The road to Blackberry Hill

Lessons finish at 3pm, that’s good news, right? Well, yes, especially if its your last lecture before Christmas (yippee!), and actually, we’ve only got a few more next year, most of the time we are out doing experience in schools. So it’s very nearly our last lecture altogether, and I find this very scary. I really think that I need to be told an awful lot more stuff before I’m allowed to teach. I don’t know what it is that I need to be told, I just know that there is an awful lot of it.

But now is not the time to worry about that, now is the time to go down the pub, which we dutifully do. Having a few glasses of wine at 3 o’clock is potentially dangerous. One glass very soon becomes three (large glasses, so that’s a bottle) and you’ve still got to get home and help get the children to bed.

Lying down on a bed cuddling a 1 year old to sleep with a bottle of wine inside you, the inevitable happens and you fall asleep. If you slept through the night, that would be fine, but somehow you wake up at one in the morning, decide to cook tea, and can’t get back to sleep again. Not great when you have to be in school tomorrow, and you’ve committed to getting an assignment done by the end of next week. And its coming up to Christmas and there’s lots more bottles of wine to be drunk between now and then.

Clearly, doing your assignment at 1am isn’t a goer. I’m struggling to think exactly why not at the moment, but clearly it isn’t. So that’s how you end up blogging at 1am.

That’s was Thursday. It’s now Monday. I was up past midnight every day over the weekend doing my assignment, and spent large chunks of the days on it as well. I now know for certain that is no way to earn Brownie points in the run up to Christmas. However, it’s now nearly done (nearly), but, note to self, finish the assignment before you go down the pub next time.

Tonight its Monday, and Monday means football, so I’m going to have to put the finishing touches to it when I get back at about 10.

Unless, of course, anyone fancies a pint after the game…

I’ve just hoovered the bedroom. And the girls’ rooms. And the stairs. It was critical that I did so.

Yesterday, I put some books we don’t need (which, lets be honest, could be almost any of them) in a box. I sealed the box, labeled it on all sides, and put it in a space in the attic (I did consider re-organising the attic at this point, taking stuff we don’t need to the dump and making it clear what is in the other boxes. But that can wait until tomorrow).

I then moved all the teaching books I had bought out from the patch in the kitchen they had been quite happily occupying, undisturbed, since I started the course, onto the space specially made on the bookshelves.

I was about to do the ironing, but, slightly disappointedly, I realised that I did that yesterday evening.

So, what is so important about getting the hoovering done? Are we looking to sell the house? Is the mother-in-law coming to inspect the troops? Have we just got a new hoover and I need to make sure it is working? Answer – none of the above, though I did try out some gadgets I found by opening up the hoover, not sure what they’re for but it’s possible that they are props from a 70’s Dr Who episode.

No, the reason is that, the closer I get to needing to finish an assignment, the more critical the hoovering becomes. If you don’t empathise with me, then I’m afraid that I won’t be able to explain (though I’m not sure I should give up so easily, what with me looking to be a teacher and all). It’s a cosmic thing. I was actually looking for a lesson intro on the subject of spirituality the other day, maybe I can link it to the importance of hoovering.

But this discourse, whilst essentially spiritual in nature, does have some practicality. If you need your other half to do something, wait until they have an essay/assignment to do, and then ask them for it. As I’ve said, this is a mystical time, the normal rules of the universe are suspended, and they will be on their knees thanking you for pointing out that there are a couple of leaves in the gutter and if you really need something to do you could drag your sorry arse up there and get them.

This really only applies to domestic situations. If there is something slightly out of the ordinary you want your other half to do of a more personal nature, I’m not sure its going to cut it. But, hey, it’s worth a shot.

Of course, it could be argued that writing this blog is perhaps of less importance than my assignment. And you’re probably right. But in 20 odd minutes I need to start on tea, so there’s no point in looking at the assignment now. Then I will need to give the kids a bath, then eat tea, then get them to bed.

After that, I guess I could start my assignment. But I’m more tempted to give it to my other half to do, and see if I can think of a few things she could do if she wants to put that off.

