though) asking for nearly £200 of National Insurance I owe them because I didn't tell them that, because I don't earn over a certain level, I am exempt from paying the extra NI contributions. Technically I am exempt from the extra charges - but I needed to tell them that. And I didn't. So could I just send them a cheque and make everyone happy.

d) Found out that my girlfriend's ex had turned up on her door that morning at some unearthly hour declaring his devotion for her and showing himself full of remorse that he hadn't known just how ready he was to commit to her after all. Oh what a fool he'd been not to see that they were meant for each other.
Oh what a fool I looked as she decided she needed to give him another chance and waved me goodbye.

I hate Friday the 14th. Money issues I can deal with - well to an extent. The speeding thing is a set back - but I'll survive. But I took the whole being dumped thing quite badly. As any of my friends will tell you.
I suppose I just thought that, for once in my life, I'd actually found the one. She seemed perfect - not that she was perfect, just that she was perfect for me; meaning that her imperfections fitted mine in a good way. If you know what I mean.
A day earlier I been getting cold feet. My commitment-phobia started to kick in. But I pulled myself together and realised - much like her ex - that actually I could see a future with her - and it looked good. Unlike her ex though I am incapable of the big romantic gesture - and unlike her ex, she didn't choose me.

So I'm back to being single again. And this time I'm blaming Friday 14th.

that's some good parking

2010-12-03T14:45:00.000-08:00

my momma told me there'll be days like this

2010-09-16T12:02:00.000-07:00

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...

2010-07-15T08:56:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-24T09:34:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-07T15:16:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-17T08:40:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-14T12:19:00.000-07:00

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)

2010-05-04T12:02:00.000-07:00

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)

2010-04-28T15:15:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-20T11:22:00.000-07:00

“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

2010-03-19T09:55:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-12T10:33:00.000-08:00

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

2010-03-04T11:54:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-27T12:58:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-10T12:03:00.000-08:00

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?

2010-02-09T11:30:00.000-08:00

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)

2010-02-07T11:16:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-28T14:04:00.000-08:00

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

clarkson school of meterology

2010-01-18T14:04:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-16T12:46:00.000-08:00

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....?

2010-01-15T12:53:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-11T11:51:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-08T11:16:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-01T11:03:00.000-08:00

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!

This cannot be allowed to happen.

2009-12-16T10:13:00.000-08:00

It's a disgrace. I want you to write to your MP, your MEP, your MLA, your congressman... whatever applies. We need to organise rallies, petitions, non violent civil disobedience immediately. This is just wrong and someone needs to do something about it - it's time to make a stand.

Could someone tell me why anybody out there would possibly think it was a good idea to change the name of Campbell's Soup to Bachelor's.

Bachelor's!

Bachelor's make Super Noodles; they make Cup-a-Soup; Pasta Sauce... they do not make canned soup. There are iconic brands out there. Think of biscuits and you think McVities; think cereals and you think Kelloggs; think ketchup - Heinz; think of tinned soup... who did you think of? Bachelors? A brand being iconic doesn't make it the best; but it makes it iconic. I'm not suggesting that the soup will be any different taste-wise. But it won't be Campbell's.

Did Andy Warhol make a print of Cup-a-Soup? Would a pop art image of a supper noodle wrapper be as striking, as iconic as the tin of Campbell's Soup?

So I think you'll agree that changes (back) need to be made - as a matter of urgency. Do we really want a future where real food succumbs to the might of the army of dried food. I'll leave it in your hands.

The Mr C retreats to his cocoon to reappear months later as... Mr C

2009-12-15T09:45:00.000-08:00

Where has he been? Months have gone by and this blog has remained mute.

I wish I could say that there has simply been nothing to write about - but truth be told quite a lot has happened personally, locally and internationally since I last put finger to keyboard. The world has been awash with educational, environmental, and ego-centrical happenings. Teachers have been suspended for slipping some of their own rather personal video footage into class presentations, teachers in Ireland have been faced with rather stiff pay cuts to help bail out the rest of society, politicians have been wallowing in mires of expense account funded self pity, some have managed to take their minds of it for a little trip to Copenhagen to discuss how we're all doomed. A lot has happened - and I have remained silent.

Well, no more.

I have returned to add a few more pennyworths. Obviously the two people who read my blog have long since lost interest and have moved on to reading worries of a haberdasher .com or something of a similar elk and I will have to try and appeal to a whole new set of readers.

Maybe I should take this opportunity to change the focus of this blog. I could write about anything I wanted. What would appeal to the masses? Maybe I could write about reality TV - I could dedicate this blog to the X-factor... except it has come to a conclusion and I am proud to say that I didn't watch a minute of the coverage - why bother when the papers tell you all the best bits anyway.

I could write about gardening. Except for the fact that my greatest achievements in that field have been to kill off practically invincible plants. When plants and shrubs picture me they see me in a hooded cloak carrying a scythe.

No - I will do what i do best and write about what I should write about. Why change the habit of a lifetime? (or at least the three or four years I've been blogging anyway.) If anyone has contact details for my readers could you give them both a call and let them know I've updated.

Thanks.

word of the day (part 4 in a 73 part series)

2009-10-14T10:56:00.000-07:00

serendipitously seren·dipi·tous·ly (sēr’ən-dīp’ī-t-əs-lē) adv. lucky in making unexpected and fortunate discoveries, having or bringing good fortune; The word comes from the term serendipity, a noun to cover the faculty of making fortunate discoveries by accident, the fact or occurrence of such discoveries or an instance of making such a discovery.

Another word that made me smile. I just love the sound of it. Did you know that the word Serendipity was formed from an old word meaning Sri Lanka, Serendip? The English author Horace Walpole used it in a letter in 1754. It was part of the title of "a silly fairy tale, called The Three Princes of Serendip: as their highnesses traveled, they were always making discoveries, by accidents and sagacity, of things which they were not in quest of."

Someone should have pointed out to him the perils of ending a sentence with a preposition

and just like that - phsssh - it's gone

2009-09-02T08:18:00.000-07:00

Summers seem so tender, with weightless afts spent watching waves
Caress the beach and gentle breeze make aspens sway.
Summers seem so life eternal, so everlasting;
Till back in room K2,
With pen in hand,
They seem to last but just one day.

Every year I say it – and every year it seems a little truer – but summers get shorter all the time. I remember the summers of my youth. Lifetimes they were! We did everything it was possible to do on this earth back then – and had time to spare.

Glorious they were. Walking through the country roads to friends' farms – jumping from great towers of hay bales, landing on a pile of loose hay on the ground twenty feet below. Spending days by streams, below bridges, racing tiny speedboats made from broken twigs or leaves. Eating berries from the hedges as we went. Planning great bicycle journeys that would open our minds and broaden our horizons and make us men. Summers back then were real summers. At least in my slightly rose tinted memory they were.

Now summers are solely a time to recharge. They have ceased to exist as entities in their own right and now I look on them only as a break in the school calendar. How I long for the time I used to see school as something which existed simply to separate the holidays. This year it felt like it was already August by the time I had locked my classroom door at the end of term. July just sort of disappeared. And August was over in the blink of an eye. If you were to ask me how I spent it I would um and ah for a while, look around the room for inspiration, clear my throat and say, “Did I ever tell you about the times we used to jump off bales of hay and play pooh sticks at the bridge…”

So here I am, at my desk, about to see my form class for the first time in six weeks that that have gone by like six minutes - like a train that has forgotten to stop at the station.

