First steps in a new (excrement smelling) world

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I miss my old school. The kids were OK, they did their work, I could understand the words coming out of their mouths. Hell, they could multiply and divide single digit numbers. But I’ve moved to the comprehensive around the corner with the advice of my year 8’s ringing in my ears: ‘They’re going to tear you apart.’ It wouldn’t weigh on my mind so much, but I’m entirely convinced that they’re right. Still, its only for a few months and I can get back to finding an easy life as opposed to trying to convince some knife wielding illiterate that reading a paragraph is possible and might get him beyond his U grade into something resembling a good old fashioned F.

Today was to be my first day of visiting the school and sorting out the paperwork before I get stuck into classroom management.[1] The stick in the spokes of this idea is that for the past week a bunch of boring but quite bright people living in a student style mess under large satellite dishes have been watching a blizzard the size of Belgium heading towards Kent.  A little late, these people let the general populace know about the blizzard but was pretty much common knowledge that it was going to get pretty arctic-like around tea time Sunday.

Nonetheless the moderate amount of snow (under 5 inches) still brought the country to a standstill. Of course, everyone in the country expected this because it’s generally accepted that the UK is shite at dealing with any form of inclement weather no matter how mild it may be. Leaves on train tracks, power cuts at stations, un-gritted roads with overturned HGVs on them. We just accept it as a given. All the school senior managers were raring to go with calling it a snow day and staying under the duvet for another 24 hours. Teachers are freaky-weird people, but even the most hard nosed hell bitch knows when to call it a day with this kind of weather front. All of them except mine which decided that half the school could stay at home, but the older half along with all the teachers should come in. Sure, she’s new. Sure, she’s only there because the head just disappeared leaving her in charge. But that doesn’t excuse her for going altogether full-imbecile and making me and everyone else hike into school. Someone suggested she has something to prove: that she’s capable and not going to be cowed by bad weather. If she was out to prove that she’s a fence sitter with worse decision making skills than whoever decided to navigate the SS Titanic through an ice field, she’s done a grand job of it.

Compounding the general aura of incompetence was when she decided at 10:15 to send everyone home. Some people spent longer trying to get there in the car than being at school, but she was very upbeat with how well the students were working, and the commitment the staff had shown. Apparently she was sending us home because it might be dangerous to drive later. It was damned dangerous to drive in you ignorant wretch. Half the trains were cancelled and bus drivers have more than enough sense to give their bosses the finger at the prospect of going out there. IT’S STILL BLOODY SNOWING.

All in all, I had a quick walk around and had a cup of coffee. That was my work day.

Start as you mean to go on.

Oh, I got shown one of my classrooms. It’s a toilet. Literally. It used to be a boys’ changing room, but they converted it into a classroom: a classroom the size of the basement in Station Street with the acoustics of a toilet. I don’t even know how they have preserved that echo familiar to anyone who has ever been in the gents. It’s an engineering marvel of some type. I’ve been warned that it ‘sometimes smells of toilet,’[2] but the teacher keeps air fresheners which upgrades it to ‘smells of toilet with a hint of industrial cleaner.’ There must be someone with a camera waiting for me to react, I thought. This is ridiculous. There’s cubicles outside the door. There’s a hand dryer over the teacher’s desk. There are schools in Africa built out of burnt out cars and AK47 shell casings that are more fit for purpose than this. What if I go to teach and need a leak? How am I supposed to keep my composure when every sight and sound around me tells me that this is the place to flip out my manhood and see how far I can piss across the room? It’s not a classroom. It’s a bloody lawsuit waiting to happen is what it is.

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[1] Classroom management is teacher speak for finding a way to stop the bastards being bastards long enough to ram some learning into their heads.

[2] Shit