Before
I forget, and am forgotten ….
Contents
Foreword
Beginnings
– being an assistant in France
Teacher training
Early experiences
Mistakes and learning from them
Tall tales
Fun can backfire
“Singing”
Disillusion and the possibility of an
exchange
Rennes – experiences as an exchange
teacher
The 90s – film, family, focus and France
Theatre
Using technology
Assistants
Engagement
Concerts, plays and charity events
Student teachers
School trips abroad
Trips to see “Les Misérables”
Colleagues and pupils
Last years and retirement
Foreword
Countless reports have
been written offering advice on content and evaluation of lessons, and
strategies to drive them. I once attended a meeting chaired by members of Her
Majesty’s Inspectorate of Education (HMIe) in the course of which some ten
elements were proposed as representing excellence in the classroom -
presentation of learning intentions, differentiation of content and evaluation,
use of ICT, evidence of progression, summary of key elements at the end of a
lesson etc. – all very admirable and worthwhile, and all rather “mechanical”.
We were then asked if
there was anything we thought had been omitted and would be worthy of inclusion,
and it struck me that something that underpins all elements of good teaching
and learning is relationships between teacher and pupils, so I put forward that
point. The Inspector chairing the meeting looked at me, somewhat bemused, and
asked if I meant discipline or good order. I agreed, but suggested there was
more to it than that, involving why pupils were willing to work with a teacher,
the atmosphere in the room and the rapport between teacher and pupils.
The Inspector continued
to look bemused and it was clear that this element had not been factored in to the
official perception of excellence in the classroom at that point. However, it
is precisely this element that made the job viable and worthwhile for me. If I
hadn’t been able to get on with my pupils, have a bit of banter with them and
just plain have some fun at the same time as teaching and fostering learning,
my time in the classroom would have been unbearable.
I feel I was never very
good at making the work itself fun, but I often found myself injecting touches
of humour in order to engage the attention of my pupils and enable them to
enjoy the process of learning, at least to some extent.
Of course, this is a
two-way process and I am eternally indebted to my pupils who were willing to
“play the game”, i.e. produce the work of the class while indulging my desire
to amuse and engage.
Beginnings – being an
assistant in France
When I was at school and
university and I was asked what career path I wanted to pursue, I always said I
was unsure but the one thing I didn’t want to do was teach. This response
reflected a lack of guidance and direction combined with a considerable lack of
self-confidence on my part. It may also have been based in good part on my
perception of the experience of some of my teachers. Several did not have a
pleasant time with some of my classes at school and I was none too sure of how
I would cope with some of the challenging and at times downright awful
behaviour I witnessed from certain classmates.
How, then, did I become
involved in teaching?
As M.A.(Hons) students of
French at Edinburgh University in the seventies, we were expected to spend our
third year in France and we were encouraged to apply for an English
assistantship in a French school (assistants are usually native speakers who
provide linguistic and cultural support in modern languages classes). I can’t
say I was very keen as I was very unsure of myself and how I would cope, but my
application was successful and, at the age of twenty, I spent the academic year
of 1978 – 1979 in Le Havre at the Lycée Porte Océane and I have to say that
although I was initially apprehensive and anxious, it was one of the best
formative experiences I could have hoped for.
Le Havre is hardly a
beautiful city. Strategically important in the Second World War, it was
virtually razed to the ground by the Allies and was rebuilt after the war. It
is very “practical” in feel with everything carefully placed and planned and
there is a great feeling of space and openness while the roads are nearly all
straight, long and at right-angles to one another. It doesn’t feel like it has
evolved and grown because it hasn’t – it was carefully and deliberately rebuilt
after its devastating destruction. It is France’s second port and has an
enormous industrial complex on its outskirts. Having said all that, I found the
people warm, caring, friendly and welcoming, and in the end, it is the people
who make a place.
Porte Océane was a fairly
large upper secondary school (for pupils aged fifteen to eighteen) with
approximately 1,200 students and about 80 staff. As an assistant I was
contracted to give 12 classes per week, though my timetable varied from week to
week to ensure I saw as many students as possible within the English
department.
The greatest (and first)
lesson I learned was the necessity to “throw yourself in”. I had to cast aside
inhibitions and “perform”. I had to lead classes, plan activities, deal with
any problems (in terms of linguistic questions and/or behaviour), and I had to
try to engage the interest of the pupils.
Of course, I wasn’t a
teacher as such and so that allowed me the freedom of developing a more
informal approach and style within the classroom.
I quickly realised that
my youth (I was only three or four years older than most of the pupils) and the
fact that I wasn’t a “real” teacher worked in my favour when dealing with
pupils. Since I didn’t share their language or their culture I needed some way
to break down barriers and engage with them, so I set out to be friendly, share
experiences with them, “make a spectacle of myself” as one member of staff put
it, and ensure I didn’t adopt a tone of superiority. Several assistants I knew
tried to act as teachers, insisting on certain standards of discipline and
formality, but I discovered pupils reacted well to humour and self-mockery and
as a result there were few problems concerning good order or engagement.
I tried to incorporate
less formal strategies of language-learning in my lessons such as songs which
could be translated and discussed (usually played on cassettes!), extracts from
books (one of which was a series of comic observations by Ronnie Corbett),
discussion of topics of interest to them, and I chatted about my experiences in
their town. I also invited and offered correction of language, emphasising
humorous interpretations or misinterpretations of words and phrases which
allowed and encouraged pupils to relax and contribute where otherwise they may
have remained silent.
I should say that the
teaching staff were all warm, approachable and encouraging. Each (there were
five of them) had his/her own style with varying degrees of discipline and
different ways of engaging with pupils. They were all supportive, helpful and
happy to invite me to social events which helped build my sense of belonging
and self-confidence.
Of course, I wasn’t the
only assistant at the school. There were three of us – me, a German called
Joseph and a Spaniard called Julian. Both were older than me - Joseph was in his
late twenties while Julian was thirty-seven, married and had three children. We
each had a poorly insulated and soundproofed room (with hardboard walls
separating us) on the top floor of a block of flats attached to the school,
built specifically to house school staff (a common practice in France), with my
room in the middle, Joseph to my left and Julian to my right.
Joseph was quite a
gregarious character. He wore NHS-style glasses, had long dark hair, was
confident and direct to the point of being abrupt and in a loud, almost
booming, voice, he was not slow to express his thoughts and opinions. He was
fond of playing music loudly into the wee small hours of the morning and would
accuse me of behaving like an old man if I dared complain about the noise. We
may not have been great friends, but we got along and even attended a few
social events together, and it is for one of these events that I particularly
remember Joseph ….
As I already indicated,
the staff at the school were exceptionally welcoming and sociable and one
evening they were due to meet a former colleague who had fallen ill, and whom
they had not seen for a considerable time, in a restaurant not far from the
school, and the three of us were cordially invited.
We arrived at the very ornate
and fairly busy restaurant where we met our colleagues and were introduced to
several guests who were unknown to us. Introductions involved shaking hands
with all the male guests and kissing (once on each cheek) all the female
guests, a process which took several minutes and which was repeated as each
further guest arrived.
We took our places at the
large table set aside for our group, to friendly and understanding looks from
other patrons, and set about drinking aperitifs while the other guests arrived.
About twenty minutes
later, the guests of honour arrived (their former colleague and his wife) and
they proceeded to meet and greet each and every guest with a handshake or
embrace, but this time with not just one but two pecks on each cheek, thereby at
least doubling the length of time already spent on simply saying hello and
significantly delaying the start of our meal.