Truth be told it’s good to be back. Back to the grindstone, routines, challenges… etc etc. Don’t tell my pupils but I miss them when I’m away from work. It’s not a dislike of teaching that makes me long for the heady days of my youth. I wouldn’t want to lose the joys that exist from September to June. I just want my Julys and Augusts back. Please.

a selfish moment

2009-08-26T12:18:00.000-07:00

Allow me a spot of self indulgence if you would. Excuse the unapologetically selfish tone of this entry – and pardon me if I offend. But I am royally annoyed today.

I teach a lot of pupils. Hundreds of the little blighters. And every one of them is unique – for better or for worse. In an average class of about thirty children I will have about thirty personalities, about thirty different ability levels, about thirty different learning styles. And I do my best for each and every one of them. But sometimes you have favourites. The ones who will brighten your day by popping a piece of work in front of you that will make the day a good one. I may have to look a bit harder to find them this year.

I’m happy for them – really I am. It’s in their best educational interests I’m sure – they will benefit greatly. It’s just I can’t help feeling a bit…

Today I learned that my year 10 class will be four pupils smaller than it was last year. Actually that’s not true – I have lost four pupils but they will be replaced by others so it won’t be any smaller – it just feels like it will.
My four best students have been headhunted.

Last year I really struggled with that class. They were hard work, there were times I was pulling out my hair in handfuls and I nearly always had to have a sit down to recover after the lesson – but we got there. Better than that we actually did pretty well. Four girls in particular did extremely well.
Over the summer another school contacted their parents and offered them places there. A grammar school. Of course the parents jumped at the opportunity – I would probably have done the same.

But the underhandedness of the whole thing makes me feel a bit uneasy. Usually where this happens it’s because the existing school recommended the move and arranged it with the other school. In this instance the new school found they were slightly undersubscribed for year 10 - obtained the pupils’ grades, contacted and arranged the move before we knew anything about it. In footballing terms it’s called ‘tapping up’ and it leads to things like Chelsea being banned from the next three transfer windows.

I don’t blame the parents or the pupils. In their situation I would find it hard to do any different. There is an argument that they have clearly thrived in our school so there is a risk that the change might not be completely advantageous, that their progress may actually not be as good in a different setup – but honestly I think these particular pupils have the ability to do extremely well in the grammar school.
I am, however, far from happy with the other school. It’s not even in the same town as us. Could they not have carried out their little cream skimming exercise closer to their own backyard?

I’ll miss them dreadfully. In a class of thirty pupils they stood out. They enjoyed English class and I loved reading what they would come up with

I know I should be happy for my ex pupils; be proud even that I played a part in their advancement. But right now I feel a little dejected. Yes they will go on to do well. And all the credit for their success will go to their new English teacher and all that hard work I put in won’t be given a thought. Instead I get to struggle with the rest of the class without the benefit of those occasional moments of inspired writing.
Hey, even teachers are allowed to be self absorbed and selfish sometimes.

a quiet as a church mouse

2009-08-25T11:55:00.000-07:00

School with no pupils. It’s a strange, wonderful place. The corridors are empty, there are no PE bags hanging in the cloakrooms. Everything is eerily quiet.

In Church we have it drummed into us that a Church is not a building – that it is a collective of people meeting in God’s name.

Well a school is not a building either – and it’s not a work place (although it certainly feels that way usually) – it’s a group of people meeting to learn. The building, and the teachers, are just there to facilitate that learning.
Across the country teachers are returning to their classrooms a week before their pupils. They are preparing for the year ahead, doing a spot of classroom decoration, discussing action and development plans, deciding focuses for PRSD, welcoming new members of staff, enduring INSET…

This is a strange strange place when it’s quiet. It feels somehow wrong. Something’s missing. Without the pupils it has a dormant feel – an empty, hollow, shell of a building. A church without people is just a building – but it can be one impressive building; architecturally, aesthetically. An old empty church building has to be the single most emotive space possible . A school without pupils is just a collection of empty rooms and corridors – and I love it.

as fast as a speeding bullet

2009-08-21T05:43:00.000-07:00

Doesn't life move quickly these days? Sometimes it feels like we are so obsessed with getting things done that we have forgotten how to enjoy doing them. Sometimes, I think our modern living blinkers are masking the glorious technicolour world around us.

I'm on a train at the moment - doing a train journey I haven't done since I was a very young child. The route takes us through some beautiful countryside, beside the mouth of the mighty Bann, along the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, under Mussenden Temple and past Downhill beach to the point where the shores of Lough Foyle become the banks of the River Foyle. It is a particularly beautiful journey. Not that anyone seems to notice.

I'm surrounded by people on laptops studying spreadsheets and filling out reports; all around me people are on the phone to their office, to their husbands, to their friend Pat who moved away ten years ago to marry an english man and so doesn't know the tragic events in Stranocum this week or the trouble anticipated at the band parade in Rasharkin tonight.

I don't blame them. The pace of life orders that we see journeys, not as events, but as wasted time. Time that technology can harness and make useful. It makes me yearn for the time when people used to dress up for a flight in a plane, a time when whole families would get on the train and head for the sea. Days when the journey was part of the experience - not an inconvenient means to the end.

So, as we pass through God's beautiful creation, I smile wryly at all those around me who seem oblivious to it... And I spend the journey typing a blog about it on my Blackberry.

fill yer boots

2009-08-18T12:45:00.000-07:00

Only in Ballymoney could you come upon a pair of boots filled with rubbish sitting on the pavement and only be surprised at the utter lack of interest from everyone who passed by them.

I've just been to Derry where I saw a drunk woman lying flat on her back swearing at unseen companions receive similar apathy. I've walked the streets of Dublin and London and Toronto and a few places where I've seen amazing sculptures receive similar interest from passers by...

But only in Ballymoney would you see this.

shoplifters amnesty

2009-08-01T14:26:00.000-07:00

Now I should probably preface this entry by saying that I am not a shoplifter. I can’t say I have never ever shoplifted, but as far as I know the last thing I tried to slip off a shop shelf and into my pocket was a four colour bic pen from Mini’s when I was twelve – I got caught and ended up paying anyway. I am not a shop lifter because it’s illegal, it offends my middle class sensibilities, it goes against my moral upbringing and because I’m not very good at it.

That being said I want to tell you about a new collection I’m starting. Above you will see the first two parts of it. Two security tags from the same national supermarket chain. One came on a pair of trousers (and before you raise eyebrows I promise they were fair trade) bought in the Ballymoney branch and the second came inside the box of a cheap computer keyboard (the very one I’m using right now) from their Ballymena branch.

Much as I dislike the idea that I have inadvertently taken them there’s something marvellously ironic about stealing a security tag. It’s bad enough that the checkout staff forget to remove the tags when scanning them through – but its another thing altogether that the tags clearly didn’t actually do their job. Now I could tell you that I used magnetic cloaking devices, a black jump suit, infra red goggles, laser revealing smoke canisters, ropes, pullies and acrobatic skill to evade the alarms at the door – but actually I, um, walked out through them. It doesn’t fill you with confidence, does it?

So If I can collect two of these in the space of a week from one chain I reckon I should be able to pick up a sizeable collection over time. Unless I can think of some way to return them without looking like a particularly brazen shoplifter.

Be in no doubt

2009-07-12T06:15:00.000-07:00

Doubt thou the stars are fire!
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.

