GCSE Results

I have been a nervous wreck for the past few days waiting for GCSE results. Not my own, you understand, or even a nephew or niece this year. No, I have been waiting, as a teacher, for my Spanish class' results. You teenagers and parents have it easy you see. You may get this terrifying, stomach churning, nail biting wait two or three times in a lifetime. I have had it just about every August for the last 17 years, and the experience only gets worse as the responsibility for results gets placed more and more on teachers, and less on less on pupils.
On the whole I am pleased with the results my pupils have achieved this year. They range from a grade B to F. This time around I had a middle ability group, all lovely kids, all received the same teaching, encouragement, support, feedback over the two year course. How then can the results vary so much? In Mr Gove's world, they should all have achieved a B/C grade. I'll tell you how. The pupil with the F grade did the minimum of work. He did not submit a single piece of coursework of any consequence. The same applies to the E and D grades. I can teach to the very best of my ability but I cannot do the work for them That would be illegal and disciplinary action for fraud is something I could do without to be honest.
So now I wait to see what my 'residuals' are. This I how much I am deemed to have improved or not on the grades the pupils SHOULD have achieved. This is worked out by some ridiculous system called the FFT - Fisher Family Trust, or Fisher Price as most of my colleagues prefer to call it. From what I can tell this is an entirely random calculation based on where you live, what you ate for breakfast and what newspaper your parents read. For example Lowestoft/Quavers and Red Bull/The Mirror = E
Burnham Market/Homemade Muesli and Fresh Orange Juice/The Guardian = A*. OK, it is based loosely around how a child is doing at Key Stage 2, when they are aged 8-11. Now, I could be going out on a pedagogical limb here, but I would guess that at this age most children are a) fairly amenable to doing what their teachers and parents say  b) not full of hormones and interested only in their social life and the opposite sex  c) not experimenting with alcohol and recreational drugs. How a child is performing at 9 can surely not determine how they should do at 16 and yet this is what we are all judged on.
I have my own system for working out what grade they should get called the Sian Harrison Indicator Test. It goes like this. Take the average grade the pupil achieves aged 13. Divide by the number of piercings they have. Take away the amount of time they spend on a games console. Add the amount of time they spend doing homework. Take away the number of units of alcohol they consumed the night before the exam. Divide by the number of times they say 'Why do we have to learn Spanish anyway'. Based on the above system I would say I am outstanding and deserve a pay rise!

My Haribo Habit

Now, I know that I am not alone in adult circles in being a bit partial to the odd packet of Haribo and I have found that the more open I have been, the more people I have found over the age of 25 who share my gelatine addiction. I'm sure there are support groups out there somewhere for the real hard-core users, and a twelve-step plan to wean you off the gummy bears.
Normally when I am at home I am ok, as we tend not to have Haribo in the house, but my real downfall is when I'm at school. I  keep a big stash of this type of sweet in my desk as prizes/bribes/danger money for the kids I teach. I'm sure this goes against all guidelines on good practice, what with our being a healthy eating school and all that, but I find that fresh fruit doesn't keep so well and is nowhere near as effective. "Come on Tyler, just finish this piece of work and you can have some grapes".
Normally I can resist. The Haribo are in a tin in a locked drawer, otherwise they do tend to 'disappear', so I have to make an effort to get to them - but after a particularly challenging day I do sometimes find myself reaching into the pupils' sweet tin for a little something. The trouble is once you've had some it is hard to stop. I guess the combination of sugar, e numbers and chewiness is meant to be addictive otherwise they wouldn't sell so many.

I have sometimes toyed with the idea of buying sweets which I don't like, such as toffees or mints, but the trouble is the kids don't like them either. One 13 year old girl asked "Miss. Why don't you buy us chocolate instead?". I found myself in one of those painful situations where you can hear yourself saying something, know it's stupid, but it's too late to stop yourself. "They wouldn't last too well in a stuffy classroom, and there's nothing worse than a sticky mess in your drawers", was what I said. I hate it when that happens. She might have a point though? I'm sure melted, congealed and re-set chocolate would be much easier for me to say no to.