This all got a bit much
for Joseph who by this time was rather hungry and had downed a reasonable
quantity of wine, and who couldn’t believe the sheer amount of meeting,
greeting, embracing and especially kissing that was going on. He stood and in
his usual direct, bold and very loud manner, he asked everyone in the
restaurant in his vaguely Germanic but perfectly clear French, “Mais, combien
de fois est-ce qu’on baise en France?”, which translates roughly as “But how
many times do you screw in France?” !
(This is an easy mistake
to make as the verb “baiser” originally meant “to kiss” in the dim and distant
past, but has gone on to have a MUCH stronger meaning in present-day French, a
fact of which Joseph apparently remained blissfully unaware).
Reaction was rapid,
widespread and amused. Several mouthfuls of wine narrowly avoided being spat on
the floor and there was much gasping followed by polite and understanding
laughter, while it was left to Julian and me to explain to Joseph what he had
in fact said rather than inquire about the number of kisses the guests had
shared, as he thought he had done.
Julian was something of a
rarity – a ginger-haired and ginger-bearded Spaniard. He was very kind, human
and a lot of fun. We became very good friends to the extent that six years
later he drove all the way from Seville in the south of Spain to Tain in the
north of Scotland to be the Best Man at my wedding.
We helped one another and
shared many trips and adventures. We toured the local area in his car, went
further afield to Lille, Brussels and Bruges, and were even invited together to
colleagues’ homes for dinner, forming a sort of double act as our hosts
apparently found us entertaining.
One evening we had been
invited to the home of a friend of a friend and, perhaps because he was missing
his wife and three children and was upset at the thought of spending another
five months or so in Le Havre without them, he got particularly drunk before we
even sat down at our host’s table.
We made a start on our
entrée, French Onion soup which contained Mozzarella, a type of cheese that
goes very stringy when heated and which appeared to stretch almost infinitely
as we dipped our spoons into our soup and raised them to our mouths. Unbroken
thin cords of cheese clung to the spoons and refused to break free from the
motherload of molten cheese hidden under the surface of our soup. The bigger problem
was that as we put the spoons in our mouths these cords of cheese simply
transferred their grip to our lips, thereby creating the effect of a virtual
rope bridge consisting of strands of cheese between our mouths and their
apparently never-ending source in our soup-bowls.
The other guests were
unhindered by this problem – clearly there was some technique whereby it was
possible to eat the damned soup without establishing visible and unbreakable
connections to it, but no-one informed us of what it was.
Somewhat embarrassed by
our predicament, we began to giggle at our inadequacy, but Julian had an even
bigger problem than I had. The cheese strings attached themselves to his beard
and appeared to be multiplying at an alarming rate as he tried to disentangle
the cords, succeeding only in spreading them ever further.
We shared knowing looks
and giggles, made worse by the fact our hosts and the other guests steadfastly
and politely tried to ignore our situation.
I don’t know if he simply
wanted to break the grip of the cheese strings or if he acted out of devilment
to see how far they would stretch before snapping, but Julian started to swing
on his chair, going ever farther back, giggling increasingly and in disbelief
as he was ever more impressed by just how far the cheese cords would stretch
before giving way.
Well, Julian’s ability to
maintain his balance gave way before the cheese cords as all of a sudden, he
hurtled backward toward the wall, his head ending up at a 45° angle between his
shoulders and the skirting board, the cheese strings intact and Julian giggling
uncontrollably but managing to utter the odd “Merde!”
We were not invited back.
Spending a year on
foreign soil brings with it many advantages in terms of language, personal
development and professional experience, but also in terms of development of
cultural knowledge and awareness. You tend to accumulate such knowledge without
really realising it – you simply adapt to your circumstances and environment,
and assimilate. I do, however, clearly remember my introduction to “Le Trou
Normand” (The Norman Hole) and Calvados, a strong brandy made with apples.
During my stay in Le
Havre I opened a Lloyd’s bank account and became friends with Michael, one of
the young ex-pat managers. One Saturday evening, he and his wife Hilary kindly
invited me to a gathering in their home.
Everything went well and
a good time was had by all. About 1 a.m. it was time to leave, but as I was
about to set off someone in the group mentioned “Le Trou Normand” and asked if
I had heard of it. It was explained to me that this is a tradition in the north
of France whereby if you have enjoyed a hearty meal and would like to indulge
in a little more, but feel you have insufficient space for an extra course, you
drink some Calvados.
Calvados is an
exceptionally strong brandy produced from apples and is offered after a large
meal (in a thimble-sized container and in a single shot) to burn its way
through the food already consumed, consequently leaving room for more – The
Norman Hole.
So, at the end of the
evening with Michael, Hilary and their guests, I was offered a Calvados
largely, I think, because they wanted to see what effect this strong brandy
would have on the young fresh-faced Scot before them.
I accepted their kind
offer and consumed my thimble of Calvados in one go. Maybe it was because I had
eaten well or maybe it was because I was already merry, but the emphatically
strong Calvados had no effect on me.
Visibly disappointed,
Michael, Hilary and their guests insisted I should have another before setting
off on my mile-long journey across the city to my flat.
I downed the second
Calvados and this time I did feel some effect, a slightly increased wooziness
and merriment, but hardly the effect my hosts clearly hoped to see. Still, they
were satisfied their “digestif” had produced some effect, so they let me go.
I made my way down the
stairs from their flat to the street below, and as I opened the door onto the
street the cold air hit me, and so did the Calvados!
Suddenly I was energised!
I felt dynamic and vibrant! No wooziness, no lack of clarity – just a desire to
run!
I was off – the first
part of the journey was downhill in a quiet (it was 1.30 a.m.) suburban area,
and I negotiated the twists and turns of the streets with no problem and with
no shortage of breath – I was a running machine!
I then came into the city
centre and so had to negotiate zebra crossings, wide roads, and a not
inconsiderable amount of traffic (city traffic never stops). I was thoroughly
enjoying my return journey and felt like my upper body was sitting astride some
kind of automated travel machine which my legs were driving like pistons and my
feet were the wheels. I was particularly taken with the fact that I was overtaking
motor vehicles which had to slow down and stop for traffic lights while I
simply waved at the drivers and was able to weave my way across junctions and
crossings, and between stopped cars, all at a steady speed!
I arrived at my flat with
no breathlessness, no fatigue or light-headedness, and with absolutely no
desire to go to sleep!
Teacher training
I can’t say it was all
fun and frolics in Le Havre – there were some difficult and lonely periods as
well, but it was my first lengthy experience of independence and I learned a
lot about myself, others and how to get on with people. It also had the effect
of making me tire of academia. I had had a taste of freedom, responsibility and
participation in the world of work, and that made my return to student life
(with its instruction, deadlines and imposed structure) all the more difficult
to bear. I did what I had to do in my final year at university, but I certainly
felt the need to move on. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any clear idea of what I
wanted to do with my life, so I started applying for anything that vaguely took
my fancy. I no longer remember the detail but I do recall that I put in some 27
applications, including one for teacher training at Moray House in Edinburgh.
My application was somewhat
half-hearted. I only had to think back to some of the experiences of my own
teachers to understand why this was the case, though I did enjoy my time as an
assistant in France (even if I realised I wasn’t a “real” teacher), and that
was why I applied.
Apparently, that year
(1980) was the first time candidates were called to interview and I duly
presented myself for interview in March.