Hamlet: Act 2, Scene 2

300 and it I feel every one of them

2009-07-11T14:39:00.000-07:00

My three hundredth post. And is it just me or is it getting harder to wrote these things? I really struggle to think of anything to say these days. On top of that it feels to me as if there just isn’t enough time in the day to do anything much? Is that just me too or is someone sneaking a few minutes out of each 24 hours?

So please forgive me if this 300th post is also one of the shortest – I just have nothing to say.

the greatest ever

2009-07-05T07:10:00.000-07:00

The Wimbledon Tennis Championships have always been special for me. I love tennis, always have done since I used to batter a ball against the wall in a strange tennis-squash hybrid as a child. It is the one interest I shared with both my parents. I won't go on about it - I'd only be repeating myself - but, for me, Wimbledon holds a fascination. I am typing this at around 5 words a minute during the pauses between points in the 2009 mens final between Roger Federer and Andy Roddick. It looks like being another good one - but it will surely not compare to last year.

I watched the epic battle between Federer and Nadal along with my Mother in her room. By this point she was spending the vast majority of her time in bed and I knew in my heart of hearts that this would be the last time I would watch a tennis match with her. It seems a strange thing to say but I remember praying that it would be a good one for her.

And it was.

If you watched it then you remember how special it was. At nearly five hours it was the longest final in history. Five hours of high tempo, high quality tennis. High drama throughout. Rafael Nadal took a quick lead. At two sets up and with three break points on Federer's serve in the seventh game of the third set it looked like it was all over and Nadal was about to lift the trophy. Federer, often seen as invincible on grass, seemed deflated - but Federer managed to hold and went on to win the set on a tie break.

Then the comeback began.

The fourth set had the most amazing tie break I have ever watched. It didn't go as far as the McEnroe-Borg tie break in the 1980 final which ended 18-16 but the way this one swung and turned made it compelling.

At one point Federer was 5-2 down. He pulled it back to 6-6. Nadal took the next to set up championship point. Federer pulled back. Nadal won another point and set up another championship point. Again Federer pulled back with an amazing shot and won the set.

The final set was a nerve jangling affair with both players completely commited and focused on winning the match. It took sixteen more games to separate these two great rivals. In the end Nadal triumphed. The two men were exhausted - and strangely so was I.

Throughout the match I sat on the edge of my mother's bed. Occasionally she slipped off to sleep during the match. When her eyes would open I would tell what had happened, and she would smile. At the end of the match, despite the fact that we were both rooting for Federer throughout, she had a huge smile on her face and I made a silent prayer asking for Mssrs Nadal and Federer to be blessed. They had put on an amazing show just for her - and she had lived to see the greatest Wimbledon final in history.

So now as I watch the 2009 men's final alone it's a strange moment for me. Again it has gone for five sets. Federer is struggling a little and I am urging him to win - but not to make it better than last year.

that end of term feeling

2009-06-30T13:08:00.000-07:00

I always struggle at this time of year. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy it - I just find it difficult.

No one feels like doing any work - the holidays are mere days away. Half the class are already taking an early vacation and the course has been covered. The kids that are still here have just been watching DVDs all day and crave mental stimulation -- time for Mr C's 20 things you can do with scrabble.

Number 20 in 2o things you can do with scrabble is actually play scrabble itself. I leave it until last because it's always a little depressing when the teacher gets beaten by a twelve year old.

its marching season in london

2009-06-29T13:14:00.000-07:00

I was covering an English class today. The pupils had been reading Buddy by Nigel Hinton.

It's a story about a boy who blames himself when his mother leaves home. His dad starts getting into trouble and things go from bad to worse.

Despite being pretty much a staple text wherever I've taught I've never managed to teach a class long enough to cover it from start to finish.

I'm not even sure where it's set. I just assumed London.

Anyway the class were drawing images from the novel. One particular pupil drew the house on Croxley Street where the action happens. Clearly wherever the book is set, judging by the painted kerbs, it's a loyalist area.

rainbows and sunsets

2009-06-24T14:36:00.000-07:00

Kylie over at eclectrica writes about her stalker rainbows, how she felt they were there for her personal enjoyment. I feel the same about my sunsets. Every one of them unique, every one of them beautiful. Every one of them there just for me.

There's something about the awesome power of creation to blow our minds that... um... blows my mind. When I see the ugly sides of the human condition I often notice the vastness, complexity and beauty of the world around me and it never ceases to amaze me.

sectarianism to racism in three easy steps

2009-06-21T06:12:00.000-07:00

I have rarely felt such extremes in my pride/shame of being Northern Irish as I have done in the past few days. In the space of a few hours I have felt horror that overt racism has become reared its ugly head in my province, relief that it was immediately condemned roundly by large numbers of press and public alike, then shame when the backlash happened and a series of bitter voices were heard on radio phone ins and news reports claiming that “they should go back where they came from”, “coming here and taking our benefits”, “they shouldn’t be here, that’s all I have to say on the matter,” “stealing our jobs while our own teenagers are struggling to find anything to do.”

For those who don’t watch Northern Irish news I should offer a quick spot of exposition. Last week over one hundred Romanian nationals fled their homes in Belfast after being attacked and intimidated by locals. The particular area of Belfast is known as the village. It’s a working class loyalist area popular with migrants attracted by the cheap housing. Racist incidents have been occurring there for years but this particular episode and some other high profile attacks have brought it to the national media attention.

And this one has had more of an impact on me than any that came before. While the petty squabbling and small minded ranting was going on in the big city, far from me and those I know, I was able to pretend I couldn’t hear it – persuade myself that I was living in a much more tolerant society than we had seen before. But this time it’s bit a lot closer to the bone – I know one of the Romanians involved, and I am terrified for her.

This particular girl is an ethnic Roma – a group that have been persecuted throughout Europe, and beyond. She is no stranger to abuse. I don’t think I’ve come face to face with anyone who has put up with as many hardships as she has in her life, and come up smiling again and again. So the fact that the collective nerve of her community has snapped and they are so scared they feel they have to sleep on a Church floor for safety… well, it takes a lot for that to happen.

I was speaking to her only a day before this all happened. She was in good spirits, as usual. She was always very positive about her situation and thankful to the “friendly” locals who had helped her settle in. I was always surprised by her attitude. I have been with her when people have ignored her, glared at her, hurled insults at her from across the street. I’ve seen it – and yet she didn’t seem to. She seemed to take it all as some of the challenges we face in this life that lead to blessings in the next. Her faith leads her to believe that anything that happens now is only temporary and as such can be endured. But more than that – she believes that through suffering come opportunities for blessing. She talks occasionally of times when the Police have stopped her when she was selling papers on the street to check her credentials. She smiles as she recalls the members of the public – strangers – who came to her side to make sure she was alright and accuse the officers of harassing her. This unexpected support, though rare, has more effect than a thousand dirty stares.

But I still cannot understand the anger people feel towards her. There is a lot of dangerous ignorance shading the public perception of this girl and her community. Far from “stealing our benefits,” this girl works two jobs to help support her family – neither of which the locals would belittle themselves doing. She lives in a grossly overcrowded house with no housing benefit. She wears clothes that she bought in a charity shop while standing in the rain earning money to pay for her baby sister’s shoes. She gets no benefits. It is a horrible irony that most of the people complaining about these immigrants actually receive far more government aid than the people they are complaining about. In fact, through the work they do and the rent they pay a lot of Roma contribute more to society than a lot of their neighbours.

