there ain't no insanity clause

There are twelve yellow ukuleles sitting in my living room.

Twelve ukuleles is a lot of tuning. I can say this quite confidently, even though I have thus far tuned only six. I shall have to keep tuning them over and over again now for a week at least before they remain even vaguely in tune for longer than an hour.

It's going to be a long week. (How can it be longer than the last?!)

The last taut strings of my sanity have obviously snapped: I am starting an ukulele club at school.

*twang*

watching the ships roll in

I can find no more reasons to avoid doing today's marking.

Damn.

you got to pick a pocket or two

A group of girls huddle around me in the playground; and to take our minds off the wind and the puddles underfoot I ask about their Christmases: were they good? What did they get?

They all agree that it was good, and they got good things. They tell me about their upcoming holidays, and then one asks me: what did I get for Christmas? My mind goes immediately blank. Ermmm...what did I get for Christmas? I know I had presents, I know I liked them, what the flipping eck were they? I dredge about in the muddy pool of my memory.

I got an ukulele book, and a book about criminal children, I tell them. Oh, and some cake tins. They look distinctly unimpressed, so I look at them very seriously and tell them that 150 years ago children of their age could be put in prison or transported, for very minor things such as stealing spoons, or bread. I do not mention the death sentences, the cruelty and futility of penal punishments, or the degradation that meant many children were relieved to get into jail so that they'd be fed and clothed for a while.

Edith looks at me suspiciously. 'That doesn't mean you can lock us up', she says.

'Doesn't it?' I smile, 'What a pity. Someone go and get me the bell.'

bad-tempered teacher

Things to do on your first day back at school:

1. Find your cup.
2. Colour in all the days off for the next year in your new diary (thanks to Lectrice for that one).
3. Correct the grammar and spellings in all the staff meeting handouts with a red pen.
4. Compile a list of words to describe an irritating member of staff (including 'supercilious' and 'self-aggrandising').
5. Make a list of things to be done, including three things you've done already so that you can cross something off.
6. Bin all of the paper in your pigeon hole.
7. Lose your cup.
8. Lie about what you did in the holidays.
9. Go home with a headache.

Thanks to Colin for his contribution over the last week.

you're nobody 'til somebody loves you

molly's rose 2
Originally uploaded by etcher67.

It is five past nine, and I am standing in the middle of the classroom whilst year six mill about me. Most of them habitually ignore anything anyone says until it's been said at least three times and I am on the third and final time, the one where I use individuals names and start on the mildly sarcastic abuse: 'Hassan, I am pleased that you are trying to extend your vocabulary but really I'd prefer it if you read your book rather than look up rude words in the dictionary?' That sort of stuff. I am trying to get them into their chairs and me across the room so that I can take the register, something for which I have to have quiet, having been up past my bedtime the night before. I do not want a repeat of last Thursday morning when the secretary sent me a bemused note: 'Why has the afternoon been filled in already?' Because I was confused; that's why. I am easily confused. People are handing me notes and homework, telling me that they have left their packed lunch at home and can I ring their mum, asking whether they are allowed calculators for the SATs test they are about to take; and I am trying to keep an eye on the class' resident delinquent who for some unfathomable reason has a bandanna stuffed under his armpit inside his t-shirt. It's a normal morning.

Suddenly I am aware of something much lower down than one expects in year six, where most of the children are beginning to at least reach my shoulder. Something small, and wearing a very big pink hair decoration. Something holding two large, yellow roses. I look down. It's Lizzy from year three, pre-playground neat and looking up at me uncharacteristically quietly. She sort-of smiles, and holds up one of the roses.

'Is that for me?' I ask. She nods, thrusting the rose further forward. I take it from her. It is still wet from this morning's rain, pale yellow and blousy, and the scent coming from it is quite magnificent. It is a very very beautiful thing, and I am inordinately pleased to have been handed it.

'What did I do to deserve this?' I ask.
'You are a good teacher' she says, instantly injecting warmth into an otherwise dreary morning. I smile, and lean down to hug her. 'Thank you' I say, 'thank you very much.'

