Confessions of a teacher: Because school isn't quite what you remember it to be... (4 page)

The time allocated to one period is fifty five minutes. But ten minutes have to be deducted for the time it takes all the children to get from one class to another and get ready. I would guesstimate that it leaves forty five minutes. Deduct from this the five minutes required to get to grips with writing down the date and objectives and the five minutes before the end of the lesson to pack up, my guesstimation takes me to thirty five minutes of actual teaching time. Today, we do not even get as much. We've barely started when Eleanor Lawson comes in asking if she can speak to the class. Rhetorical question, of course. She stands at the front of the room with an air of efficiency, deposits her pile of clipboard, folders and her walkie-talkie on the front desk and lean heavily forward, her fists firmly anchored to the said desk. If the two kids who sit there rose their heads, they would find themselves nose to nose with miss Lawson, so they choose to look down instead. Eleanor starts: "Right first years!". She then launches in a tirade about the brand new school blazers and how they should wear them at all times because their parents have spent a lot of money getting them that blazer. Everyone knows that thirteen year old are very concerned about draining their parents' purse, especially when they come from fairly wealthy background like this lot do. Somehow, I don't think this argument is going to push them into the expected guilt trip. Eleanor continues nevertheless: "I stopped some first years who weren't wearing their blazer yesterday. And do you know where their blazer was?". I'm startled when I realise that the question is addressed to me. I don't know. Where on earth could a first year hide his or her uniform? I suddenly feel like the chimps and admit that I am clueless on that front. "In their bag!", comes the answer coated with indignation. A part of me feels like saying: "No way! Did you call the police?" but I know my remark wouldn't be welcome so I shrug my shoulders instead, not knowing myself what message that gesture is supposed to convey to her. In any case, Eleanor has fixed her gaze back on the children and gives them the third degree about wearing their school blazer at all times. Luckily, none of them put their hand up to ask if they can take it off when they get home, if they should eat their dinner with or without it or if sleeping with it might be an idea to consider. By the time Eleanor leaves us, there is nothing constructive I can do in the ten minutes her intrusion has left me with. So I decide to do some revision and postpone my teaching plans for next time I see them. My objectives are still on the board but none of them have been achieved. Not that the kids would notice, they don't really know what 'objectives' mean anyway. To them, it's just some meaningless words they are asked to write down at the start of each lesson.

You can take the teacher out of the school but not the school out of the teacher.

A wind of change has been sweeping through the school since the head teacher announced his retiral at the end of last term, after fifteen years of good and loyal service. Of course, there is a big party planned in his honour. Everyone in the teaching profession will eventually get their special party, whether because they are retiring or because they are moving on to greener pastures. The grandiosity of the event is in equal proportion to the position. Take a “simple” teacher for example. The likelihood is that the whole staff will be assembled at a suitable time (usually coffee break) to hear, first the praise of that teacher by whoever is directly above them, then the response to the praise. The whole thing will end on the distribution of gifts under thunderous applauding. There may also be a small night out with immediate colleagues but that is much more of a private arrangement. On the other hand, if you are in charge of a department or simply in charge of something, things go slightly differently. You first go through the same procedure as a “normal” teacher but this is only part one. Part two consists in a well organised evening meal in some very posh place which will be attended by a fair number of staff members for a repeat of the praise and gift ritual. I dare not imagine what this one will be like with regards to the top man!

The answer isn't long in coming as the big event is tonight. A huge amount of people are expected. Well I suppose this is the end of an era for many of us. As we walk into the enormous function room of the hotel, stylishly decorated with balloons and flowers for this special occasion, we are met by an equally enormous TV screen that bears the title “seating plan”. A seating plan? How did we not think of that? Isn't a seating plan the very first basic tool used by a teacher: Girl next to boy (they don't like it so it actually works) or little chatty Jim next to sweet, conscientious Callum who doesn't say a word? I wish I had such wonders of technology at my disposal. A giant screen with a seating plan would make my life much easier. A seating plan... Interesting. I wonder which criteria they've used for that one. The answer is simple: Seating people from the same department together. This should certainly make for an entertaining evening if the amount of feuds and hatred raging in some departments is anything to go by. Wouldn't it have been just as simple to put the name of the departments on the tables? Well, you wouldn't want to loose the wow factor of the giant screen now, would you?

As I look around, I see poor Dora's expression of utter despair as she looks languidly in Ross Hall direction, wishing she could sit next to him. As for Eleanor Lawson, she sits at the top table due to her rank but it doesn't take a genius to work out that she would most certainly sit on the other side of handsome Ross if she had her say. Judging by the gaze of a few other women, some single, some not so single, they too would content themselves with any seat as long as it was at Ross' table. Ross, in the meantime, seems completely oblivious to the scarily rising levels of oestrogen in the room. As he casually seats next to Rebecca Drew, I would bet anything that he is secretly relishing the languorous attentions lavished upon his person. Unfortunate Rebecca is already the object of vindictive and obscure curses gathering over her head from various tables. Yet, she is one of the few who has consistently shown no interest whatsoever in falling for Ross' charm.