It didn’t go particularly
well. I did not shine. I was acutely aware of potential discipline problems and
although I had got on well in Le Havre, I was only too well aware that the
style of teaching I adopted in France was not what would be expected of an
“official” teacher in a Scottish secondary school.
My two interviewers did
not introduce themselves, appeared to simply go through the motions and did
little to put me at my ease. I can recall little detail, but their questions
were dull and uninspired while my responses were equally mundane and revealed
little flair or enthusiasm. The low point came toward the end when I was asked
how I would deal with a difficult second year class last period on a Friday.
Rather predictably, I came out with some advantages of learning a language
which they instantly and rather dismissively rejected as “far too
philosophical”. I snapped back, asking what they would do, and they suggested
giving the class comics to read or games to play – something simple and
undemanding that wouldn’t cause ripples.
I would later recognise
the wisdom of that strategy (or more substantial variations of it – it’s never
that simple), but at the time it seemed to me they were expecting an insight I
couldn’t possibly have, or if this was something I should have known then I was
not what they were looking for and I didn’t have what it took to become a “proper”
teacher.
In any case I gave up on
the idea of a career in teaching, a decision confirmed by the letter of
rejection I received a few weeks later.
Shortly afterwards I
obtained my degree and wanted to find a summer job, since a more permanent
position wasn’t in the offing, to keep me going. I replied to an advert seeking
teachers of English for foreign students at a summer school in Edinburgh
(thinking my experience and informal approach as an assistant might suit their
requirements), and I got the job!
I was able to apply the
same strategies as I used in France – I was friendly, open, willing to share
thoughts and experiences and I used music, books and personal input to try to
engage students’ interest. We also went on trips to St Andrews, local tourist
sites (Edinburgh Castle, Tantallon Castle), the cinema, and I even acted as a
barman at a leaving party.
It was altogether a
successful time which was eventually extended to include the following Easter
and summer periods.
However, I still didn’t
have a permanent job and my time with the Edinburgh language school was due to
come to an end in September.
Just as I was becoming anxious
and started to wonder just what I was going to do, I received a phone call at
the beginning of October from Moray House offering me a place on the PGCE
course (Postgraduate Certificate in Education, leading to a teaching
qualification for secondary education)! One of their students had dropped out
and I was next on their list! Naturally I was delighted to accept, especially
after my successful time with the language school. I was aware I was a second
choice, but at least I had something to aim at and I could give it my best
shot.
My recollections of
classes at Moray House are fairly vague. There were classes on legal aspects of
the profession, and social aspects involving raising awareness of various
potential problems and situations, and awareness also of your own response to
these problems and situations. Of course, there were also classes on teaching
your subject, but these seemed to consist largely of recollections from our
tutor rather than structured lessons on how to go about teaching a class,
dealing with form, content and behaviour. There were broad suggestions, but
little in the way of concrete ideas or advice. On the other hand, so much
depends on the particular composition of a class – age, ability range,
interest, conduct, background knowledge and, of course, the relationship with
the teacher, I suppose it was difficult to generalise and cover all
eventualities.
Half the time was spent
on placement in local schools, and I much preferred that element. I attended
three very different schools and gained something from each.
My first placement school
was very near where I lived. It was a fairly large secondary school and the
pupils were very mixed. The school as a whole, and the department where I was
placed, were highly organised but fairly cold. There was little rapport between
pupils and teachers. It was efficient and productive but rather stolid. The
distinct distance between pupil and teacher made me fairly uncomfortable as I
was used to trying to build a bond with students in order to engage and involve
them, but it seemed to me that this establishment was too regimented for that.
Indeed, I was told I was being “too nice” to pupils, including some who
actually turned to me for help with homework rather than go to their “proper”
teacher, presumably because they felt I was more approachable, yet I was being
told this was not the way forward.
I left that school with
serious misgivings about my place in such a rigid and disciplined environment –
I felt it just wasn’t for me.
My second placement was a
little farther away but was still within easy travelling distance from home.
After my previous experience, I was more than a little anxious about what
awaited me.
The first lesson I
learned from my second placement is that each school has its own atmosphere and
“feel”.
Here the staff were firm
but friendly and fair. They entered into conversation with pupils and there was
a warmth in their relationships, though there was a clear line not to be
crossed. I was delighted and felt much more at home in this environment. My
attempts at engagement with pupils met with approval and I even received praise
for my teaching of a difficult grammar point. This was something of a breakthrough
for me in that I felt I was making progress as a teacher, and it led to the
development of a strategy I’ve used time and time again ever since – break down
the point you’re covering into its component parts, revise what may be familiar
and ensure understanding of these parts, then build up understanding of each
new element until knowledge is complete and pupils are able to apply what they
have understood.
All told, a much happier
experience and one which gave me hope for the future!
My third placement was in
a much more modern and avant-garde establishment. Here, pupils were encouraged
to be responsible for their own learning – a modern and laudable policy, but in
this school it was interpreted by pupils as meaning they had a choice in terms
of attendance, focus and concentration. There was considerable variation in
teaching methodologies and levels of discipline, but at its worst, there was
informality taken to the point of disrespect and lack of responsibility which
appeared to do no-one any good.
So, I had seen three
distinct variations on the theme of education. I was fairly unhappy with the
restrictive practices of the first, encouraged by the less formal but effective
policies of the second, and left perplexed and anxious by the apparent lack of
structure and effectiveness of the third.
Although I preferred a
less formal and cordial approach, I recognised the need for limits. I hoped
that being reasonable with people would produce reasonable behaviour, but I had
to accept that not everyone was open to reason and a certain level of
discipline had to be imposed – for everyone’s benefit.
Of course, all of this
was academic and of no importance unless I managed to find a job. Toward the
end of the year we all embarked on the process of finding employment, which was
going to be particularly difficult for me (my tutors kindly pointed out) as I
had only one language to offer while all my fellow teaching students had two.
It appears it was principally on that basis that I was initially rejected –
nothing to do with my weak responses to my interviewers’ questions!
Thus, it was with
something of a heavy heart that I took part in what was called “The Milk Round”
toward the end of the session. This consisted of a set of preliminary
interviews (not job offers) at Moray House with representatives of all the
local authorities or regions in Scotland. Their purpose was to establish the
chances of gaining employment in each authority and therefore whether it was
worth applying to them.
I attended
interviews/conversations with representatives of several authorities (which
existed at the time), including Central, Lothians and Strathclyde. In each
conversation, I was told politely (yet indifferently) there were few posts
coming up for Modern Languages teachers, and what few there were would go to
those with more than one language.
A sense of hopelessness
fell over me. It was clear that every authority was going to say the same
thing. What was I going to do?
As I was walking along a
corridor, I came across a door with a sign saying “Highland” above it. I
actually walked past it, asking myself what was the point. However, emboldened
by a feeling of pointlessness and thinking I had nothing to lose, I turned
around, put my head in the open doorway and, vaguely aware of four gentlemen,
one in each corner of the room, I called out quite cheerily but hiding a sense
of desperation, “Don’t suppose you have any jobs for French teachers, do you?”.
Three of them shook their
heads sorrowfully and said no, but the fourth in the corner diagonally opposite
the door called back, “Come over and we’ll have a chat.”
After a millisecond of
raised hope, I realised the chap was simply going through the motions, probably
because he was bored and would rather chat to someone for a few minutes at
least than just leaf through some papers for the umpteenth time.
And so, he asked the
usual questions about what subjects I did, where I had studied and for how
long. Then, however, he asked what Moray House thought of me. I answered
honestly as I was sure I wouldn’t be seeing him again – that I was OK, but
nothing special. He then asked me what I thought of Moray House, so I told him
about the strengths and about the weaknesses I perceived in their course.