A few weeks ago in Church the minister preached on Matthew 6:

Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? … Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; and yet I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these… But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.

And my mind turned towards my friend. Her faith is sufficient for her. So sure is she that God will provide that she can ignore the madness going on around her. She makes do with the little she receives, safe in the knowledge that she will enjoy riches in heaven. And in that way I find her inspirational. She is happy with enough. How many of us can truly say the same. We are actively ordered not to worry – we are told here and in other passages that what we need will be provided and that what we want isn’t always what we need. I always took that with the qualification that, obviously, God wanted me to have what I wanted and that a little excess was part of the deal – everyone needs a bit of luxury in their lives, no? As the minister pointed out that Sunday how many times have we opened the fridge door, looked in at the shelves full of food and said “there’s nothing here to eat.” switched on the TV, flicked through the hundreds of channels, and said “there’s nothing on.” Looked in our wardrobes (bulging with clothes) and said “I have nothing to wear.” Excess has become complacency has become vulgar dissatisfaction. That isn’t a problem those Romanians have.

And though my friend showed little worry herself – I feel worry for her now. I don’t know where she is now. I have no idea whether she will remain in this country or leave for somewhere less threatening. Part of me wants them to go somewhere they can be safe – but I would hate for the racists to achieve their goal. Some reports have branded Belfast the race hate capital of Europe. That is a horrendous reputation to have – and actually far from accurate - but I can understand why people would say it.
I work in a school where in several hundred pupils there are no black kids, no eastern Europeans, no Hispanics. The cultural diversity is made up of about four Asians and a white American. It has been a similar story wherever I have taught. These kids have never faced other cultures; the closest they ever came was meeting people of a different religious denomination – and look how that turned out. When I asked my pupils their opinion of the Romanians I was literally shocked by some of the comments they came out with.

As I type this two teenagers are facing court, charged with ‘provocation likely to cause a breach of the peace’ and intimidation. They have admitted to involvement but claim it was the first time they have ever done anything like it. If found guilty it will be a small victory for sanity – but will it do anything to change the opinions of those (including many of my pupils) who still believe that immigrants are stealing our homes, our jobs and our society. The court case will do nothing to remove the fear, the paranoia, the ignorance that led to decades of sectarianism in our country and now threatens to manifest itself as racism.

Update (tues 23 June): This morning I heard that the majority of the Roma have decided to leave. Twenty five have already left; seventy five would be leaving asap. Fourteen have decided to stay. I am happy for them and I hope they find peace somewhere. I am sad for our society. We have a long way to go before our Christian actions reflect our Christian preaching
The Church where the Romanians sought sanctuary initially has been vandalised (three twenty year olds have been arrested for that attack) and several people (many teens) have been arrested on race related charges.

I now see a reason to like twitter

2009-06-20T07:30:00.000-07:00

A Daily Mail poll which recorded 93 per cent of respondents as in favour of gypsies ‘jumping the NHS queue’ appears to have been removed from its website.
The vote, which yesterday provoked a Twitter campaign urging people to back the rights of gypsies in access to healthcare, was a huge embarrassment for the right-wing paper.

Anything which embarrasses Richard Littlejohn can't be a bad thing. After all he's been embarrassing the country with his small minded little britain mentality for years.

In his article Richard Littlejohn complained that the ’diversity' industry was taking “sadistic pleasure in persecuting the taxpaying majority”.

Littlejohn complained that “gipsies will be allocated a full 20 minutes with a doctor and allowed to bring their extended family into the waiting room”.
In the article he repeatedly ridiculed travellers who face limited opportunities right across Europe, in work, education and with regard to their health needs.
“One of the most striking aspects of the 'mobile community'” he said “is that they tend not to go anywhere - except flying to Florida on holiday twice a year”.

It pains me to think that there are people out there who agree with this man - but it joys me to see that there are a whole lot more who don't.

I still think microblogging is a flash fad which we won't remember a thing about this time next year - but thanks Twitter.

behind us the ocean

2009-06-19T03:47:00.000-07:00

I have been terribly remiss in not posting this a long time ago. As many of you are aware I am a huge fan of the poetry of Katia Grubisic. The fact that she is a dear, dear friend is a huge bonus but it doesn't alter the fact that I am blown away by her poetic voice.
This is, as far as I know, the second of her poems to be featured on the Canadian Parliamentary Poet Laureate's website - It's been there for about a year and I've been meaning to post a link to it for about a year, but my good-intention-paved-road is well worn. Anyway, read and enjoy.

Behind Us the Ocean
by Katia Grubisic

Imagine arms you never want to get out of; imagine
a road that rises up to meet you and knows
exactly where you’re set to

before it comes. At the start of the highway, behind us the cliff
and the ocean’s creeping furor,
we photographed the mile marker of atlassed places.

Cardiff or Liverpool? you asked. On the sign the mermaid
laughed and we could not help
but follow. Now I can smell you

coming back, the trace in the shirt I wrap around
each same wavering time of night.
Is it a ploy to keep me

going? Meanwhile we never visited the local saint;
he still waits in his cave to slap us upside the head, wise
guy witness to my misplaced faith in a letter

posted from the mouth
of the river. I'll just put man in a car
possibly with troubled eyes, somewhere

between Cardiff and Liverpool. It is night I'll put
and they’ll find you. Would you believe
that, meticulously, fate would have someone else

at that junction, bizarrely suntanned arms
typing in the darkness? There is a typewriter
at the corner and I have been looking.

I can smell thunder beginning. You were there
when I dervished slow-mo in my wedding dress;
you saw me iridescent

like a street in the rain’s silence. Again the mermaid laughs;
we are drowning in it, her upside-down peals of lightning
and thunder that pass, but only diffusely,

into a misspelled late-nite coffee shop someplace
in the southwest. Where for?
Make your car comfortable, I say, take another

notion. Outside it is written
bikers welcome. Nope, we’re here
for the diffusion. I wouldn't worry too much; I accept as true

all kinds of things I shouldn't, you say. When I leave
I take the still-white sheet from the typewriter,
with its carbon and square familiar letters;

I take it all. Off we wander
across our respective suspension bridge
sat opposite ends of the world. Light stabs

through. Our shadows together on the rock face
indicate we are with each other. We are trespassing.
We have not decided for certain. Will we

recognise ourselves? Wear a fake yellow rose,
a mink stole. I will know you. The letters blow off, catch fire
on the way and one more time

the mermaid laughs. The storm has started, I type.
Possibly stormless, I put; in need of wrack
and calm, and you’ll be found. It has started. Enjoy your storm.

________________________________________
© Katia Grubisic.

what do you see?

2009-06-16T05:56:00.000-07:00

What do you see when you look at this photo? A car? A particularly clean and shiny car that has been meticulously polished? A car so clean that even the tyres sparkle?

What do I see when I look at this photo? And what do I see when I look at my alphabetised DVDs, and my colour coded post-it stocks, and my overly sharpened pencils?
What do I see?
I see that I have a huge pile of exams papers to mark, of grades to collate, of reports to write; and the king of procrastination is sitting on his throne.

someone shut him up!