Lowering Your Standards

One of my favourite quotes is "Being happy does not mean that everything is perfect. It means that you've decided to look beyond the imperfections." This is a much more eloquent way of putting into words what I have been saying for years. If things aren't going the way you wanted there are two choices you have. You can either change things, or if that isn't possible, you can lower your expectations. In fact there is a third choice. Stay exactly as you are and be miserable! Here are some areas of my life where I have had to accept less than perfection.

My Home:
The Dream. I have a big, spacious home in the country but close enough to pop into London, with enough room for all my husband's mess to be hidden away. The elegant driveway leads you to a beautiful, imposing front door with a gleaming brass handle and possibly a butler to open it. The rooms are tastefully decorated, furnished with choice pieces I have picked up from antiques dealers and from my world travels. I greet guests looking immaculate and with a welcoming smile as I effortlessly mingle and hand out pates of mouth-watering canapés I have prepared myself.
The Reality. I have a small, messy house which has seen better days which faces onto a busy road popular with boy racers who can't read speed limits and have appalling taste in music. The plaster is crumbling, we have a smelly hedgehog living under the stairs and the bathroom is an 80s monstrosity featuring a peach suite and wallpaper with the Latin names for flowers on it (also peach). I have to spend hours stuffing all the mess into drawers and cupboards before people come round and usually say 'shall we just get a takeaway?' to any guest brave enough to accept an invitation.

My Car:
The Dream. I have a lovely little sporty number (brand new of course) with every possible gadget you could think of. Who knows, I may even have indulged in some personalised plates. It runs like a dream and I get envious glances from people at traffic lights. I have it waxed and valeted every couple of weeks. It absolutely drinks fuel but I don't care because I'm rich. Sod the environment.
The Reality. I have had a number of cars, each one having been at least third hand. They run ok for a bit but then start rapidly falling apart. Every year it costs more to get it through the MOT than it is actually worth. It has bumps and scratches and I get smirks at the traffic lights. I use my car as an overflow wardrobe/office/skip so it is always liberally strewn with papers, apple cores and crisp packets.

My Job:
The Dream: I am a internationally acclaimed authority on Modern Spanish Literature and run my own literary translation company. When I am not at my beautiful office in Kensington I can be seen jetting off to publishing conventions all over the Spanish-speaking world, staying in 5 star hotels and generally being popular and intelligent.
The Reality: I teach Spanish to teenagers who really would rather be doing anything else and see no relevance in learning their own language, let alone someone else's. I spend my days trying to extract homework from the idle and covering up the penises they have drawn on my display boards.

The Sleepover

The Sleepover MUST have been conceived of, named, and the phenomenon perpetuated, by someone who isn't and never was the parent of a 6-16 year old. Having someone else's child to look after is a very different 'bouilloire de poisson' as the French like to say (it's true, I've heard them) to caring for your own offspring.
First comes behaviour and discipline. It's easy with your own child because you know what works (no sweets, no pocket money, having to watch 'Dickinson's Real Deal' on repeat), but what do you do if the guest is misbehaving? I have spent five hours every day, for 40 weeks each year, of the last 17 years of my life with classes of 30 teenagers in front of me, but two mutinous eight year olds can terrify the living daylights out of me.
Next we face the dilemma of feeding them. My son is the fussiest of eaters but at least I know what he WILL eat. I recall one young lad coming to ours for the first time so I thought I would play safe and give them pizza. As I served it up he informed me he didn't like cheese. So, I offered him a mushroom omelette. He said yes, so I made one and he didn't like it. Concerned that the poor boy was going to starve I found some burgers in the freezer and cooked one for him. He began to turn his nose up again when something inside me quietly snapped and I said in my best, calm, teacher voice "Eat it".  He did. It turns out he was vegetarian. Not any more he isn't.
Finally we come to bed-time and sleeping. My tactic is normally to keep them up quite late in the hope that they will sleep once they go to bed. This sometimes works but not always. On a recent sleepover my husband and I were woken by two shadowy figures looming over our bed at 1am like two of the four horsemen of the apocalypse (Lord knows where the others were - probably installing the self-checkout machines at Sainsbury's) asking for a drink of water. Armageddon very nearly arrived early that night, but I kept my cool, lay back and thought of the day (or rather, night) when it would be some other parents' turn to return the favour.