Finally, he asked how I felt about working in schools, and I was able to tell
him I vastly preferred that aspect of the course to any other, and that I
particularly enjoyed being with young people.
Mr Alan Forsyth,
Education Manager for Easter Ross, smiled benevolently, looked me straight in
the eye and said, “I think I can offer you a post at Invergordon Academy.”
Stunned does not cover
it. “A job? You’re offering me a job?”, I asked in a somewhat high-pitched and
disbelieving tone. He confirmed it. I couldn’t believe my ears. This was not
supposed to happen – these were not job interviews as such and in any case, I
was the last person they would want! Of course, it was true, and I discovered
the following day that I (the most unlikely candidate) was the only one of our
class to be offered a job.
I rather arrogantly asked
to visit the school before finally accepting (I’ll put that down to shock), but
there was never any doubt about my acceptance.
All I had to do now was
find out just where Invergordon was! It transpires it was some 200 miles north
of my home, but that was of no importance – I was just relieved to have found a
job.
Early experiences
My first visit to
Invergordon Academy went well, on the whole. I managed to find the school
eventually after speaking to a shop owner on the High Street – bear in mind
this was in August of 1981, in the days prior to the internet, Google Maps or
indeed Google anything!
I was introduced to
various members of staff, including Evelyn Wilkie, the head of department who
wasted no time before letting me know she hadn’t really wanted her “rotten”
job, but had been asked to take it on in view of the fact there had been no
applicants. Approaching retirement age (probably a little younger than I am
now), she was a nice, caring lady who felt a little out of place as things were
changing rapidly in the world of Modern Languages teaching in Scotland. She
explained that we were about to embark on the strategy of communicative
competence which demanded far greater focus on spoken communication and less on
written work, and less insistence on accuracy across all disciplines, instead
recognising successful communication at varying levels. This approach ran
contrary to virtually her whole experience in teaching and she was naturally
apprehensive and doubtful.
I was also introduced to
Andy Murray, a young teacher of German who shocked me when he told me he had
been in post for four years. At that time, that seemed like a lifetime as I
intended doing my two-year probationary period there, and then moving on. He
was a spirited and friendly young man, and I was sure we would get on well.
There was a meeting with
the Headmaster, Tom Bownes, a gentle and polite man, and Depute Ian Goldsack,
who was also pleasant and friendly, to confirm my acceptance of the position.
However, the most
memorable (and embarrassing) introduction came toward the end of my visit as I
stood at the doorway to the staffroom, about to say farewell. Russell Preston,
Assistant Head and person responsible for probationers approached in the
corridor. He was about my height, slim, slightly balding and had a moustache.
He wore a checked suit and had a purposeful gait.
Nothing I saw, however,
prepared me for his voice. It was deep, guttural and virtually unintelligible.
We shook hands, and as we
did so, he spoke:
“Ha fa u tavd dae?”
Unable to detect or
identify any key words that might unlock the phrase for me, I was unclear as to
whether this was a statement or a question. I didn’t want to ask him to repeat
himself so, after what felt like a very lengthy pause, I offered a cautious and
unsure “Yes”, whereupon he gave a slight shake of the head, muttered “Huh” (I
was to discover this was an expression he used frequently), turned on his heels
and walked away.
I was somewhat shaken and
embarrassed by this experience – I was going to be a languages teacher, after
all, yet I couldn’t cope with the man who was going to guide me through my
probationary period!
I said my farewells and
took note of start dates and times, but that conversation with Mr Preston (such
as it was) kept replaying in my mind. I don’t really know how it came to me,
but suddenly, as I was driving out of the car park, I realised what the man
said to me!
“How far have you
travelled today?” I was astounded, embarrassed and worried. Russell had asked
me a simple and friendly question and I responded with a nonsensical and unsure
“Yes”. Hardly the best first impression to make.
I did feel better a few
weeks later, however, when I realised I was not alone in having difficulty
understanding our dear Assistant Head. A pupil actually came up to me and asked
if it was true Mr Preston had been shot in the throat during the war, such were
the attempts to fathom the origin of that voice.
At the time of my
retirement from the school, every classroom was well equipped technology-wise.
Each room had a computer through which we delivered our lessons, accessed the
internet and registered each class, a SMART (or equivalent) board which allowed
interactivity, a sound system and a telephone.
I was thus able to use a
variety of DVDs, video clips from YouTube, songs, cartoons, word documents,
PowerPoint presentations and the occasional game to enliven some of my lessons.
I amassed several hundred sets of documents into which I could dip within
seconds to reinforce a point or provide structure to a lesson, and I was able
to print sheets at will as I had access to numerous printers around the school.
This contrasts fairly
sharply with the situation at the school when I arrived there. There was just
one phone in the entire school. It was located in the school office next to the
Rector’s room, and you had to have a very good reason if you wanted to make use
of it. Calls were timed and made in public.
There was no photocopier
for general use. Sheets for use with a class were prepared on a sort of
carbon-copy affair and then reproduced on a Banda machine which managed about
30 copies for each original document you hand-wrote.
There were no computers.
At that time they were hugely expensive, would occupy an entire room
(seriously), and were distinctly limited in what they could produce. The
production of a worksheet on computer was virtually unthinkable.
Class work was written on
a blackboard using chalk, and was immediately rubbed out after use in order to
make way for work for the following class. The introduction of the overhead
projector, allowing teachers to hand prepare work on acetate sheets (sometimes
on a roll measuring several metres) using felt-tip pens, was a huge advance as
it meant materials could be stored and re-used. Colour could be added, as could
overlays and covers which could be withdrawn to reveal answers. Professionally
produced acetate sheets could also, eventually, be bought in.
Just as I started
teaching French, the new approach explained to me by Mrs Wilkie, communicative
competence, was introduced. In brief, this was a strategy based on immersion
and lots of repetition with emphasis laid on spoken work rather than written
work, and a deliberate turning away from insistence on accuracy. Indeed, during
our inspection in October of 1981, Mrs Wilkie was instructed by the inspectors
to remove grammar posters from her walls as they were considered
counterproductive.
A new course in keeping
with this new ideology was introduced across Scotland, “Tour de France”, which
was divided into numerous chapters, each one presenting a fresh context with new
vocabulary and structures. Introducing a new chapter usually involved the
playing of a reel-to-reel sound tape containing sentences in French which were
accompanied by still cartoon pictures to match the sentences which were shown
through a projector onto a collapsible screen.
The horizontal film strip
(consisting of some 15 or so pictures) was advanced image by image by means of
a bracket device with a knob on each side which was placed immediately in front
of the projector bulb, and then focused onto the screen by adjusting a lens.
The teacher (or
responsible pupil) knew to advance the film strip when he/she heard a “beep” on
the tape.
And they say technology
is a recent development?
“Tour de France” was
bright, breezy, fun (though not always intentionally – an introductory film
containing removal men pointing at a table and asking one another what it was
usually caused mirth rather than learning), and was virtually devoid of
grammatical content – pupils were expected to assimilate vocabulary and structures
as they would their mother tongue.
It seemed to me that the
writers had failed to take in to account that learning our mother tongue by
immersion means being surrounded by it day and night, and usually involves some
kind of explanation or correction when mistakes are made, while school
immersion meant three periods/hours per week in which little or no correction
was encouraged, apparently for fear of traumatising the poor wee pupils.