She slips out of the classroom and I go back to wondering what Gav plans to do with that bandanna.

we're all just pushing along

It must be nearly the end of term; I've seen two of my colleagues cry this week, and virtually everywhere you go there are huddles of people muttering angrily to one another and looking hastily over their shoulders to check who might be eavesdropping. Not a happy school, mine.

There's an end of term play on at the moment; performed by one of our more psychopathic year groups. This means that apart from all the normal entertainments such as small children dressed up as dwarves and rabbits and the occasional fudging of lines we have extra added interest such as the trumpet which wouldn't play because someone had shoved a blue wig inside it, one of the kids sitting at the front of the stage calmly destroying part of his costume in the middle of a song, and a girl wearing long grey socks with her sparkly leotard because she point blank refuses to take them off, possibly because she is worried that someone will steal them for further trumpet muffling duty. I've spent a bit of time over the past few weeks helping to rehearse them, and it's been an uphill struggle of the hair pulling description all of the way. Despite (or perhaps because of) all this I was reduced to hormonal rubble yesterday by the sight of one of the more combative boys singing solo in a sweet albeit deeply embarrassed soprano. You can't help but love the little fuckers sometimes.

days like these

flowers in the fountain
Originally uploaded by etcher67.

I don't really have the energy to stay in the huff for too long. Maybe a day, maybe two. A surge of efficiency is almost inevitably followed by one of those dark moods when I decide that no-one actually gives a toss; and even though I ought to know that they follow one another like night after day I'm never really prepared for the night-time section. Fortunately my proper friends get to know the routine. They chide me lovingly, and feed me kind words and sweets. Thank goodness for those proper friends.

I sat in the classroom this afternoon stapling dragon-covered Chinese lanterns together for my year threes and feeling the slow parting of the clouds. We played a game - 'Who can stay quiet for the longest?' They were fooled, which is always a marvellous surprise. I kept them in after the bell had rung not because they had been naughty but because I'd been enjoying them too much to notice the time and clear up. We'll be fine, that class and me. It always takes three sessions to get to know a group enough to like them for who they are, and today was the lovely fourth when you realise that it's going to be OK after all.

you can count on me

'So....in 459 there are 9 units. That's the same as nine ones. How much is nine ones altogether?'

Long and considered silence.

'.....ten?'

Long intake of patient (ha: who am I kidding?) breath.

'No, Not ten. Look again...nine ones....'

Personalised learning. That's what we need. Please be aware that engaging me in conversation about this may result in screaming and the renting of hair. Yours, probably.

My staff meeting was cancelled tonight. I was on the playground playing 'it' with seven year olds in a rainless moment this afternoon. It almost killed me, but I still managed to leap into the air with happiness when I heard.

I come home and spend some quality time with my bed. A day's relentless cheerfulness has worn me out but half an hour heading down towards sleep helps. At the point where I would fall asleep were it late I wake up, then spend a groggy 30 minutes resurfacing.

I force myself to draw, because I have this strange idea that I might go back to the print studio and begin to work again, at last, and I want to. I really, really want to. I have had long, sensible, optimistic conversations with several people about how I will have to 'bibble about' (Jones) and 'produce shit' (P) for a while until I am back in the habit of being an artist. It all makes perfect sense. I completely agree. I might have even introduced the idea. The only problem is, the work is utterly horrible and it makes me want to cry and throw things. It's not unreasonable to expect that I should be brilliant all of the time, is it? Don't answer that.

this business of love

The children are in, and it changes everything. The school is once again a living organism. I pace around it gathering paperwork which I am intending to do a slash and burn job on*. Haley is standing in the corridor, sniffing and looking red around the eyes. Saul is doing the ritalin twitch outside his classroom. As I pass both of them I am filled with the almost irresistable urge to grab hold of them and hug them, kiss them, even. Welcome back, I want to say - Welcome back: I've missed you.


*I fail at this rather miserably and instead produce at least half as much paper again, which at least proves I'm a proper educationalist.

and her name was

Church this afternoon. We walk down:

'No, don't stop to stroke the cat...'
'Yes, I know there's a squirrel keep walking!'