Its official, learning should be fun (I’ve even included a reference at the bottom of this post). The question is how do we achieve this?

The thing the men in grey suits have come up with is attire. For the first time on the course we went into a school this week, and were given a short “rules of engagement” lecture before hand. And it does rather feel like we’re going to war.

Rule one is about attire. For guys, wear a tie. I can only assume the rationale behind this is to give something for children to poke fun at us about. Not only do we look (and feel) out of place, but it highlights that we’re not real teachers. Its like walking around with a big target slung around your neck.

The rules for the women are more comprehensive. Firstly watch your cleavage (easy for me, I’ve been doing that for years). Secondly, no short skirts. Number three, shoes must be comfortable, i.e. no high heels. No. 4, earrings are allowed, but any other body piercings, and tattoos, must be removed or covered up. Lastly, no g-strings or thongs. I did think about asking what the difference was, but thought I’d keep shtum. But I am wondering if I can help make a few quid on the side as some kind of compliance officer.

Whilst I can see where they are coming from, I don’t see that it’s going to help school be any fun. I would have thought, if we were serious about cutting truancy, and attracting more men into the profession, these would be mandatory.

Making school fun is a challenge. Especially some lessons, for example maths. In our college maths seminar we were given some maths games to play, and we played them pretty enthusiastically, but they were limited. We were also asked if there were any that we could think of. When the group were told about the dress code, most of the women decided that they had to immediately go shopping (it requires only a little logical deduction, do the maths), so I was tempted to suggest strip sudoku. Again, I managed to desist.

One idea that does appear to have a lot of support, is using music to teach maths. The possibilities are endless, and not least for playing with parents minds. I can imagine sending notes home saying things like “Maths tomorrow, so please bring a trombone”.

The trick is going to be actually tying it into teaching music. Almost all of the music I’ve found for the purpose is sung with an American accent, and is pretty dumb. If I used it, I could probably put the children off music and maths.

But I’m not downhearted. I can think of a few tracks that we could use, with a few tweaks. How about
Simon and Garfunkel – Are you going to double or square?
Bob Marley – No woman, no pi
Prince – Sine of the times

All good starts, but rap has to be the way forward. I can start a new trend “Mathsta rap”, walk into class with ghetto blaster on my shoulder, and perhaps throw in a bit of body popping. It may even be a way round the dress code.

I think this thing about music making maths fun may have something in it, at least for the teacher.

Excellence and enjoyment: A strategy for primary schools
http://www.standards.dfes.gov.uk/primary/publications/literacy/63553/

A new twist on an old tale.

I vividly remember getting the news that my daughter had marker cells for cancer. That was several years ago, and, touch wood, has a happy ending, although she still has an annual check up at Great Ormond Street Oncology unit.

When you look back on your life, you remember certain moments, and that was one I will never forget. I don’t feel like that now, its not even in the same league, but the very fact that I am recalling that experience will give you an indication of how I am feeling.

And it’s always worse when it’s self-inflicted. There is no external personality to rage against, it’s all turned inwards. It’s another ingredient in the cocktail of emotions – despair, helplessness, but above all a feeling of emptiness and loss of hope. If I were to paint it, it would be a large black void surrounded by angry, jagged red.

So what have I done? It’s a small thing, trivial, pathetic. I have lost my college bag. I went to the pub yesterday after college, took my bag, and left it there. I realized and tried to go back last night, but it was closed. I went there before 9 this morning, it’s not there. It’s gone.

But it’s just a bag, right? Well, it certainly has no monetary value. It’s a small rucksack like thing, old and beaten up. In it are books, not without value, they’d probably cost about £70 to replace, but you’d only get a fraction of that selling them on Ebay. There’s a couple of marker pens and 2 Bic biros.

And there’s my files. They contain all my lecture notes. They contain assignments that I had written and were ready to hand in. They contain the log I need for the MA part of the course.

My assignments I may be able to recover. Most of them are word processed, so I will be able to print those out again, and will need to review them again. My PE assignments require that I include my lecture notes, I will have to talk to the lecturer about this. It’s going to be an awful lot of extra work, but I should be able to recover.