Everyone is now seated and studying the menus placed beside each plate. Set menus are better for this kind of big events. They usually revolve around no more than four starters, main course and dessert options (five if you're lucky). There is always one for the chicken eaters, one for the fish lovers, one for carnivores, not forgetting the fairly substantial vegetarian category. I can't help but wonder if an opportunity to produce a multiple choice worksheet has been missed here. Waiters dressed like penguins have appeared out of nowhere to take the orders which they conscientiously write onto their note pads as they move along. The conversations are flowing but it is hard not to notice the negative vibrations that float over some of the people forced to sit in each other's company. At the chemistry department table, the one missing element is chemistry. Everyone knows that the principal teacher, is thoroughly disliked by his staff for his unreasonable demands on their time while he, himself, ensures that he can go home as soon as the bell goes, taking no more than a few jotters to correct. Two tables along, Maths doesn't fare much better. It is a secret for no-one that Hilary Denver and Peter Sutherland use to have an affair that ended (?) badly. Both eventually returned to their respective spouses, but that didn't stop the staff from having to keep them apart for a while for their own safety. For several months, these two couldn't talk to each other without things turning to physical violence. They seem to have mastered the art of pretending now, but the tension is plain for every one to see. Besides, with the alcohol flowing and the knives at hand, I'm not entirely sure they will come out of this evening alive. As for Laura and David, they are forced to sit next to the very person they opposed in yet another meeting only two days ago. The speeches had better start soon or the cutlery might serve some other purpose than the intended one and the knives in particular might suddenly turn into murder weapons. Fortunately the silvery sound of cutlery against glass intimates the beginning of addresses and after a few bad jokes, some more alcoholic fuel and no violence most of us head home to a well deserved weekend. Some of the staff had decided to make a night of it and had booked a room in the hotel. I can't help but notice that alcohol has had an effect quite different from the one expected on Hilary and Peter. I could have swore that I saw them grabbing one single key for the room they're not supposed to share...

The following week, rumours about Peter and Hilary have spread like wildfire by the time we reach coffee break. "I think they're at it again" says Les Woodworth as he sips his cup of tea. "Surely not" replies Rhona Pursley, "surely that's just gossips after the night out!". "I've seen the two of them go into the same room on Friday night, Rhona, and I don't think they went in for a simple chat and a last drink". The giggles around the table are interrupted by the entrance of the very objects of our conversation. After pouring themselves a cup of coffee, both Hilary and Peter head in different corners of the staffroom in a 'we're innocent' manner that is far too ostentatious to be completely believable. Peter slumps on the empty chair at our table as if suffering from extreme exhaustion. "Good night on Friday, wasn't it?" he asks with as much ingenuity as he can summon up. Nods from the assembled party. No one dares say out loud what they're actually thinking: "Yes, a good night, especially for you...". Les breaks the awkwardness by saying: "Well, that's official now, we're all waiting for new leadership. I wonder who'll get the job." Of course, any hierarchical change is bound to bring a certain amount of uncertainty, mystery and suspense. What's next? Who will be the top man or woman? What gossips can we gather about him or her? So far, six people are still in the race: Four women and two men. The bets are opened all round. The office ladies are praying for a man. They are easier to work for apparently. The KGB is more or less sulking, fearing the end of a comfortable routine they got accustomed to over the years. As for the rest of us? Well, we'll just take whatever we get.

Jim Walker, our second in command, has been temporarily promoted to ensure a smooth transition until the take-over is complete. As I walk into the staff base some days later, I find him sitting there, spreading words of wisdom about the likely lay of the land. Does he have a favourite? Apparently not, or so he says. What he can tell us however is that whoever gets the job will be wanting to make big changes. Thanks for the tip Sherlock! The second and final round of interviews is Thursday, he tells us. This means that by the end of the week we should have name and gender. After that, it is just a case of checking for any criminal records and just making sure he or she is not a murderer.

• “That's unlikely” I say naively.
  

• “Not as unlikely as you think” replies Jim. “I know a guy who was offered the job and turned out to have murdered someone.”
  

• “You know a murderer!” I cried out, unable to stop myself.
  

• “Well, yes, I know more than one. They are nice people you know.”
  

I have never pondered the question from that angle before and, as I rack my brain, I can't find the faintest trace of even a petty thief in my acquaintances. I must lead a very sheltered life. “The guy I knew murdered his mother in law” offers Jim in something that sounds like half an explanation and half an apology. Well, I suppose, when you put it that way, there must be thousands of men out there guilty of murderous intent towards their mother in law. To his credit, this one was only guilty of being more of a man of action than a man of words. Actions speak louder than words they say and his spoke so loud that they reached the sensitive ears of the Education Department. Thank God they are here to protect us from Evil!

Well, the office ladies have had their wish granted: A man got the head teacher job. I must confess, I can somehow see where they're coming from. Women in power are the most frightening thing to see, whether they are head of state or head of anything else. If a woman is determined to go to the top, she will stop at nothing and crush anything or anyone in her way in the most vicious attack. Poets and dreamers have often speculated on how wonderful and loving a world governed by women would be. Let's have it out with the truth, it would be a disaster. When women decide to fight, they fight to the death. They make better and more cruel dictators than all the South American ones put together. I suspect that they have been denied access to power for so long that when they finally get it, they feel under constant threat that it will be taken away from them. In any case, that is my theory.

Women who aspire to high positions are easily noticed by the way they walk. They will usually pass you in the corridors in a busy and assertive swagger that says 'I mean business', even though they might only be on their way to relieve a pressing need. The best you might get out of them in this situation is a contrived smile or a dismissive hello. You see, they don't have time for common place pleasantries. It goes without saying that their attitude changes dramatically should they cross the path of someone higher up in the hierarchy than themselves. Even more so if that person happens to be a man. The smiles then come on, combined with the most outrageously flirtatious attitude that would get any man down on their knees and begging for mercy. Of course, once they get to the top, that very same man will have to suffer, unless he is as handsome as Ross Hall of course. In any case, none of this really matters since it's a man.

October: High order priority questioning – Bloom's taxonomy.