Then we sit at the back where we can't see anything:

'Leave the hassocks alone'
'No, it isn't nearly finished'
'No sweetheart, I can't see your Mummy either'
'Put the Bible down'

We sing carols:

'Glooooooooooooooooooooooo-o-o-o-o-oria'

We listen to the vicar:

'Our Father...'
'I'll start that again. Our Father, who..'
'Maybe I'll say one line and then you can repeat it. Our Father (Our Father)'

We ignore our headteacher:

[censored]

And then we walk back:

'Oh look! There's the squirrel again!'

follow the star

There are only so many times you can be asked by eight year olds how many legs a mouse has before you begin to start to worry about the fate of society, really.

'Four! They have (implied bloody) four!! And an inkeeper is someone who looks after an inn! And that'd be TWO legs!'

Holy Moly.

The infant nativity today. These are glorious occasions involving oversized t-shirts, tinsel haloes, cardboard hats, ever so slightly dodgy singing and very excellent signing. The first time I saw an infant nativity I was reduced to a small hormonal puddle (it was the kings wrapped in silky curtains that did it), but over the years I have become mostly (well...nearly) immune and so today was able to admire the nursery child who fell asleep forwards onto his knees, the king who did a penguin impression, Mary's handling of the doll (licking) and the best impresion of Erialc's signing I have ever seen, ever. From a five-year old, to boot.

Maybe just one little tear, then. It ain't Christmas without the infant nativity.

my heart which is bruised but unbeaten

I was sitting at a Christmas party last night zealously working my way through the mince pies when I asked an innocent question. About the sign for 'robot', as it happens. This led to a deeply political debate about cochlear implants which I have known was coming for years. I have prepared for this. My preparation involved practising keeping my mouth firmly shut and nodding. I'm on the fence about cochlear implants, work with kids who have them, kids that don't, and I know the person who was talking about them. She has exceptionally strong views on the subject which she is entirely entitled to; and is the sort of person with whom you can't win an argument about the existance of an egg plant, let alone something as politically hot (in the deaf world at least) as a cochlear implant.

So fine. I keep out of the arguments, as I understand the delicate balance between friendly relationships and full-out war. Call it self-preservation. Call it cowardice. Whatever.

Except. Sitting to my right is a woman of such crushing inanity that I have trouble agreeing with her about just about anything. She says the weather is awful? I say I like the wind and rain. She likes cake? I prefer crisps. It's like a twitch, and I'm not the only one that does it. Sometimes you have to make your own entertainment to get yourself through the dark evenings. I know: I'm bad.

Unfortunately she opens up her mouth and wades knee-deep into the debate, spouting half-baked views of such deep stupidity that I am unable to contain myself, foole that I am. I raise my head above the parapet and disagree with her. In sign language. Shakily, because the moment I open my mouth (er, hands?) I realise that I have made a mistake of epic proportions.

I am treated to a 10 minute barrage of deaf politics from the left hand side. Everything that is wrong with the hearing world, every policy in my school, and probably the weather too is now my fault. I take it on the chin, which is made slightly easier by the fact that I only get two signs out of every three*. I do not bother to defend myself or my school, as I know that this is a pointless exercise which will only extend the pain. I belatedly remember the nodding and looking agreeable policy and put it into practise.

Fortuntely a fag break occurs and afterwards we move on. I now have to add x-ray fish to the list of things whose existance I have to prove by next January's classes.

I love my sign-language teacher, I genuinely love her. She scares me shitless.

*Two out of three!!Result!!

this post in search of a suitable title

Chief Sir just rang me (he was lucky I could string words together at 7.40) to tell me I'm covering CFH (II) today, seeing as he can't get a supply teacher stupid/brave/desperate enough to do it. Here endeth the weekend.

I love my job, I love my job, I love my job...

(Send cake)

up against the pink and purple wisteria

I am really looking forward to this morning being over.

That is all.

flight IC408

I am trying to do year 6's maths for Friday, so that when Chief Sir comes into the class to observe me teaching I am able to do a reasonable impression of someone who knows what they are talking about. Generally I do not mind looking like an arse in front of the top maths group when they are better at it than me, but on this occasion I have a feeling it might be prudent to look vaguely competant.

It's time zones, and I have the answer book. The first half of the page involved working out what time the prime minister's secretary rings him and where he is. Not peasy, but manageable: I didn't get any wrong, which made me feel rather proud. I am not exactly rubbish at maths, but have spent a considerable amount of time in my life delegating it to others who do not have to go through the pain barrier to work stuff out.