2009-06-12T06:41:00.000-07:00

Is there anyone out there who likes hearing their own voice. Stupid question really - I know about fifty teenagers who seem to love nothing more than the sound of their own voices - but you know what I mean. How do you feel when you listen to your own voice mail message, or hear a recording of a speech or reading that you performed? I have a feeling that I am not alone when I say that I hate hearing the nasal mumble that comes from my mouth. It bears no resemblance to the voice in my head. The voice in my head is clear, coherent and free of any accent or blemish. The voice in my head is that of an orator, a confident leader of men... I hate the sound of my voice.

So it is with sad resignation that I report my discovery that it is not just the sound of my spoken voice that makes me cringe - my written voice is just as bad.

On two separate occasions comments I made in this blog have found themselves in the Guardian. Firstly some lines I wrote about Steve Irwin were quoted in their print edition the day after his death back in 2006. Then, a few days ago I became "Fellow 'tweechers' have responded angrily..." and "But one teacher-blogger counters..." in an article written by Jackie Kemp for the education section of their online edition, guardian.co.uk. The article 'Teachers banned from Twitter after indiscreet tweet - Council imposes ban after teacher's comments cause outrage in rural community' was about the teacher being investigated for using twitter during school hours in Scotland. I wrote an entry about it a couple of weeks ago.

As I read my quotes I was struck by a single thought - "I sound like a complete idiot." In my attempt to appear witty and clever I came across as anything but. As I read Kemp's article I felt my face turn red and I had a sudden desire to crawl into a corner and hide.

On the plus side she doesn't identify me (good for two reasons. a. Education chiefs won't track me down and put me in front of Joe McCarthy and the House Committee on Un-Educational Activities. and b. No one would attribute the crazed comments to me... well, until I drew your attention to them anyway) and she corrected my lack of commas - thanks Jackie.

one of the joys of a rural school

2009-06-10T10:03:00.000-07:00

The school car park during the exams -- in my day a battered up 1979 chevette was enough to get you respect. Now it seems nothing more than tractor will do.

But what confuses me is the New Holland with the silage trailer on the back. Did they take a break to pop in and do a quick GCSE or two before getting back to carting silage? Surely they wouldn't have time...

mr C does math -- badly

2009-05-27T23:19:00.000-07:00

I was going through my file today and I stumbled on something that I had been working on whilst subbing maths in a local grammar school. While I was there I was inspired to break out of the little box that constrains me, that stamps the label ‘literary arts and humanities’ on my forehead. I wanted to do something that would shatter the boundaries of perceived consciousness forever. I wanted to be the first English teacher to discover a modern mathematical law.

For too long we have been told that there are those who are good at creative tasks, those who are good with their hands, those who are good at seeing the big picture, those who are good at problem solving, those who are good with people, those who are good with shapes, those who are good with numbers, those who are good with words, those who are good with money, those who are good at spending money. Can we not shave off harsh corners and become more rounded individuals? Can a mathematician not write a sonnet? Can an artist not paint a scientific truth? A sociologist not gaze in wonder at a rock formation? A Historian not appreciate the idiosyncratic features of a foreign language?
Can a writer not master calculus?

If Leonardo Devinci teaches us anything it’s that we can multiskill. A painter, a mathematician, an inventor, an anatomist, a sculptor, an engineer, a botanist, a technologist, a musician, a linguist, a scientist, an author… Now he would have made a damn fine substitute teacher.

So I set about creating a formula that would change the world – and possibly make carbon neutral space travel a reality. I sharpened my pencils, looked out my most accurate rulers, protractors, compasses… and began

So there we have it. Mr C’s law of… well, I don’t know what it’s a law of. I only said I’d come up with it – I didn’t mention actually suggesting what it does. However I did take a stab at explaining how it works for those who, like me, feel more comfortable in the realms of literary classics than mathematical genius

And for those who struggle with my infantile scribbling:

The quality of κ is not constrain’d,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from the hypothenuse
Upon the adjacent beneath. It is twice factored;
It factors the χ that adds and the ў that subtracts.
‘Tis greatest in the versin; it becomes
The triangle better than cosine;
His right angle shows the definite integral, 2α + κν;
It is enthroned in the hearts of trigonometric functions;
It is an attribute of Leibniz himself;
And mathematics pure doth then show likest Leibniz
When trigonometry doth season calculus. Therefore literaturalist,
Though poetical prose be your plea, consider this:
That in the course of geometry, none of us
Should see polynominals. We do pray for prime numbers
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render…
…The ratio of κ (to ½π²)

I thank you.

then they came for me; and there was no one left to tweet

2009-05-26T06:24:00.000-07:00

I have to thank Mike & Alex for drawing my attention to this article on the BBC website. I hadn't heard about it before and, once you've taken a scan through it you'll understand why I found it a bit unnerving.

To paraphrase viciously, a young teacher in Scotland is being investigated because it was discovered that she had been updating her twitter page with messages, some of which referred to her classes and pupils.

The secondary teacher in Argyll and Bute is understood to have posted up to 38 updates a day on the Twitter site. One said: "Had S3 period 6 for last two years...don't know who least wants to do anything, them or me."

'The fool!' I thought when first I read about her. 'Every teacher knows that you can't publish information about pupils without explicit parental permission. She must be stupid to do that.' Except as I read through some examples of what she had actually written it began to dawn on me that she wasn't actually posting anything more revealing than I have here.

"The thought of having some of my S4 beyond exam time doesn't bear thinking about - for them as well as me I suspect."

In fact I imagine I have occasionally been a lot less anonymous in my musings than she has. She doesn't mention pupils by name, her comments seem fairly generalised and focus more on her than on the pupils she is teaching. So what is her crime? It gets worse for her:

Argyll and Bute Council policy states that teachers may access professional blogs which have educational value but are not allowed to have their own blog. However, the teacher in question has a blog on which she said she had been too busy using Twitter to update it recently.

For those who, like me, have remained immune to the lure of the tweet let me explain. Twitter is just a way to deliver mundane details of your life to many friends at once. Through Twitter you can develop followers who regularly check up on your feed. It's basically a way to make your stalkers feel more involved. I care nothing for Twitter. But blogging...

"Teachers are not allowed to have their own blogs." Um.

So, unlike the teacher in question - I don't tweet (or whatever it is) - I don't really see the appeal. But like the teacher in question, I do have a blog. Like the teacher in question, I occasionally mention anecdotes from my life as a teacher online. Like the teacher in question, I have been known to express dissatisfaction in life. Up to this point I have never been told that I was not allowed to do so. It seems if I were working in Argyll and Bute I would be breaching official guidelines.

And quite honestly that is ridiculous.

Now clearly I haven't read everything that this teacher posted. I'll be first in line to point and make disapproving facial expressions at her if she has been commenting on identifiable pupils. I will shake my head slowly if it turns out she has been bringing her school and its good name into disrepute. But if it's simply the case that she has been uploading her thoughts and feelings in a pointless, if slightly narcissistic webby kind of a way then what is she doing that it so different from all the twitter users in other professions? Exactly how has what she was doing impacted on the educational wellbeing of pupils in the Argyll area? How was it having any impact on anything until someone thought it necessary to bring it to the attention of the press? Absolutely ridiculous.

But it has had an impact on me. And that might be a good thing. It's been a wake up call about the comments I make. I need to take a lot more care when talking about school. I need to put more effort into making my comments more general and less personalised. I need to increase anonymity on many levels.
This annoys me.
When you work in education you soon find that your life revolves around a constrictive regime. You become bound up in targets and paperwork to the point that sometimes you need to poke a hole through which to breathe. We spend so long living by someone's rules that the idea of finding a place of our own where we can express our own expressions, where we can breathe in air that hasn't been passed through a committee process and risk assessment survey first.

