Its not who I am, its what I do...

It was when I spotted the lady in the cat jumper that I knew I'd made the wrong choice in career. She was your stereotypical teacher: grey hair pinned up, a-line skirt, fluffy cat jumper, clumsily wiping crumbs from her danish pastry from her heaving bosom. And she smelled of Tabu. Her twenty-something colleague was the antithesis of me. A right keeny, from the same competitive school. Power dressed, hand up at every opportunity, loving the group participation, laughing at every joke; she knew every piece of the National Curriculum inside and out. She was new to the game. Little did she know that the NC changed every few years. And she'd have to start again from scratch. That'd learn her.

I liked these management training courses. Not only were there excellent nibbles and free fizzy water but you could always be sure of a good lunch in a posh hotel. And it was also a way to get out of the classroom. For you see, teaching, became an impossible job.

My position was as senior as you could get without going through the Headship route. Ofsted kissed my arse, grading me excellent on three separate visits. This didn't impress me as I have no respect for Ofsted methodology. And I was a bit of a rebel with a potty mouth. I didn't fit the mould. Luckily for me I worked in a school towards the end where I was amongst like minded people. I loved most of them like family.

As member of the Senior Management Team I'd fill the shoes of the Head and his Assistant in their absence, deal with the naughties. My class would always give a big ''awww'' when I sent a year one baby away with a pouty lip. Hated that bit.

I'd also regularly take the whole of the junior school for assemblies in the hall. I always imagined this to be a bit like stand up as I used to get the biggest buzz from having 400 ch'n guffawing at jokes and the stories I'd tell about my life.

I delivered the Sex Education Programme to parents with gusto before it was taught to the children (I mainly used the shock technique with 'VAGINA' displayed on the screen before they'd sat down haha)

I've seen holiday snaps of many a topless mum who were unaware their weenie had taken them in to show teacher

I've heard many stories of adulterous affairs where 'uncles' would nip out the back door as daddy would walk through the front (no euphemism intended)

and then there was the 4 year old who brought out their (now) dead goldfish from his pocket for Show and Tell.


The days were long, constant, emotionally and mentally draining and often I'd start at 8 and get home at 9, with only toilet breaks when I remembered. You could never go to the loo when you needed to. At weekends you'd be marking and planning, making/finding resources, writing reports or analysing assessment data. There would be discos, weekend pta activities, residential trips to organise and implement, general staff meetings and separate management meetings. I'd have meetings with my department and meetings with individual teachers about their delivery of lessons. But it was often extremely rewarding.

It's worth highlighting that in state schools the NC is so tight that we're told what to teach and how to teach it and when. No room for creative development and woe betide that poor child who struggles to keep up.

I was considered a strict teacher so didn't suffer fools gladly, I couldn't with 30 yr 6 kids all way taller than me. But once they were trained and had cracked my shell, by Christmas I was a soft touch. Some of the jokes those boys told me would have curled your hair. Many have joined my Faceache page. Contact with the kids made it for me. I genuinely loved them. In fact my daughter is named after the loveliest girl I once taught.

The ones who were difficult were always so for a reason. I had many serious conversations with B about the possibility of us adopting a boy who was seriously mistreated. The children were never the problem. It was often the parents. There were many occasions where I was called unforgivable names by parents in my classroom and bitched about, withing earshot, on the playground. ''You're a fucking whore,'' ''..she's a fucking bitch, ''she bollocked my kid. If she bollocks him again I'll fucking punch her lights out.'' ''If she gives my kid one more piece of fucking homework..''




Now, fair enough, that may all be true, but their child was often present. Resulting in initial embarrassment and eventually no respect from them either. These kinds of parents were becoming the norm. I only saw the nice ones at parents evening or when they came in to give me a hug to let me know I was doing a good job.



Homework is still a bone of contention. Let's be clear. TEACHERS DON'T LIKE GIVING HOMEWORK! We have to mark it. It stresses many a child and in addition to what they're doing at school already in the day, they need a break. That said, the govt allocate a 'suggested' time slot for schools to follow when planning h/wk. Basically in state schools they have to give it. But I cancelled all homework except for spellings, tables and reading. If the child had been too lax in class (not struggling but lazy) then they took it home to finish.

Parents came to tell me it was nowhere near enough for their child. Some parents said it was still too much. No win. However I do think a lot of schools give homework unsuitable for the home environment. And newly qualified teachers can get a bit carried away. At primary school level it should be useful, relevant, fun, causing as little stress between family members as possible.

The culture of 'teacher bashing' was getting worse, I was taking things too personally and the move to Switzerland (and pregnancy) came just at the right time. I needed a break.
When I was out I'd deny I was a teacher. Everyone has an opinion on teachers and teaching. Discussions always get heated. Indeed recently on Twitter an offensive person verbally attacked me for justifying my opinions. He had no inside knowledge of how schools operate or my experiences. But naturally, people have a right to bring their own personal experiences to the equation.

If someone knew my 'profession' I'd dish out my standard phrase, ''it's not who I am, it's what I do.'' That way I wouldn't be one of 'them.' I'd be disassociated with the cat jumper wearing freak or the whinger teacher from the news. Once in a pub, I'd convinced someone I was a trainee pilot. But he was from Bletchley so it doesn't really count.

I still find myself riled by people's false perceptions of what happens in schools. Not all schools are good. And, let's be honest, there are a lot (A LOT) of crap teachers out there, but there are also many more bloody good but disheartened ones (many on Twitter) whose hands and creativity are shackled by the horrific National Curriculum (which 3 years ago changed AGAIN).

Now I'm a parent my attitudes haven't changed. Her nursery isn't filled with the most inspirational staff but they love her. As she gets older I'm sure I'll have issues with her teachers, some who I will intensely dislike (catjumpercatjumpercatjumper) but I'll make an appointment and be nice. And then I will say thank you. Happy child = Happy parent.

So if you're pissed off with your child's teacher, don't sit and stew. Make an appointment. If they're a decent person then they'll listen. If you get nowhere, see the Head. Failing that, the Governors. And still no joy? Council offices. Believe it or not, underneath that brash exterior teachers are quite squidgy and if you check under their desk, you just might see that they're paddling against the tide.

What now for me? Teaching and Management is all I know. And I say with some humility its pretty effortless for me. But I really don't want to be a Head Teacher and I feel physically sick at the thought of returning to the chalk face; to sleepless nights and high blood pressure and some odd teachers. Besides, nobody will employ me. Not with my potty mouth ;D