I’m afraid I introduced
elements of grammar fairly early on (and was made to feel uneasy or even guilty
at doing so), but I was delighted to see the positive reaction of pupils who
finally found a “hook” or a means of understanding rather than simply depending
on memory.
With the publication of
each successive book (I think there were four), we desperately sought official
grammatical input but it came in only a minor way with the last book. The
course was abandoned some eight years later, though it left a positive legacy
of increased emphasis on spoken work.
It was with some anger
and bitterness that I heard one of the co-authors of the course say, at a
meeting to mark the demise of “Tour de France” and to look ahead to what was to
come next, that “good teachers have always incorporated elements of grammar in the
delivery of “Tour de France”.” I was left speechless.
When you start out in
teaching, it is essential to establish good order and a level of discipline
which allows learning to take place. I realised from my experiences on
placement at Moray House that discipline was, indeed, essential, though the
imposition of authority wasn’t something that came naturally to me.
I did my best and on the
whole my classes were biddable and pleasant. Pupils appeared a bit unsure of
me, as I was of them, but generally we got on reasonably well. I felt that my
position was now entirely different and I couldn’t deal with pupils as I had
done in France and in Edinburgh. I was painfully aware of the possible
consequences of indiscipline so I tried to impose order by more traditional and
authoritarian means.
As luck
would have it, I had a potentially difficult S2 class last period on a Friday,
including a large number of kids who had decided half-way through S1 that they
were going to drop French at the earliest possible opportunity, which was not
until the end of S2! Although they were not without their charm, they were
often inattentive, frequently noisy, and nearly always uninterested. I tried
hard to persuade them of the value of what I was attempting to teach them, and
which they were not making an excessive effort to learn, but questions about
the correct "er" verb ending to go with "tu" were generally
met with bemused stares at their jotters or the board, or worse still, some
cutting remark about my failure to wear properly colour-coordinated clothes.
Something
had to be done. Having failed to appeal to the better side of their natures, I
decided I had to stamp my authority on this class. They had to know that this
inexperienced young geek was, in fact, in charge!
I
prepared even more thoroughly than usual for my final class of the week. Texts
were previewed to the last word, explanations were written up in meticulous
detail, and differentiated exercises to suit the spectrum of ability levels
were produced. On top of this, I tried to project confidence and determination
in my dealings with the class.
All was
going reasonably well, with my extra preparation apparently paying dividends as
the little darlings were generally more focused and remained "on
task"! Until, that is, they were asked to work independently and complete
or produce their own sentences. Clearly this level of expectation proved a
little too much for them as their attention began to deteriorate and the noise
level began to rise. Determined to build on my earlier success, for the first
time I raised my voice!
I
shouted, and it actually worked!
They
went quiet and they listened to me!
Of
course, it didn’t last long and what seemed like just a few moments later a
ripple of inattention ran through the class. Bolstered by my earlier (albeit
minor) success, I was not going to let the disruptive element gain the upper
hand again, so I raised my voice a second time, and once more the noise of
inattention subsided!
It was
then that I made my mistake.
In my determination
to reinforce this positive and quiet working atmosphere and my newfound
authority, I went over to the board to raise it so that the class could see the
continuation of their exercise. Wishing to maintain and emphasise my authority,
I seized the metal bar which allowed movement of the board, and angrily hauled
at it, intending to raise the board sharply, thus emphasising both my
displeasure at their lack of attention, and my control over my pupils.
Unfortunately, in grandstanding for the benefit of the class, I failed to grip
the bar properly and while raising it (with considerable force), my fingers
slipped from the bar, catapulting my hand into my face and launching my glasses
halfway across the room in the process!
Naturally
there were shrieks of laughter as I scrambled around trying to recover my
glasses. My attempts at discipline lay in tatters, but I recognised that this
was, in fact, a pivotal moment in my relationship with this class (and indeed
in my whole approach to teaching). Should I regain my composure and try to
reassert my authority, or should I laugh at my own folly and misfortune?
Most
fortunately I chose the latter.
Why?
Because the kids were right to laugh. It was funny. Posturing to regain a false
and artificial "dignity" was only going to alienate the class.
The
effect on the class? I can’t say they worked on in attentive silence, but they
did get on with the exercise more positively than before "the event".
I can’t
say that all my problems disappeared overnight, but I would say that my slip
and my reaction to it helped to "break the ice". I was able to
develop a greater rapport with even some of my least interested pupils, and it
taught me an invaluable lesson – the importance of being human with a class.
Authority and discipline are undoubtedly essential, but achieving them through
mutual respect and trust (where this is possible) is more effective than simply
trying to impose one’s authority.
And so, I developed a
more natural (to me) and open approach with classes. I got more involved with
discussion and banter, and generally felt I got to know pupils better,
developed a better understanding of their background, attitudes and
comprehension, and began to develop more of a rapport with them. That said,
each teacher must find his/her own way forward and what works for one will not
necessarily work for another.
Of course, there will
always be those who seek to test teachers, their patience and their character
…….
While working with a fourth-year
class one November (bear in mind S4 classes sit national exams at the end of
their fourth year), I was asked about the upcoming prelim exams (mock or
preparatory exams usually sat late November or early December to give pupils
and teachers an idea of progress being made), and I assured the class
everything was in hand and their exam was awaiting them in the cupboard (in the
corner of the room by the entrance), though actually it was in my locked desk
drawer.
This piece of news had
quite an effect on one pupil whom we’ll call Peter (a likeable rogue who
enjoyed trying to entertain the class, which led to some lively and amusing
exchanges) who decided it would be funny to try to sneak across the classroom
floor to the cupboard (a distance of about six metres), enter the cupboard
without me noticing, and secure the prelim exam papers (which would, of course,
merely have had the effect of rendering them invalid).
Clearly possessed of a
desire to entertain rather than actually achieve anything by this adventure,
Peter embarked on his plan to cross the room.
Quite how he thought I
was going to remain unaware of his movements I am unsure, but he slid sneakily
from his chair onto the floor and proceeded to take refuge behind various
fellow pupils in short bursts of movement vaguely reminiscent of a hedgehog
scuttling for cover.
I was just as amused as
Peter’s classmates and wanted to see where this would lead so I played along,
turning to speak to a pupil or going over to another to correct their work,
allowing Peter to take advantage of my diverted attention and get ever closer
to the prize cupboard.
Finally, he made it, and
as I rather stupidly attended to some minor mistakes made by a classmate, Peter
managed to open the cupboard door silently and slip inside.
It was at that moment
that the bell rang, announcing the end of the period and the start of morning
interval. I dismissed the class, inviting them to complete their exercise for
the next time I saw them. The pupils tidied away very hesitantly and gave me
perplexed looks. I reminded them it was break time and suggested they leave
sharply, adding that since the prelim papers were in the cupboard I should
ensure their security by locking the door, whereupon I turned the key in the
lock and left the room rather abruptly, accompanied by several giggling, chatty
and thoroughly entertained pupils.
A few seconds later I
returned to my room, accompanied by a couple of pupils, to find a rather
red-faced and upset Peter sitting on one of the shelves.
Feigning surprise, my
mouth open and looking around the cupboard in disbelief, I asked Peter how on
Earth he had got into the cupboard and suggested he leave immediately as he would
miss his break.
The look on his face of
indignant and enraged defeat, yet with a slight smile indicating he recognised
the funny side of his situation, was something to behold and remains a
treasured memory!