Am I worried about what is happening to that teacher in Argyll? Yes. I really am. I would hate to think that other education authorities would feel the need to follow suit. If the situation arose where I was told that I shouldn't keep a blog then TOASNT would be gone quicker than... well, quicker than it went when I accidentally hit the delete button last year. How I hope it doesn't come to that. But from now on, in any effort to avoid names I will no longer mention Dave - he will now be 'the Welsh Castle Sketcher', Mike and Alex will become 'London's Bushmills Residents', Kylie - you are now 'the Sporadic Antipodean', Karen 'Florida's vg Bridget Jones', and Brazen Teacher (as if that isn't anonymous enough) will henceforth become 'Another Teacher at risk of being put under investigation because it seems we can't be trusted to update blogs without passing out sensitive information and ruining the lives of all those around us.'

Council officials were investigating whether she had put sensitive information on public display and whether it was during work hours.

"Council policy states that teachers may access professional blogs which have educational value but are not allowed to have their own blog." Wouldn't you love to live in a place where public workers aren't allowed to express personal opinion? You now have the choice of China or Argyll it seems.

a convenient mist

2009-05-18T10:28:00.000-07:00

A ghostly image has been snapped at a museum prompting speculation that the spirit of the English scientist Edward Jenner could be haunting his former home. A photograph seems to have captured a hazy image of a man sitting on a chair in the attic of the Edward Jenner Museum in Berkeley, Gloucestershire.
-Huddersfield Examiner

I love a good story of things that go bump in the night. And this one has it all - good historical location, famous dead person, mysterious smokey apparition, cynical photographer who 'doesn't believe in ghosts' themselves but just can't explain what he's captured on film... Oh yes, all the ingredients.

Edward Jenner was a famous scientist who was resident in this particular house when he lived in Berkeley back in the 1700s. He is probably most famous as 'the father of immunology' and I remember being taught about him in school assemblies back when I was a wee lad (not in the 1700s) He pioneered a smallpox vaccine turning it from a fearsome disease which killed large numbers of people into an historical anomaly. If I remember correctly he noticed that milk maids didn't seem to get the disease as much as everyone else, then he reckoned it must have something to do with cows' udders. Instead of prescribing national milking service he deduced that the milkmaids were contracting a much less harmful strain of pox from the cows (cowpox) which was boosting their immunity to smallpox. And now, because of the humble milk maid and her cow-pox-pus oozing-blister-covered hands we no longer have smallpox. Genius.
If I am not mistaken Jenner was also the first person to note that when Cuckoos laid their eggs in other birds' nests, the newly hatched cuckoo chicks would push the rival eggs out of the nest. Something like that anyway.

"You can basically see through a doorway what looks like a figure reclining in a chair, only there is no chair there. Who knows whether it is Jenner himself?"

But back to the mysterious photo. It certainly looks the part, no? Unfortunately I remain unconvinced. I think perhaps I would be less sceptical if the photographer who took it wasn't in the process of taking publicity shots for the Museum's new 'Ghosts in the Attic' exhibition. A photo of a ghost in the attic when they're having a exhibition about ghosts in attics? It's all a little convenient, n'cest pas?

back to SNT

2009-05-15T08:14:00.000-07:00

It's been so long since I've done any special needs work for any length of time I've almost forgotten what it means. But a couple of hours covering a special needs class this morning showed me just how much I miss it. I absolutely loved every second. And let me tell you why:

1. Working in an atmosphere devoid of any subcurrent. So often I am on edge when I teach - always worried about saying or doing anything that can be misconstrued. Sometimes I feel as if I have to view everything I say from every possible angle before actually saying it. Today everything I said was taken at face value - there was no cynicism, no posturing. It was such a refreshing change from the lesson I'd had before it where a pupil had confronted me. He knew he was wrong pretty quickly into the conversation but he couldn't lose face by backing down. I think I did an alright job of diffusing the situation - but it would have been wonderful not to have to.

2. In general the pupils love what they are doing. Our targets/assessment obsessed education system often makes me feel like I am training pupils to pass tests rather than actually educating them. And you can't inspire someone through paper 1 section B. People are inspired by feats of ingenuity - wonderful literature - art - the way the world works... not by 'you should spend no more than 45 minutes on this question. It is worth 18 marks.' In this class I was teaching the pupils what we needed to know - and they could see why they needed to know it. True they had forgotten most of it by the time I'd said the second syllable of lunchtime... but...

3. I miss the downright cheerfulness of a special needs classroom. Here there are no allusions to prison cells. The windows are huge and bar free (and sport a couple of rather beautiful stained glass designs I note - impressive), The motivational posters are colourful and... well, motivational. Even the over sized pencils and triangular big nib pens make me feel somehow better about the world.

4. The small class sizes must be a huge consideration. You simply cannot compare trying to control and teach 30 people, all with different priorities, in a cramped, airless classroom to this. My life is normally so filled with racing to cover all the objectives for all the pupils in thirty minutes that it is a joy to be able to spend time with individual pupils - helping them with their individual needs. What a relief it is to be able to take more time over a particular issue because some pupils seem to be struggling with it, safe in the knowledge that there aren't half a dozen pupils getting fidgety at the other side of the room because they're finished the task and are getting bored waiting to move on

I know this is all just temporary. I know that tomorrow I will be back to porridge - but let me take one more deep breath and enjoy it while I can.

talking of names...

2009-05-11T06:32:00.000-07:00

Talking of names... It only just struck me today, as I was passing out classwork books to my year 11s...

...actually let me start a bit further back. One of the sub teacher's magic tricks I have yet to master is the ability to learn 300 names in a week. I am rubbish with names and my pupils know it. The trouble kids I (ironically) have no trouble with. I usually know their names in 30 minutes - but the quiet ones... usually i have just about learned their names by the time I leave to move on to a new school. Right now I rely on a less than reliable pupil to help me fill in the register for my form class every morning.

I do try. Really I do. One of the little things I do to try and memorise is making a point of handing out classwork books myself - it gives me a chance to relate the name on the book to the face on the pupil and where they usually sit in the classroom. It adds a minute or two to the beginning of the lesson but it works for me. But names are still a problem for me.

I've also come to realise that pupils are obsessed with names. Namely christian names.

'what's your name Sir?'
'mr Campbell.'
'your first name.'
'mr.'
'nawwwh... what's your real name.'
'why do you want to know?'
'we know all our teachers' names.'
'well then, let me be different.'
'why?'
'because it's important to be unique.'
'yeah - but what's your name?'

I have no problem with pupils knowing my name - I just have problems with the inevitable few who love to push boundaries. Maybe if I didn't make such a big thing of it they wouldn't care less. I've tried that though and it still results in a couple of mindless comedians yelling my first name across the playground to... actually I'm not sure why. Maybe they have their reasons.

Today as I was handing them back their work, the books had arranged themselves into an order which made me notice something I hadn't spotted before:

Matthew... Mark... Luke... Jonathon...

