Maybe it's just the weather . . .

but I'm having a major "Is. It. Worth. It.?" day.

Veteran PGCE-ers earnestly warned me in August - "It's really, really hard." I thought at the time I knew what they meant.

I didn't.

I'm starting to get it now.

And you really do have to wonder - is it worth it?

This afternoon we had a tutorial. "Aha" I thought, Alan-Partridge-Stylee. "A real life teacher - she'll remind us all why it's worth it."
Hmm.
She said "Being a teacher is really really hard work" (We nod dismally - it's not the first time we've heard this now, and not one of us has seen even a glimmer of absolutely ANY evidence to the contrary).
"You're in school at ten past six, thumbing through your blah blah blah blah"
We've heard this before too. Our class teacher has said to me and my partner that we can phone her any time after 5am if we need anything. *the first time I heard this I blinked rapidly as I processed what she had just said*

"The first week of the holiday is a medical necessity."

"If you stay in teaching long enough, eventually your parole comes round and you get to work at this place." (Our tutor gestures at her surroundings; meaning the University.) "Teaching teachers is much easier. When I was still in school, I headed up the tunelling section for the last 3 years" (She makes wild furrowing movements with her hands, indicating digging).

For some reason, I'm not feeling very re-assured.

Spare a thought

I know strictly speaking it's half-term and therefore I've got no children to write about this Wednesday and Thursday; but after only 2 weeks of writing blogs I think I'm getting withdrawal symptoms.

Just as the weather-people promised, it's been a BARMY day today; halloween beckons and yet the skies have been almost glowing with blue-ness; several times today they've stopped me in my tracks and I've stood gormlessly, head-back-mouth-open, thinking (oh-so-eloquently) "sky - wow".

This evening, I made my way down from campus-library-computer-books-land to college-train-catching-land. The platform is a mosiac of scholarly-looking academics, weighed down with books bearing serious titles, such as
"Old English houses of Alms: A pictorial record with architectural and historical notes" and
"ECE compendium of model provisions for building regulations - revised edition" and
"Algebraic systems of equations and computational complexity theory by Zeke Wang".
Spare a thought for the fledgling primary student teacher, clutching picture books like
"Man on the Moon - a day in the life of Bob" and
"Gentle Giant"
"How to catch a star" and
"A sailing boat in the sky" and
"Good night Mister Tom" and
"Twinkle Twinkle Chocolate Bar"

. . . I shift my books uncomfortably under my arm. How is one to feel, amongst such a studious, academic fellowship of commuters? Out of place? Inadequate? Unintelligent? Like I'm Twenty-Three goin on Five?

As I climb on the train and bury myself in "A day in the Life of Bob", I learn about his daily commute to the moon (not dissimilar to mine - only takes 15 minutes and he can do the crossword on the way) and I spot the aliens lurking on the tranquil surface of the moon. I can almost already hear class 2 enthusiastically giggling and shouting out to Bob that the aliens are THERE!! BEHIND YOU!! and I realise how a fledgling student teacher should feel next to all these serious scholarly academics - smug.

aeroplanes and ambulances

This morning the children arrived to find their first challenge of the day was to find as many words as they could in "aeroplane". As I have not long left the undergraduate world of countdown, and spent my summer coffee breaks in hospital staff rooms doing the quizzes on back pages of newspapers (find as many words as you can from the grid, 22 = good), I was ready to get my teeth into some serious word crunching.

The first question : "Miss, can you do aerodynamic?" stumped me. Firstly, you are five; how do you know the word aerodynamic? Secondly, and fundamentally; No. You can't have aerodynamic.

Next question: "Miss, can you have Daddy?". Liz, let's think about this. What's the first letter in Daddy? "Er, d" (Read this phonetically, not Dee, but duh) Right, "d". And is there a "d" in aeroplane? "No". Ok, so can you have daddy? "No". Good.

"Miss, can you have Dan?" *Miss steels herself for a long day* Liz, what's the first letter in Dan? "Er, d". Right. Is there a "d" in aeroplane? "No miss.". OK, so can you have Dan? "No."

"Miss, can you have Hannah?" Liz, what's the first letter in Hannah? . . .