The MA log is going to be more problematic. We need to take this to next weeks seminar, and by it’s nature it’s not the sort of thing I can start from scratch. The MA assignment is the biggest and toughest of all of them. In my log I’ve got all my references to research, I would guess there’s about 40 hours of work in there, I don’t see that I am going to be able to recover that for the date of the hand-in, in a few weeks time. I may have to kiss goodbye to this. I can still qualify as a teacher but I so wanted to do that part of the course, and possibly use it to go on and do a full MA.

But the thing that I cannot recover is the lecture notes. These are the things I have taken from the lectures that I can use in class to help me be the best teacher I can. I have no interest in just scraping by as a teacher, if possible, I want to be brilliant, and I will need all the help of other experienced professionals to do this. And the lecture notes are my distillation of all their knowledge and experience. Its very personal to me, and now its gone for ever. The only way I can get these again would be to re-take the course, and that’s just not practical. I fear that this loss will mean that, even if I can recover and complete the course, I will end up being only some fraction of the teacher I could be, I am desolate.

All for the sake of a bottle of wine.

I’m trying to be practical. Our last Professional Studies lecture was on learning styles and multiple intelligences. We covered the concept of the different parts of the brain, going from the basic to advanced there is the reptilian brain (instinctive things, like breathing, and flight), the limbic system, which controls emotion, and the neo-cortex, where the higher cognitive functions take place. If one of the lower levels of the brain is engaged, it is not possible to operate at the higher levels, and I’m definitely stuck in the limbic system. Emotions have taken over, it’s hard to think rationally, but I’m trying.

I’ve been back to the pub twice to look for the bag, they were very nice and allowed me to search it top to bottom. But I need to go back this evening, when the same staff are on duty. It’s a long shot, but probably my only possible hope of getting it back. I need to contact the police, more in hope than expectation. I need to contact college and my personal tutor and get his advice. I’ll do that on Monday.

Very unproductively I imagine what I’ll do if I do get the files back. I’ll take out my notes from my note book and put them in he files that I’ve bought for the purpose. Not only does that mean that I’ll know where to look for them, but I can then just take the ones I need to college, I won’t risk losing all of them. I’ll then type up the stuff that I really need, which I will then be able to back up.

But this is no good, I can’t concentrate. My other half suggests looking in the streets around the pub in case someone has picked it up and dumped it. That’s a good idea, so I do that for 2 hours, to no avail. Because I’m there I go back to the pub again, although I suspect that they are beginning to tire of me now. And a minor miracle happens. A new guy was apparently working last night and has come back to work. He picked up the bag and, instead of putting it in the normal place for lost property he has put it into a different cupboard. With a cheerful swing of the arm he presents me with my bag.

I try and express how grateful I am. I manage “I don’t know how I can thank you, my life is in that bag”, but its quite difficult being too upbeat when you have a hangover.

So now I am back at home, and all ready to start my filing, and typing up of notes. Which I will do.

After a few celebratory beers in the pub.

Can you “Do si do”? I can. And it got me thinking. It was during the additional PE instruction I’d chosen to take in dance – yes, chosen, I even had to pay for it. We were choreographing our square dance, we’d just come out of a promenade, round the back, and were mid do si do, and it struck me. Here I am in a class of 30 women, me and one other guy (who clearly had no doubts about his sexuality), and I’m enjoying choreographing square dance. Could it be that I’d come out to bat for the other side without even realizing it?

See, the thing is, it’s not the only sign. I drink white wine. In pubs. Not all the time, I’m quite partial to a pint of Guiness (or sometimes a half – doh!), but quite often I will go into a pub and have a small glass of white wine. That’s not screaming typical male heterosexual behavior to me (though screaming may be an unfortunate choice of words).

And the whole teaching in primary school thing. I’ve been in reasonably sized schools and not seen any male members of staff at all. In our lectures, when they give advice on writing assignments, they actually have to tell the students not to refer to teachers as “she” or “her”.