April Fool’s Day is a day
to be avoided in a school. Fortunately, the Easter holiday period frequently
falls at that time, but one year, early in my career, this was not the case and
I fell victim to a prank I still recall with considerable amusement but which I
found most perplexing at the time.
I had a third-year class
of about twelve pupils who were not very taken with French. By and large we got
on fine and they didn’t give me too hard a
time, but I was warned by colleagues
and superiors to be on my toes as there was the potential for disruption if
pupils were not interested.
So, on April Fool’s Day I
was especially vigilant and well-prepared – everything was thought through and
organised, and I stepped outside my room into the corridor to meet and greet
them as they arrived. As usual, they didn’t arrive as a group but rather in
dribs and drabs, all displaying their normal level of enthusiasm but politely
acknowledging my presence as they entered my room.
I waited a few seconds to
ensure there were no stragglers before re-entering my room myself.
As soon as I got inside,
I got something of a shock. The room was empty. There was no-one present. No
pupils.
I was thrown completely.
I had just seen my charges enter the room, but now – no-one.
From the vantage point of
the teacher’s table you can see clearly under all the pupils’ desks and there
was nothing to be seen, yet I still went forward and bent down to check under
the desks, confirming once again (obviously) there was no-one there.
In desperation, I even
checked under my own table where there might have been space for a couple of
people – nothing.
I found myself walking around
the empty room, knowing perfectly well there was no-one present, but looking
for them anyway!
I then realised they had
to be in the small cupboard in the back left corner of the room, but as I
looked through the shoulder-height window in the door from the middle of the
rear of the room, I knew I would certainly have a clear view of twelve people
standing, crushed together, if they were in such an enclosed space.
I was confused, dismayed,
and I was starting to panic – I had lost an entire class, in my own room!
I stepped outside to look
for them, knowing how ridiculous this was, but not knowing what else to do.
I re-entered the room and
once again looked under all the desks and my table and I was just thinking of
how on Earth to word my report to the office to the effect that I’d lost my
class when I heard a sound. It was a muffled giggle, and it came from the
cupboard.
I still remember the
sheer sense of relief at hearing evidence of the continued existence of my
class, yet mixed with total confusion concerning their presence in a small
cupboard whose window I had already checked.
I approached the window
and heard more giggles and whispers. This time I opened the door to find my
class – all twelve of them lying horizontal, one on top of the other in three
rows of four! Stretched out as they were, they only reached a height of a
little over a metre, well below the level of the window in the door, and I had
failed to spot them with my cursory glance through the window at a distance!
There was much laughter
and I have to say a lot of bonhomie was created as a result of their very
successful prank.
I do not have strong
teeth and as a result I had lots of work done on them when I was young, which
left me with not so much a fear of dentists, but a desire never to see one again
if I could possibly avoid it, and when I left home for university I got just
that opportunity.
During my five years in
tertiary education (four at Edinburgh University and one at Moray House), I did
not visit a dentist. To be fair, I didn’t have any problems, but I have to
admit my principal objective was simply to avoid potentially painful visits to
the dentist.
The moral of the
following story is very simple – go to see your dentist regularly in order to
avoid the build-up of what could develop into major problems.
During the Easter break
of my first year in teaching I became aware of a nagging toothache in the upper
left side of my jaw, toward the rear. The pain developed somewhat alarmingly,
but I followed my well-established pattern of behaviour toward my teeth and
ignored it, hoping it would somehow go away. It didn’t. It developed to such an
extent that I couldn’t sleep and eventually could barely function at all as the
pain progressively pervaded every aspect of my life. Yet I still would not go
to a dentist.
Fortunately, my wife
(sensible person that she is) made the call (without me knowing) and arranged
an emergency appointment for the following day. I was instantly relieved – I
knew it was necessary and recognised how foolish I had been to let things reach
this stage, and I resolutely decided I would never let this happen again.
While hardly looking
forward to my treatment, I was actually reasonably happy to sit down in the
dentist’s chair with the prospect of the now constant and throbbing pain coming
to an end.
The dentist was plainly
unhappy with what he saw in my mouth and said he was sorry, but the tooth would
have to come out. I clung to some hope and asked if he couldn’t just fill it.
Definitely not – it had to come out, and immediately.
I explained I was a
coward and asked for gas, but he suggested that wasn’t a good idea in case
something went wrong, so I requested a strong dose of anaesthetic as I had
experienced considerable discomfort during previous extractions.
The dentist was most
accommodating and reassuring. He injected me at numerous points around the
offending tooth and within a few minutes the pain started to subside for the
first time in days. The wave of relief was such that I felt foolish for having
put off this visit for so long and I was entirely confident I would feel no
pain during the treatment.
The dentist put in place
a framework which would hold open my mouth (remember the offending tooth was at
the rear of my upper jaw), and he started the procedure.
He went about his work
with great care and consideration and I was delighted both that there was no
pain and that the whole incident would soon be over. He pulled hard on the
tooth, but it didn’t come away. He tried two or three times more, but still
without success. He placed his left hand on my forehead and pulled hard with
his right hand – still no give. “It doesn’t want to come”, he said.
When I saw him put his
right foot on the end of the arm of the chair to gain some purchase, I
suspected things were not going as smoothly as they might, but that did it –
all of a sudden I felt the tooth give, but entirely painlessly. I was actually
happy!
However, when I heard the
dentist utter “Oh God” as he pulled the tooth, I knew everything was not as it
should be ……
I shall spare you the
grisly details of the procedure, but suffice it to say the poor man was
traumatised because the roots of my tooth had wrapped themselves around my
jawbone (unknown, of course, to the dentist), thus explaining the substantial
resistance to the tooth’s extraction. As he forced the tooth out, a broken
piece of my jawbone came with it and he was obliged to cut it free from the
gum, tearing muscle in the process and having to stitch me up afterward.
By the end of the process
the poor dentist was quite done in, while I was entirely happy that the tooth
was now gone and I had experienced no pain.
He gave me a prescription
for painkillers and penicillin. I suggested I wouldn’t need the painkillers as
the tooth was now gone, but he replied “You’re going to need them”, and he was
right.
Two hours later I was in
bed because of the pain, yet happy in the knowledge that this condition was
only temporary.
However, I soon
discovered a couple of complications. Blood had seeped into the torn muscle and
clamped shut the left side of my mouth. This was somewhat unpleasant and
disconcerting, but was aggravated by a more pressing discovery – I have a
strong reaction to penicillin and it makes me vomit.
Anyone who has tried to
express water through a relatively small aperture will understand the effect
…….
The connection to
teaching of this story?
Well, I am happy to
report that the swelling did eventually subside (and I ceased taking the
penicillin immediately), but it took some three weeks to do so and in the meantime,
I had once again taken up my duties at the school.
This was an absolute gift
from Heaven for some pupils who delighted in the fact that I could only speak
through the right side of my mouth. I was subjected to a fair amount of
light-hearted mockery as various pupils gently teased me and mimicked my
inability to fully open my mouth and say words with any great clarity.
The small third-year
class mentioned previously thoroughly enjoyed my temporary handicap and took
great pleasure in repeating words and phrases just as I pronounced them, but
about three weeks later they got their comeuppance ……...
By this time the swelling
was all but gone and I was more or less back to normal. I was sitting on a desk
in front of the class, reading a text and translating it with them when I
sneezed. Nothing to write home about, you might think, but I was suddenly aware
of something “foreign” in my mouth, so I couldn’t continue reading.
Now, whatever I think or
feel tends to show on my face and it was clear to the class that something was
amiss, both because of my silence and the expression on my face.