Staff Room.
The sound of a distant whistle signals the end of break, and the staff begin to make their way back towards their classrooms. Towards us, come a swarm of children, and looping around the swarm is an ambulance:
"Nee Nor, Nee Nor, Nee Nor, Nee Nor, Miss, Miss Miss! Grace has fallen over! Emergency! Emergency! 999! Nee Nor Nee Nor, Nee Nor, Nee Nor!"
My partner swiftly makes her way to the scene of the emergency, and administers first-aid, Primary School Style (Run it under the cold tap. Then dry with a paper towel.)

This emergency must have left more psychological scars than normal though, because as the children began their "busy-as-bees-in-the-hive-but-not-actually-doing-anything-trick, -under-pretence-of- changing-for-P.E.; some girls came up to me and said "Miss, Miss, Grace can't do P.E.; she's broken her leg". This was definately worthy of investigation.

I went out to see Grace, still mopping her knee with a soggy paper towel. I couldn't actually see anything, not a graze, cut, red mark, or anything. Hmm.
I thought back to my Mum; what would she do in this situation?
Mum being Mum, I instantly advised Grace that the only possible cure was to chop off her leg immediately. If nothing else was available, I would have to use the rusty saw in the stock cupboard. Strangely enough, she was one of the first changed for P.E.
Thanks Mum.

My highlight of today was reading to the children. There is something magical about having 25 five year olds sitting at your feet, eagerly drinking in every word of the story. Thank you class two. See you after half term.

M something something something Y

08:58
The irrepairable puncturing of the calm (til 15:15) is heralded by: "Miss, Miss, MISS, look, LOOK, I've got a wobbly tooth!!" *accompanied by vigorous tooth-wobbling*

08:59
*Miss thinks: I've got wobbly legs, hands, head, I've even got a wobbly blog.*
But at least I've not got wobbly teeth.

20:51
*Miss also thinks: it's time for a large brandy. Between nocturnal foxes, maths, predictions, flying beds, double-yellow lines, magic words starting with M something something something Y, caravans and broken washing machines, story time is going to be short today, class. This student-teacher is off to hide in the stock-cupboard*

Wobbles and Bubble Wrap

Tomorrow is our third day in school. At. 9.am. I. Am. Teaching.
The. Whole. Class.
Maths.
On. My. Own.

There's been a dreadful mistake.
I got on the wrong bus;
No, NO, No, you don't understand, I'm here to clean the windows;
I'm here to do a complicated social science experiment, the University sent me;
No, you've got it all wrong, I couldn't possibly teach, I'll be far too busy, I'm doing an audit of how many millilitres of green ink there is in the average UK primary school classroom.

Holy, sweet, chocolate covered spatulas. It sunk in about 2 hours ago - all in all, it's not been a great evening for sinking. After reading "Handbook" number 5 million, and realising the true scale of the impending mountain we have to overcome before Christmas, I totally flipped and found myself jumping up and down on sheets of bubble wrap. That didn't help much so then I sat my housemate down and forced him to endure a picture book. ("Can you see the magic fairy dust, Peter? Good Boy, Well Done.") That helped a bit, (and I also think there's a good chance Peter won't even be psychologically scarred) but I thought maybe pouring out my inner wobble onto the web would work best.

Thus:

wobble WOBBLE wOBBle

WOBBLE wOBble WobbLE

WOBBLE WoBblE

Wobble WOBblE WoBBlE WoBBLe

Wobble WObbLe WoBBLE

I'm a bit worried about my partner, because at least I've had this evening to wobble. It was her wedding anniversary this evening, so she hasn't had chance to look over all the stuff yet (apparantly the Partnership in Education Handbook and Romantic Evening In With Husband don't go well together, I can't imagine why); I'll have to summarize it for her at twenty to nine. I think I'd better take some bubble-wrap to school.

Miss, Jerry ate my hamster!

Ahh, the tranquility of the village classroom. The carpet pollinated with leaf skeletons, washing lines dangling laminates boasting 'curly c a t', teachers' hands affectionately clasping warm coffee mugs, and amber rays of morning sunlight diffusing through the window. Peace.