I made some comment about the names, how I had a biblical name too; which led to them asking what it was,

'1st and 2nd Corinthians'

For some reason they didn't laugh.

there's creative and there's insane

2009-05-07T03:26:00.000-07:00

Sometimes parents bemuse me. Actually a lot of the time parents bemuse me - sometimes they make me freeze in utter shock. And one of the things that never fails to amaze me is the utter disregard they have for their child's future when naming them. Would you trust a lawyer called Sunbeam? A doctor called Fifi trixiebell? And cute as it may be when the little one is crawling about the floor at play group, they face a world of pain from the other pupils when they reach school.

I blame celebrities. They have now become the official role models of society and as such pretty soon I should expect to have classes filled with Apples and Peaches and Moxie Crimefighters and Audio Sciences and Sage Moonbloods. The Edge called his child Blue Angel and Nicolas Cage gave his child Superman's real name (Kal El, not Clarke Kent.) How can I respect men who could do this to their own flesh and blood?

Copying celebrities can be extremely dangerous. After David and Victoria named their son after his place of conception (Brooklyn) one couple followed suit - they tried to call their son Busstop.

Yes while Celebrities can be odd, regular folks can be downright cruel. Consider life if you were called any of the following: Nasdaq, Confidenze, Orangeyello, Stallion, Batman Bin Suparman, Number 16 Bus Shelter, Violence, Laurel Hardy, Russell Sprout, Skye Rockett, Chris Cross, Mary Christmas, Barb Dwyer... the list is huge. You can check out a few that TheBabyWebsite.com found if you want more.

Some countries have laws against things like that. I remember a while back a Court in New Zealand removing a girl from her parents because they had called her Tallulah Does the Hula in Hawaii. They claimed it was a form of abuse and made her a ward of the state until she could have the name changed. That was extreme but I can understand why.

So what brought this on? Why am I suddenly so worried about names? Well this morning I encountered a pupil called Robert Sands. And anyone who calls their son that, then sends him to a Protestant School in a loyalist area of Northern Ireland clearly must be insane.

look before you lend

2009-04-29T03:30:00.000-07:00

One danger of being a sub teacher is having to use what is available to you. You go into a room blind, not knowing how well equiped it is or whether you are going to have to spend twenty minutes searching cupboards for pritt stick or felt tips.
Of course you could always carry an emergency pack containing enough rulers, pencils, pens, erasers, set squares, sellotape, tipp ex, pencil sharpeners, compasses, protractors, exercise books, calculators, dictionaries, scissors, glue sticks, staplers, colouring pencils for thirty pupils... but sometimes I don't get up early enough to pack a transit van full of stationery. I make do with what I can - I am the Ray Mears of the classroom.

But sometimes it goes wrong.

Just now a pupil asked to borrow a pen. I was in the middle of helping a year 11 with imagination deficit disorder so I absent mindedly grabbed a pen from the teacher's desk and gave it to him.
At the end of a lesson punctuated with various giggling fits from around the room the pupil returned the pen with a look that can only be described as extreme pity...

reasons to be cheerful, 1-2-3 (four and five)

2009-04-22T03:33:00.000-07:00

I was just thinking. My bank balance has seen better days, my car is long overdue a service, both my cameras need major repair work, I'm starting a new school with a whole new set of challenges, I'm under pressure with video editing work piling up around me... but it's all good.

Why?

Well several reasons:

1) I'm actually looking forward to the whole new school thing. It's a lot closer to where I live so I get an extra 10 mins in the morning.

And you know what they say, 'a change is as good as a rest.' They are clearly stupid; but there is an element of truth in that. As the school year goes on I notice distinct mood and behavioural changes. Usually in September I get up early in the morning and am one of the first to arrive at work. I am full of the joys of my profession and sprinkling idealism as I skip through the corridors. By May I am usually struggling to get out of bed in the morning and spend my days inventing new levels of cynicism. This morning I awoke and was ready to go at some ungodly hour. It's like I've moved back six months. Unfortunately it's my pupils perfecting the art of cynical thinking now.

2) Ireland won the grand slam - yes I am still living off that one.

3) The weather has been bizarrely clement, at times summery even. It's amazing how a change in the weather affects people. I know the weather we are having is happying people up because they're filling their facebook status (what's the plural of status? stati? states? status? statuses?) with messages of love and joy. And what could be a more scientific socialogical survey than a glance at facebook status?

Anyway, the sun is shining, the breeze is refreshing and I for one am much happier.

4) It's spring. And spring for my family means lambing time. My father has a flock of sheep and he usually spends his februarys (februaries?) and marchs (marches?) playing midwife to them. I help out when needed but luckily this year that only meant one call at 3am to come and help a ewe going through a difficult birth. I remember one year, during the foot and mouth outbreak when he was working nights in Belfast, that I was up most nights. But usually I am only the reserve help and I get to enjoy the postives rather than get my hands dirty.

So this time of the year means the fields are full of lambs. And there is nothing in the natural world more amusing than those little wooly comedians.

5) Mysterious laundry. I love a good mystery. Last week we had a power cut. They've been doing work on the power lines so it's been a regular occurence. From 9am to 5pm we were without power and I couldn't do any video work. So I jumped in my car and headed into town to pass time.

When we returned our washing line was filled with still wet laundry. We don't know who put it there, who owns it, why they put it there... It can't have been washed in our laundry room because the washer had no power... there seems no logical rationale. I love it. And I thought I'd tell you all about it now because eventually there will be some uninteresting explanation. Until then I'll enjoy letting my imagination run wild.

what a send off

2009-04-03T05:23:00.000-07:00

I shaved this morning. I never shave on fridays - it's a quirk. But today is my last day at this school and they arranged for someone special to be here to mark my leaving - the President.
It seems they were in the UK on business anyway so it wasn't such a big deal for them to drop by for Mr C's swansong - it was the least I could do to shave.

Okay, it isn't Barack Hussein Obama II, it was the Irish President, Mary McAleese. And she isn't visiting because it's my last day in the school. I don't actually know why she's here; truth be told I'm not sure anybody knows why she chose to come here. I heard someone or other mention that she was attending some function or other somewhere... or other. But why the Irish head of state, the figurehead of Eire, Uachtaráin na hÉireann, the eighth President of the Republic of Ireland, then chose to visit a tiny town on the coast, go past the big shiny convent school, and stop at the tiny little state school with its crumbling buildings, cramped corridors and only three hundred and forty one (I counted) pupils - I can't think why she'd do that. I just checked her schedule on her web site and the visit isn't even listed - but she's here. Intriguing.

Not that it makes much difference to me. While most of the the teachers are attendinga meet and greet with President McAleese I'm out in a mobile covering two classes merged into one. The life of a sub, eh? I won't see the woman let alone get the chance to ask what she is actually doing here. My life will be unaltered.

Actually, that's not entirely true - I will see one benefit. You see I am on bus duty again today (and yes it is raining.) But today I will have a few big men in shades and sharp suits giving me a hand - I'm thinking there won't be any trouble.

how to predict the weather in north antrim

2009-03-23T04:41:00.000-07:00

I'm teaching year 8 and 10 Geography at the moment. I have to admit that this has turned out to be more difficult than I had expected it to be.
I used to enjoy Geography when I was being taught it. I just assumed teaching it would be the same. It's not. I'm having to work hard to learn what I will be teaching, and anticipate potential questions or difficulties the pupils may have.

My year 8s are looking at weather. The biggest difficulty I have with this topic is explaining why, despite the fact that we've had nothing but glorious weather all week, and despite the BBC forecast predicting bright sunshine, when I am on bus duty it always, ALWAYS, rains.

ireland - grand slam winners 2009!!!