I realised the stitches
had come loose and were floating about in my mouth, but I really didn’t want to
share this with my unsuspecting class.
“What’s wrong?” they
asked, genuinely concerned.
I tried to say “nothing”,
but without opening my mouth, thereby only increasing their suspicion and
anxiety.
I removed myself from the
desk and wandered nonchalantly over to the sink in a corner of my room, bent
over and spat the offending object into the sink, then washing it away while
trying not to draw attention to it.
“What’s that?” they asked
in some alarm and with considerable trepidation.
“Just my stitches” I
said, thinking I had avoided a scene and had spared the finer sensibilities of
my class.
Well, I suspect you could
have heard the screams at the far end of the corridor outside my room. The boys
just looked disgusted, but the girls? They couldn’t control their revulsion and
let it all out with cries and facial expressions last used when they tasted
something vile.
Although taken aback by
their reaction, I have to confess to a degree of satisfaction and a sense of
retribution for the mirth they had enjoyed at my expense for the previous few
weeks ……
I did, of course, use
this story frequently to promote regular visits to the dentist.
Mistakes and learning
from them
Everyone makes mistakes,
so they say, and they are right. The important thing is to recognise them and
to try to learn from them, and that applies equally to teachers and pupils. I
would like to think that I did learn from my mistakes, but it should be borne
in mind that this appears to be a continuous and perpetual process.
A few examples of
mistakes I made and lessons I learned early on:
It is best to prepare
thoroughly in advance and not to leave a class to collect some photocopying
you’ve forgotten, giving the class time to set up a waste-paper bin filled with
water above the classroom door which has been left ajar. This is particularly
true if the depute rector decides to pop in to your room just ahead of you.
It’s probably best not to
physically remove a pen from a pupil’s mouth – even if he has arrived late, is
under the influence of magic mushrooms and refuses to remove his pen when
speaking to you. Physically removing the pen is particularly ill-advised if you
consequently discover it is ridged and causes a distinct rattle of teeth while
being removed.
It’s probably best not to
suddenly roar out of the blue at pupils who are inattentive and chattering,
even if it has the desired effect of correcting their behaviour. At least, not
if you have a pupil with a heart condition right in front of you who has such a
fright when you bellow that he struggles to catch his breath and goes a very
worrying shade of red. (He did survive.)
It’s best not to assume
that parents will be able (or willing) to exercise control over their
offspring. At one parents’ evening, a pupil and his father sat in front of me
and the pupil held a polystyrene cup filled with tea. While I was speaking to
this pupil, he bit a chunk out of the lip of the cup and proceeded to eat it. A
little taken aback, I pointed out to the pupil slowly and clearly, “You’re
eating the cup”, whereupon he took another bite. I looked at the father and
said equally slowly and clearly, “He’s eating the cup”, at which he looked at
me, smiled, and made a bizarre sound which indicated agreement, amusement and a
complete inability to influence events.
It is probably best not
to engage in potentially dangerous automotive activities at lunchtime ……
My colleague Andy was
particularly keen on cars and motorbikes, and announced one Friday that the
following day he was going to London to take possession of a new 600cc
motorbike. I had to confess I had never even been a passenger on a motorbike,
far less ridden one, so he suggested that I accompany him as a pillion
passenger the following Monday at lunchtime.
I did my best to find
excuses such as not having a helmet or suitable clothing, and I had a class immediately
after lunch, but whatever excuse I produced, Andy furnished a solution. Nothing
was going to prevent this man from providing my initiation to motorbiking.
Monday arrived and so did
Andy on his rather large and impressive 600cc motorbike. Lunchtime came and I
wore my leather coat and the helmet so thoughtfully provided by Andy. I sat in
the pillion position and I have to say the sheer width of the seat took me by
surprise. For a moment, I doubted if my feet would make contact with the
footrests! When Andy got on, I realised I would have to find something to grip
in order to steady myself and I didn’t want to grip Andy, so I felt around for
some other means of delivering some sense of security and I discovered a form
of handle (undoubtedly a bar allowing the secure transport of luggage) about
level with my backside. I held on with both hands, safe in the knowledge my
hands and arms effectively formed a backrest, preventing me from sliding
backwards.
After warning me that I
would have to lean into corners to help with balance, Andy started the engine
and I suddenly became aware of the sheer, raw power available immediately
beneath me, and before I could express any doubts about continuing, we were
off.
We drove through the town
and I handled the curves and corners of the streets well, leaning in to them as
necessary. Once out of town and moving in a relatively straight line, Andy
accelerated to about 60 mph (I could see the speedo over his shoulder) and I
actually enjoyed the experience! I started to relax, though I continued to grip
the handle behind me as we headed north, doing a steady 60 along the not very
busy A9 above Invergordon. It appeared my fears had been ill-founded and I
actually started to find the experience, well, a little mundane – almost
disappointing, at least compared to how I had built it up in my mind before
setting off.
We arrived at a couple of
bends which preceded another long straight and Andy had to slow to a crawl as
we came up behind a tractor.
“Are you alright?” Andy
turned and asked, shouting through his helmet.
“Yes” said I, quite
matter-of-fact. Then a doubt struck me. “Why?” I asked. “Because we’re going to
overtake the tractor in a second.” “OK” I said, thinking nothing of overtaking
a vehicle moving at 15 mph.
As we rounded the corner
Andy could see there was no traffic ahead, so he made the manoeuvre to
overtake.
The sheer force of the
acceleration pushed me physically back along the seat so that the only things
stopping me joining the A9 were my hands and fingers which were now gripping
the bar behind me so tightly that they would have cracked nuts! At exactly the
same time, my head dipped down behind Andy’s shoulders and my thighs clamped
down hard on the seat, the throbbing power of the engine passing through me like
an electric current. I was not in control of my limbs – instinct took over and
I seized on anything and everything to survive!
I did manage to raise my
head, albeit wobbling like jelly, far enough to see the speedo which read
around the 100 level, and we had reached that speed in some three or four
seconds.
Once out of the straight
we slowed again to what now appeared like walking pace – about 60, and we
headed back to the school without communicating.
When we stopped in the
school car park, Andy got off, removed his helmet and asked if I was OK. He
also had a wry look of satisfaction on his face, and wore an inkling of a
smile.
I had some difficulty
removing myself from the bike. My fingers had to be unwrapped from the bar to
which they were now virtually fused, and my thighs felt like I’d run a marathon
in record time. Worse, I had pulled a muscle in my right thigh and I couldn’t
walk without limping. It took three days to recover.
I managed to muster a
somewhat bemused “Thanks” for Andy, and I headed up to my room where my class
was waiting for me. I have to admit that not a lot of French was taught that
period – it was more of a debriefing, and destressing!
Most
teachers will set out to build a rapport with their pupils in order to make
their lessons more palatable or even amusing. However, not all would go as far
as transforming into a superhero ….
Before
becoming embroiled in the world of teaching, a colleague and very good friend
of mine completed his education by gaining a PhD in chemistry and naturally
became known by the title, Doctor.
Early
on in his career, and aware that chemistry did not lend itself to verbal banter
enjoyed in various other disciplines, the Doc decided to inject a bit of much
needed fun in his own particular way.
And so,
especially when he had younger classes, the Doc would wander up and down his
lab (furnished with traditional science benches), explaining reactions and
reciting notes to his hard-working, if somewhat gloomy pupils. Suddenly,
however, he would duck down behind the bench at the rear of his room, pick up a
black cape he had previously placed there, tie it around his neck, and with a
single bound he would jump onto the bench, declaring “I am Superdoc!”
