Confessions of a teacher: Because school isn't quite what you remember it to be... Read Online Free PDF Page A

over. I look at squinty boy who is actually called Dylan. Dylan has the attention span of a sparrow, and that's on a good day. Dylan follows a thought process that only makes sense to him. If asked to write something, he will painstakingly copy three words before noticing that his homework diary says maths homework. He hasn't done his maths homework, so the logical thing for him to do is to hunt in his over-bulging bag for his maths jotter. He might as well be looking for a needle in a haystack but instead, he comes across the book he's reading on Roman gods. By that stage, Dylan has forgotten everything about where he is, what time of day it is and what he's supposed to be doing. Therefore, it is entirely natural for him to take out the book on Roman gods and start reading it. To Dylan, the whole thing is the result of a perfectly logical sequence of events but for the teacher who has missed the intermediate steps in his logic, it looks like plain arrogance. This is why Dylan often gets into trouble. I loose it with him sometimes, but by enlarge, I prefer to nudge him back to work and stand next to him for a while. This is what happens on this occasion.
     
    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