Of course, I’m not knocking it. In a house where I have three daughters and me other half (maybe she would have a view on the subject), it could be quite convenient if I started wearing flowing skirts and mascara (what, exactly, is mascara?). In a few years it should give me something to talk to them about.

And, on the subject of pubs, I could even start going to the loo with the girls. I really am curious what it is that women talk about that requires the presence of urine.

Of course, there are a few contrary indicators. I play football. And I mean proper get kicked until it hurts football, open wounds kind of football. Not “I can’t chest the ball ‘cos my blue and white top will get muddy” football.

And, when I can, I ride my very fast motorbike very fast. And wrap myself in leathers to do so. That’s actually pretty hypocritical of me, I’m a vegetarian and don’t believe we should kill animals for clothes, but I’ve fallen off a bike going pretty fast more than once, and have been very glad to have a bit of dead cow between me and the tarmac. In fact, given the choice, I’d probably have a whole dead cow between me and the tarmac, but I can’t see that doing much for the power to weight ratio.

There is probably only one way to settle this. Given that it is public policy to encourage men to become teachers, I assume that it is deemed beneficial to the education of our children to have more male primary school teachers knocking about the place. However, this can quite clearly lead to some confusion on the question of sexual identity on the part of prospective male teachers. So, if your young, and female (OK, I know that isn’t strictly logically necessary, but don’t lets muddy the waters) and serious about education, and you see a slightly confused male student primary school teacher wandering around, you know what you have to do. Your country needs you.

To mark this highly improbable occurrence (and possible proof of a Divine Being), and to show that I really am not just a grumpy old git (I’ll perhaps accept any of these adjectives individually, but strung together like that it just seems a bit much), I’ve decided to make this entry entirely positive, though perhaps I’m not off to the best start.

We’ve had a few PE lessons now. As well as being drop dead gorgeous (that’s what my mum says, are you calling her a liar?), I’m also quite athletic. On a good week I’ll play a game of footy with similarly arthritic old men, run for an hour or so a couple of times, and do half an hour in the pool. So PE was not something that I was particularly worried about. Except, as far as I can tell, it’s got very little to do with being physically fit, but about co-ordination and control of your body. Nothing wrong with that, but the subjects are things like gymnastics and dance. For a guy with the turning circle of a super-tanker, this is looking a bit more problematic.

Anyway, first lesson we learnt about how to jump and land. I can feel you’re cynicism. I live your cynicism. I mean, how hard can it be? If everyone had to have lessons before they could jump or land, you’d need to be issued with government standard shackles when they reach their first birthday. And if somehow you were taught the jumping before the landing bit, then, Houston, we have a problem. But actually, we’d both be wrong. There is a good way to jump (use arms to gain elevation), and a good way to land (on the ball of the foot).

Our homework for PE last week (strangely, we appear to have more homework for PE than anything else. I applaud that we are being pushed to be good PE teachers, but you’d think that other things would be up there with it, like, for instance, teaching them to read) was to come up with a warm-up on the subject of being still. Yes, I know, I’m with you, but there it is, and it’s actually not so stupid. I’ve thought of a few, but the one I’ve settled on is to teach children a bit of fencing. Not the brown wooden stuff at the end of the garden (though that’s an idea for Design and Technology), but the thing with Foils (absolutely, definitely, not swords).

Or, actually, the thing with make-believe foils, obviously we’re not going to give the little angels any of those. Even here I fear I’m entering dangerous territory. At risk of sexual stereo-typing, boys do seem to find ways of beating each other to within an inch of their lives, without their teacher putting the idea of swords into their minds (doh! I mean Foils), and actually showing them what to do if you had one. But, hey, it’s an Olympic sport, something we’ve historically done OK in, so I’m going for it anyway.

I intend to teach the “en guard” position, how to move forward, how to move back, how to thrust, and most importantly of all, how to be still in between all of these. I don’t know if you’ve actually tried it, but its very good fun, I commend it to you.

So, there we have it, 6 weeks into the course, and I have an idea for the introduction to one PE lesson for older primary school children.

Maybe the rest of the course is going to be a little more intensive than I had thought.