We blissfully reflect on the joy of learning, looking forward to imparting our wisdom to the eager, innocent wee pups that make up our class.

Then the whistle goes.
I am instantly besieged. And bewildered.

"Miss, Jerry kicked me!"
"Miss, my shoelace is undone!"
"Miss, Luke's got a conker!"
"Miss, I feel sick!"
"Miss, I dropped my coat in puddle!"
"But MISS, conkers aren't allowed!"
"Miss, Miss, Miss, I'm six today!"
"Miss, my knee hurts!"
"Miss, Neil's taken my conker!"
"Miss, Felicity kicked me!"
"Miss, Neil's got my conker in his mouth!"
"Miss, I can't find my cardigan!"
"Miss, Neil's swallowed my conker!"
"Miss, Sharon's said "who the heck are you!"
*Miss looks particularly puzzled at this one*
"But miss, that's rude, she's singing a rude song, you can't say who the heck are you!"
*Miss remains puzzled despite this enlightening explanation*
"Miss, Neil's choking!"
"Miss, Neil's turning blue"

I'm ready to run to my car and its only 09:03.

This whole telling tales business is baffling. Yet the class teacher manages to unpick 15 of the most tricky of tales, simultaneously, and has them all sitting down working within 3 seconds.

The teacher then had the unenviable task of organising a democratic vote (which she manages seamlessly despite only a few minutes notice); the class needed to elect a boy and a girl to stand as representatives on the school council. After establishing who was prepared to stand (i.e. every hand in the room waved madly at the teacher: "Me! Me! Me! I want to!"); each child was asked to write down the name of one boy and one girl who they would like to stand as class rep. There then followed the most complicated, entangled web of "vote trading" that a person can concieve - you vote for Shirley, then I'll write down Christine, and Christine'll vote for Francis, and Francis then has to vote for Charlotte, and Charlotte needs to vote for . . . I was lost. You reckon Bush's subterfuge of the Bush/Gore election was impressive? His administration has got nothing on 5 year olds.

Talking of politicians . . . five year olds have this remarkable talent for appearing tremendously industrious; take this morning, for example (after the reps were announced and the last tears wiped away: "But I really, really wanted to be on the council!") The whole class room jiggles and swarms, each bee buzzing around its P.E. kit, giving the impression of diligent "changing" taking place. Yet with closer scrutiny, you realise that not one shoelace has been untied, not one button undone, infact, not one bag even opened. What have they been doing for the past ten minutes? I am stumped.

They are amazing. I am convinced, (despite me and my partner beginning a prayer routine begging God to introduce 48 hour days so we can fit in all our work) that we have joined some of the luckiest people in the world, getting to spend time with such inspiring little people.
As for teaching? At the moment, I am learning a HECK (sorry Caroline) of a lot more than I am imparting.

The things some kids say . . .

Today was my second adventure into the wonderful land of key stage one. The last time I was there, I think the whole country had a different name. They called us infants. It feels like a long time ago.

It is good to be back.


Although it hasn't felt that way all day. From the moment I got an acceptance letter saying that I could train to teach children, I've been thinking; "What, in sweet spatulas name, have I done?" The intensity of my panic's been crescendo-ing, reaching triple forte this morning when a shoal of curious faces peered at me and my placement partner, as the teacher introduced us (and we simultaneously waved goodbye to our first names; hadn't mentally prepared myself for that one! . . .)

But they were adorable. Top three moments of day one:

3. Using pencils to explain how 4 can be split up into 2 and 2 *Oh my God, I'm teaching! It's. actually. happening! Sweet grandmothers, spatulas, pencils and all!*. (also - how do primary teachers stay so thin when they talk about take-away so often? I kept finding my mind at the curry house. . . mmm curry)

2. "Miss, can you read?"
"Of course she can read, she's a mummy"
"Erm, actually I'm not a mummy"
*confusion*
"But you are married?"
"Nope, not married either."
"So you can't read then."
( . . . what do children think happens on wedding nights?)

1. "Miss, can you tell me what a hyena looks like? I've never been to Scotland, you see".

Bring On Day Two.