The second part of the page involves looking at four flights all in local time and working out how long they took in total. The answer is 31 hours. Unfortunately I keep getting 28 hours. Three hours out: three lousy hours. Where are they? Did Moscow steal them? Are they tucked under New Delhi? Has Rome hidden them? Beats me. I just tried (in desperation) converting all the times to GMT, and now I'm six hours over. Bugger.

I think my head may be going to explode, and there are two more questions yet.

I have a sudden and rather desperate urge to do the hoovering.

honkeytonk parade

I am standing in the middle of the classroom, handing out pieces of paper following a particularly insightful discussion* about the nature of bullying with my once-a-fortnight year threes. I have put several fabulously inspiring phrases on the board, and they are about to design anti-bullying posters to decorate the coridoor for anti-bullying week. As I turn to hand a stack of paper to the next table I catch the following behind me:

'This paper would make a lovely hat!'

I contemplate turning back and enquiring how, but decide to leave well alone. There are creative minds at work.

*Lies!

merry very merry

Every other Monday I teach the class that I had the year before last as 7year olds. They were a lovely class then, and they haven't changed much. Actually the extent to which they haven't changed constantly surprises me. Alice still bounces up and down like a manic Tigger, Chris is still pushing in the corridors, Hayley still wears her coat buttoned up to the chin and Cassie still gets her pre-PE headache as regular as clockwork. I pointed this out to them the other week and Steve piped up 'I've changed - I'm gooder!' which just goes to show that he hasn't changed, either.

This afternoon I had to teach them music. A quick scan of the plan showed that we had to go over a round that I taught them a couple of weeks ago. It goes like this:

'Hey Ho, nobody at home,
Meat nor drink nor money have I none
But I will be merry, very merry'

Despite it's being something which is unlikely to show up on MTV any time soon the class actually really enjoy singing it. Last time we were singing it in three parts, pretty successfully. We spent a lot of time working on the attack and diction. I like teaching singing. This afternoon I decided that before we went onto the complicated and inharmonious matter of trying to pick out the tune on sets of chime bars with most of the necessary notes missing I'd get them to sing it to me again.

'Can you remember it?' I asked them. Cue much enthusiastic nodding. 'Go on then: let's hear you' I said. I might have la-d them a note. Or I might have forgotten. What I got was one of the finest pieces of South London football terrace Englishese that I have heard for quite a while (Since anyone sang "e's got ve 'ole wewld in 'is 'ans", in fact.)

'Ayy, Oh...nahbodee at 'ome,
Meet nor Drink nor Munnee-av-I-nuN
Bu' I wiwl be meree-veree-me-eh-rreee!'

Bless. (As they say around here.)

I leant back against the classroom wall and laughed. They laughed back at me, which has always been one of their more endearing characteristics. Then we got all the chime bars out, which would account for the thundering headache this evening.

while there's moonlight and music and love and romance

I go back to work, and suddenly I have nothing to say. This may well be because when I am at work I spend ALL DAY saying things. Telling him this, asking her that, answering a question, answering it again...answering it again...answering it again.

And then again: just for luck.

By the end of the working day my brain is a fuzzy mess, filled with mental static.

Bzzzzzt.

passing round the ready rub

It is traditional at the beginning of the school year to spend a couple of nights tossing and turning and staring balefully at the light on the alarm clock whilst the little hours click past. This ensures that one returns to school feeling almost as tired and stressed as you did at the end of term, though without the sleep debt that made it almost impossible to think a happy thought about anyone or anything other than spending a week in bed eating cake.

Fortunately staff meetings involving the term's dates go some way towards righting the debt, if you can remember to treat them as a meditation session and not listen too hard. The stains on the carpet make a good mandela if doodling isn't your thing and you can't quite see out of the window. I lifted my head briefly to look around at the vacant stares in mine this morning and could have sworn that everyone had died. They all stood up at the end, so it appears that it was only the death of freedom from managerial bullshit we were communally celebrating.

I'd broken my no bitching resolution by 10am. I think that's a record; though actually one of the things that struck me today was how much I really like some of the people that I work with. Thank goodness for mercies such as that.