Mediocrity

I am going to let you into the secret of a peaceful existence; mediocrity. I have spent much of my adult life perfecting the art of mediocrity and I like to think I am fairly good at it. Let me explain why being mediocre is the key to happiness, taking your working life as an example. I am sure you will agree that if you are bad at your job then you are in line for all manner of grief, although not if your first name is Michael and your surname Gove. Nobody wants to be on the receiving end of complaints from line managers, stern emails from the boss and uncomfortable appraisal meetings, so it doesn't pay to be too shabby.
This reminds me of a story I heard about a colleague of a friend who was having their annual performance management interview. He came out of the meeting fairly pleased with the way it had gone, saying that his manager had complimented him on the improvement in his work. The others in the office were mildly surprised as this individual was renowned for being lazy and incompetent. "So, what exactly did he say then?", one co-worker asked. "He said I used to be f****** sh*t, but now I'm just sh*t", came the reply.
However, if you are too good at what you do then people expect a lot of you and give you more to do. Some of my colleagues are constantly snowed under by requests to run a course, go to a meeting, organise an event. Why? Because they are too good at their job. I do try to give them the benefit of my wisdom but they are too busy answering the 150 emails they have received that morning to listen to me.
So, for now I shall endeavour to tread the line of least resistance and happily continue in my own little world with my delusions of adequacy.

Hard of Hearing

I appear to be following in some well-worn, pre-destined genetic paths by beginning to lose my hearing quite significantly in my 30s. Not wanting to be too predictable though, I have decided to lose only my middle frequency tones, i.e. the most useful ones, as they include speech. I have also made sure that I have one of the most ridiculous jobs for the hard of hearing, namely teaching, and languages teaching at that! My other career choice would have been Speech Therapy. Oh, the irony. Perhaps I should just give up and become a mime artist?
When I spoke to my boss about my affliction he was very sympathetic and understanding, saying that the school would pay for any 'reasonable adjustment' to help me and going on to suggest that I should have all the noisy classes so I would be able to hear them. Thanks, but I felt that the department's money would be better spent on a regular supply of 'Sancerre' to help me come to terms with my disability. I'm still waiting for that one!
My pupils have their own unique way of 'helping' me too. Their logic dictates that as I can't hear middle tones, then if they speak in a high pitched squeak or a bass-baritone growl then I should be able to understand them. Doesn't work but does make me laugh.
So, no doubt I shall be spending many more happy hours waiting in the audiology department at my local hospital. It's hilarious. They can't pronounce my name properly (being a bit Welsh and all that) and I can't hear it anyway! I am one of the few people in the country actually looking forward to growing old and losing their high frequency tones. At least then I'll be eligible for hearing aids!

School Reports

It's that time of the year where most parents will be getting their little darlings' end-of-year reports, and where most teachers will be reaching for the gin as they write their 104th comment about how well/badly little Johnny is doing.
As a teacher with nearly 20 years experience of report writing I thought I would de-code some teacher short-hand for you.

• Tom always works with enthusiasm. = Tom cannot sit still and keeps shouting out.
• Annie has an enquiring mind. = Annie never stops asking pointless questions.
• Jessica is quiet and conscientious. = Jessica is a teacher's pet.
• Hugo is a pleasure to teach. = Hugo is the Head Teacher's son.
• Sam is confident and not afraid to express his opinions = Sam is annoying and full of himself.
• I have seen a real improvement in Kyle's attitude = Kyle hasn't hit anyone this week.
• Emma has worked steadily this year and has made reasonable progress. = Emma has done sod all.
• George needs to make more effort in order to make the progress he is capable of = No chance.