2009-03-21T12:29:00.000-07:00

I can't type. My voice has gone. I have tears in my eyes. My heart is pounding. I cannot begin to describe how I feel right now - Ireland haven't won the grand slam in over half a century. They haven't even won the championship in decades. My cat has gone running in terror as I jumped around the room screaming. Ireland have won the championship, they've won the triple crown, they've won the grand slam... I'm a bit happy.

math is good for the soul - who'd have believed it

2009-03-18T02:43:00.001-07:00

Now I know and you know that I am a bit odd. It's common knowledge. My unnatural love of words for instance. There's nothing I like more than wrapping my tongue round a multisyllabic word.

I'm teaching Maths today. It's reminding me of all the amazing words I learnt in maths courses in my youth at school and university. Correlation, Pythagorean, Exscriptible, Hypotenuse. I love them all. I may not always have understood what they meant (hence my modest mathematics grades) but I loved saying them. Circumference, Rhombus, Symmetrical, Diameter, Fibonacci, Horizontal.

I happened to mention this to my pupils and it seems some of them have favourite maths terms of their own. One girl came up with Equidistant, which I have to admit I have been saying repeatedly since, and an (anonymous) year 11 boy choose Approximation.

You all think I'm mad; but try it yourself. Say the following words out loud, emphasise every syllable - shout them out if you can. Equilateral, Decomposition, Complementary, Trapezoid, Supplementary, Reciprocal, Parallelogram, Quadrilateral, Vertices, Tetrahedron, Iscosceles.

Now don't try to tell me you don't feel even just a little bit better than you did before you read them - I won't believe you.

is this selfish?

2009-03-16T08:22:00.001-07:00

One of the advantages of being alone is that you get to live off pity. In the past three weeks alone I have had casseroles, stews and home baking left at my door regularly and have been invited over for meals seven times by seven different families. See? Pity can be good.

Yesterday I was invited by a couple from Church for Sunday Lunch. They’re a lovely family – they have two young kids of about eight and ten (although don’t quote me as this is a complete guess and I’m really not good at guessing children’s ages)

Gorgeous food, interesting conversation, quirkily entertaining kids – it was a pleasant afternoon in every way – but the highlight was when we retired to the sitting room and turned on the Wii. Now I have never played a Wii before – I haven’t played any games console since I left uni. I am scared of them. I believe they kill creativity and conversation. But this was good. So good.

If anything it improved the conversation; and, although everyone suddenly became frighteningly competitive, I soon found I didn’t mind being beaten by an eight year old at Mario Kart.

But, competitive as the kids were, what struck me most about that afternoon was the effect it had on the parents. Surely not since Scalectrix was popular has there been such a ‘present for the kids’ that parents have bought thinking solely of themselves.
In the old, old days fathers would buy train sets for their sons, spend hours constructing it “together” and secretly long for their kids’ bedtime so they could sneak back to the little trains and make “choo choo” noises in the safety of solitude. Scalectrix was similar, but it involved that other mid life crisis obsession – speed. And now we have the Wii.

As I took on the father in a round of golf, having just beaten him in the shooting gallery, I saw a look of determination that told me that this was his game and he had no intention of losing.

I have no children for whom to buy myself presents, but sometimes I wonder about my motivation when setting projects or tasks for the kids at school. A phrase I tend to use too often is, “I would never set you anything I wouldn’t be prepared to do myself – so here’s an example I came up with to help you.” Let’s face it – I didn’t write that gangster story as an example of writing from another culture; I didn’t write it to provide a guide to how to write creatively for a specific audience; It had nothing to do with me trying to encourage them to structure their work imaginatively – I wrote it cause I like gangsters.

Maybe I am setting work for myself rather than my pupils. Maybe my inspiration does come from within rather than without at times. But, the way I see it, while it captures the pupils’ imagination and leads to creative and original work… then it’s all good.

Having said that there is just a chance that my next homework for my year 9s may involve them writing about a Newcastle United player eating Lemon Meringue Pie while watching old movies and getting beaten at Mario Kart.

good from bad

2009-03-11T16:34:00.000-07:00

Good often comes from bad – or so they say anyway. Sometimes, however, you have to look really carefully to spot a tiny blossom of positivity in the face of overwhelming devastation. At times like these I find it’s probably best not to mention the positive side of things for fear of attracting incredulous stares of disgust at your gross insensitivity.

For instance – and this is probably a good example of stretching things a little – Northern Ireland can boost some of the best surgeons in the world. We are especially known for our experts in the field of reconstructive surgery – they are in demand throughout the world. It’s something of which we can be justifiably proud.

The price for this success? Thirty years of punishment beatings, kneecappings, bombs, arson attacks, abductions, hijackings, executions and general acts of terrorism. Our surgeons spent so long patching people up after explosions and fires that they became pretty good at it. Something a little bit good came out of something very very bad.

So I’m hoping that something positive can come out of the violence we experienced this weekend – but I want more than just some well practised surgeons in return for the lives of the police and soldiers shot this weekend.

The class I was covering a few minutes ago don’t remember ‘the troubles.’ The last time a policeman was murdered by terrorists here they were crawling around – some of them weren’t even on solid food. They don’t know what it was like back then. But even they know that nothing can be achieved through this kind of violence.
This view is shared by the thousands of people meeting around the country for vigils right now. Politicians, church leaders, all kinds of people sharing a time of silence that will hopefully say more than a thousand speeches.

I’m hoping that somehow the way all sides of the community - unionists, nationalists, protestants, catholics, old, young, rich, poor, blonde, brunette – have united in revulsion and condemnation of these murders… well I’m hoping that it sends out the message that we have no appetite for a return to the violent old days. I’m hoping that support for the ‘real IRA’ and the ‘continuity IRA’ melts away when they see how it flies in face of public opinion.

Wouldn’t it be a beautiful irony if these attacks actually strengthened the peace process they were designed to disrupt? Wouldn’t it be glorious if sectarian violence led to us stamping bigotry out of this troubled little country? If that happened then it would be one positive from a negative of which we could be truly proud.

all gone now

2009-03-04T15:38:00.000-08:00

The same hill, the same day. This time the photo was taken from the staff car park of my current school.

Where has all the snow gone? From the west we see loads of snow - a snowfest even. From the North... nothing. Can 90 degrees really make such a difference? And why is there no inbetween stage - where is there the 'just a little bit of snow' section? You know what would be a real disaster? Imagine you were having a snowball fight and found yourself on the dry side of the snow boundary while your adversary was positioned in snow world. Disaster.

Anyway, these are the questions I asked my Dad as I picked him up from the airport today - well, not the snowball fight one, I wouldn't want him to think I had failed to advance beyond primary school mentality.

He mumbled something about the ocean and wind direction but I was too busy trying to avoid driving into the back of an extremely badly driven red Nissan to take it in properly.

the last of it

2009-03-03T12:09:00.000-08:00

happy (would have been) 105th birthday Dr Seuss

2009-03-02T12:06:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-02-23T03:39:00.000-08:00

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...

2009-02-19T11:48:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-12T02:00:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-02-06T10:35:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-04T07:36:00.001-08:00

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?

2009-02-02T13:55:00.000-08:00

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?

thinking ahead

2009-01-28T12:24:00.000-08:00

my fifth years have precisely THIS much respect for me

2009-01-15T12:02:00.000-08:00

and I don't actually know what it means