LordSnooty
31-05-2005, 16:51
I count myself lucky to be among the small minority of teachers who actually like their job. Don’t get me wrong; like any other party hipster, I would much rather spend my days quietly at home making chutney and butterfly buns. But as jobs go, I feel that mine is relatively enjoyable. It has not always been this way.
My worst day at work ever occurred one Tuesday afternoon in 1991, at a ‘hell hole’ comprehensive in Grimsby. I was attempting to teach a printmaking lesson to about thirty Y8’s, all of whom had been hacking away at bits of lino to no great effect over the preceding few weeks. I had promised them we would be using ‘proper’ ink, that is, oil based – not the usual water based rubbish generally used in schools. The key to organising this lesson lay in maintaining control over the bottle of turps, which would be needed to wash everyone’s hands and printing equipment at tidying up time. As in ‘Lord Of The Flies’, where the holder of the conch shell is granted ascendancy over the mob, I would remain in charge as long as I kept my grip on the turps. ‘Hold the turps – stay in charge’ was my mantra.
As a bonus, the lesson was to be observed by a grim faced, emotionless woman sent by the LEA to verify I could teach (it was my probationary year). She stood in the corner watching proceedings for ten minutes before breaking silence to inform me that several children were throwing lino cutting tools at each other. I dealt with this as best I could, and returned to the kids I had left who were ready to print – rollers in hand primed with yellow ink. While I had been sorting the tool throwers out, the rollers had been rolling each other’s clothes, faces, hands etc. Disappointingly, they hadn’t tried to roll the LEA woman, which would have been a stylish touch.
I put the turps bottle down and lined up the yellow children, an operation I achieved by shouting at them extremely loudly for a very long time. At last, the line was ready, and I went along squirting turps onto their hands so the clean up could begin. However…. While I had been striding up and down shouting extremely loudly, some assassin had emptied the turps out and refilled the bottle with tap water. So there I was, one half of the class covered in yellow ink and water, a silent LEA official in the corner scribbling away at a clipboard, and the other half of the class throwing lino cutting tools at each other. Again.
Things could only get worse. The classroom door opened and a group of special needs children with their carers walked in. About three months earlier, I had hurriedly agreed to a visit from the local spesher school and had completely forgotten about it. They arrived as I was in the middle of the mother of all tirades against my class, and started to cry. ‘No, no’, their carers explained, ‘the man isn’t shouting at you’. I honestly cannot recall how I managed to get to the end of the afternoon. But I do remember running over to the school swimming pool on the final bell, stripping completely, then throwing myself into the healing waters for a bit of primal screaming. I did this fairly regularly; the pool was always deserted, the lights were always off, the water was always cool and clear. As a result of this experience, I learned the following: a) don’t shout, if you can possibly help it b) use water based ink at all times and c) leave teaching in hell holes to trained missionaries.
I escaped to a job in a nice comprehensive down the coast (without a pool) shortly thereafter…...
My worst day at work ever occurred one Tuesday afternoon in 1991, at a ‘hell hole’ comprehensive in Grimsby. I was attempting to teach a printmaking lesson to about thirty Y8’s, all of whom had been hacking away at bits of lino to no great effect over the preceding few weeks. I had promised them we would be using ‘proper’ ink, that is, oil based – not the usual water based rubbish generally used in schools. The key to organising this lesson lay in maintaining control over the bottle of turps, which would be needed to wash everyone’s hands and printing equipment at tidying up time. As in ‘Lord Of The Flies’, where the holder of the conch shell is granted ascendancy over the mob, I would remain in charge as long as I kept my grip on the turps. ‘Hold the turps – stay in charge’ was my mantra.
As a bonus, the lesson was to be observed by a grim faced, emotionless woman sent by the LEA to verify I could teach (it was my probationary year). She stood in the corner watching proceedings for ten minutes before breaking silence to inform me that several children were throwing lino cutting tools at each other. I dealt with this as best I could, and returned to the kids I had left who were ready to print – rollers in hand primed with yellow ink. While I had been sorting the tool throwers out, the rollers had been rolling each other’s clothes, faces, hands etc. Disappointingly, they hadn’t tried to roll the LEA woman, which would have been a stylish touch.
I put the turps bottle down and lined up the yellow children, an operation I achieved by shouting at them extremely loudly for a very long time. At last, the line was ready, and I went along squirting turps onto their hands so the clean up could begin. However…. While I had been striding up and down shouting extremely loudly, some assassin had emptied the turps out and refilled the bottle with tap water. So there I was, one half of the class covered in yellow ink and water, a silent LEA official in the corner scribbling away at a clipboard, and the other half of the class throwing lino cutting tools at each other. Again.
Things could only get worse. The classroom door opened and a group of special needs children with their carers walked in. About three months earlier, I had hurriedly agreed to a visit from the local spesher school and had completely forgotten about it. They arrived as I was in the middle of the mother of all tirades against my class, and started to cry. ‘No, no’, their carers explained, ‘the man isn’t shouting at you’. I honestly cannot recall how I managed to get to the end of the afternoon. But I do remember running over to the school swimming pool on the final bell, stripping completely, then throwing myself into the healing waters for a bit of primal screaming. I did this fairly regularly; the pool was always deserted, the lights were always off, the water was always cool and clear. As a result of this experience, I learned the following: a) don’t shout, if you can possibly help it b) use water based ink at all times and c) leave teaching in hell holes to trained missionaries.
I escaped to a job in a nice comprehensive down the coast (without a pool) shortly thereafter…...