The Doc
then proceeded to leap from one bench to the next, much to the amazement and
admiration of his (captive) audience!
Now,
you may be wondering why this educational superhero has not become a household
name. Well, I have to tell you that Superdoc’s career was fairly short-lived.
On one
occasion (his last appearance), he got a little carried away with his own
success and, while leaping with balletic grace from one bench to the next, he
failed to notice a protruding gas tap which brought his performance (and his
career) to a somewhat abrupt and decidedly earthbound end!
Tall
tales
I have
been known to tell some “tall tales” to classes in an attempt to build a
rapport with my pupils. The following tale (from the early eighties) started as
a result of me falling for some excuse and allowing a Higher pupil to leave
class without good reason. Fortunately for me the pupil returned almost
immediately, but with a smug smile of victory on her lips. She had lied and I
had fallen for it, much to the delight of the entire class. Revenge would be
sweet ….
I should
emphasise that what happened was not planned in any way, indeed I could never
have thought it up in advance!
One
day, my colleague Arthur (who taught in the room next to mine) displayed
staggering athletic ability by jumping from a school desk to the floor (we had
been putting up posters in my room) just as my Higher class arrived. After his
departure, various comments were made expressing surprise at his ability to
make such a leap at his age (he had reached the prodigious age of 38 at the
time!).
Incensed
by this slur on the capacity of members of the teaching profession’s ability to
achieve anything even remotely physically challenging, I snapped.
“But he
hasn’t always been a teacher, you know.” said I, “Before joining the profession
in an attempt to share his knowledge and help future generations to evolve in
to well-rounded human beings, he was a stuntman.”
I
received stunned looks of disbelief, yet they were tinged with a desire to
believe this outlandish claim – they required more detail.
“You’ve
all seen "Superman" with Christopher Reeve, well, Mr Scott (Arthur)
helped to train Mr Reeve for the flying scenes – helped him to master the wires
and landing techniques because he had had experience of these in pantomime.”
I think
it was the detail and the sheer outlandishness that did it – it was so
fantastic that it had to be true. I also knew that if I pushed it any further,
they would suspect something, so I left it.
In the
days that followed they vaguely broached the subject, but never really to
challenge, just to check on the details. I even told them that Arthur preferred
not to talk about it as he was slightly embarrassed – he didn’t want to be
known as “The Flying French Teacher”.
And so
it was that I forgot all about it, until about ten years later when a group of
primary age pupils came to the school, accompanied by their well respected
teacher of some six years, who had been one of my pupils.
During
my time with these pupils I made some ridiculous claim at which point my ex
pupil (and their teacher) simply shook her head and informed me that they were
not gullible enough to fall for that one! It was at that point that I vaguely
remembered telling a class about Arthur being a stuntman and helping to train
Christopher Reeve in "Superman", and I recounted this tale to my ex
pupil, who had studied French to Higher level with me. About ten years
previously.
I was
left totally speechless when, after I had finished my story, she gasped, “You
mean he didn’t?”
A word
of advice - if you are going to lie, make an effort to remember to whom you
lie!
On
another occasion, a group of young ladies in S4 who had just sat their Standard
Grade exam in French came up the stairs rather excitedly to tell me how they
felt they had done.
As they
left the stairway and turned right towards my room, they were struck by the
rather loud music emanating from Doctor Ferrier’s lab as the man himself sat at
his desk without a class, preparing lessons. What really fascinated them was
the fact he was listening to a track by the Bee Gees, hardly a style of music
this group normally associated with Doctor Ferrier.
All
thoughts of their exam and how they fared disappeared from their minds – Doctor
Ferrier’s choice of music was a far more interesting subject, and one which
enthralled them.
They
entered my room babbling about the Doc’s poor choice of music – it was the Bees
Gees, for goodness’ sake! How old-fashioned. What poor taste. Imagine listening
to that for any length of time!
I felt
this group’s mockery of Doctor Ferrier’s choice of music merited something of a
retribution, especially as I knew full well that the poor man had merely been
listening to the radio and had no influence whatsoever over what music came
from the speaker.
“You
have to understand,” said I, “that sometimes the Doc likes to think back to the
good old days before he became a teacher. He was the road manager for the Bee Gees,
you know. He helped organise travel arrangements, accommodation and the setting
up of the stage for the group. He enjoyed it, but he got a bit fed up with the
constant travelling and felt he wanted to do something he considered more
worthwhile with his degree, so he decided to become a teacher.”
Again,
I think it was the detail and possibly the appeal to humanity that clinched it.
Of course, they had a few doubts initially, but I persuaded them of the Doc’s
desire to do his bit for the education of the youth of today.
They
were very impressed and their dismissal of his choice of music transformed into
genuine admiration and a desire to hear more. After all, this was a man who had
associated with celebrities!
Off
they scuttled to seek further detail from the Doc himself about his previous
existence as an assistant to the famous ….
I’m not
too sure exactly how the Doc put it, but he wasted little time in disabusing
the girls of their conviction he had worked with a famous pop group, and they
came back to have it out with me in an absolute fury tinged, curiously, with
disappointment ….
As a
young man, I loved the James Bond films. To me, the early films were the
epitome of sophisticated, self-mocking yet effective action/adventure films.
Many years later, as a Christmas present, my wife sent away for a mock
newspaper front page with the headline (and accompanying story) to the effect
that I had been chosen as the next James Bond. Needless to say, I loved it and
I still have the original on a wall in my home. However, I thought it too good
a joke to restrict it to my house and family, so I made a photocopy, laminated
it and put it on a wall in my classroom.
Most
classes thoroughly enjoyed the joke, pointing it out and impertinently
suggesting I’d make a very “different” James Bond.
However,
one small group of pupils saw it and started whispering among themselves,
seemingly discussing the potential veracity of the headline and story.
It is
an interesting phenomenon that a small group of people can influence the
thinking and common sense of the majority, and so this small group of pupils
prevailed upon the intelligence of the majority of the class and by the end of
the period I was asked by the class if the headline was true.
I’m
afraid I just couldn’t resist. It was too good an opportunity to miss.
“Yes,”
I said, “but it’s a long and complicated story. Daniel Craig was originally contracted
to do two films, with the option of doing more. After “Quantum of Solace” it
appeared he lost interest so the producers got in touch with me. Of course,
Daniel Craig decided to stay on and “Skyfall” was such a big hit they thought
they’d stick with him, and in any case, I’m too old now.”
Maybe I
should have been an actor. To my astonishment, there was no laughter, no
scoffing, no derisory remarks. Nothing. Just a sort of dubious acceptance of
what I said, and this took me somewhat by surprise. I didn’t know what to say –
I didn’t want to compound the lie by trying to further convince them, but
equally I was going to feel awful if I announced I had duped them all. The
result is that I said nothing, and as I write this I realise there may still be
a few ex-pupils who actually believed I was in the running to be James Bond! My
apologies!
Fun can backfire
As a general rule, I
wanted classes to enjoy their lessons with me. That said, I was never
particularly good at making the work itself much fun (there is even an argument
that work may not be taken seriously if presented too frequently as
entertainment), but I did often try to make the lesson fun in terms of
explanations, interplay and general banter as the lesson progressed.
There were times,
however, when this approach backfired and not just on the occasions when pupils
outwitted me in class, but also on a few occasions when I was caused physical
pain.
One such event, which
left a scar I still carry today, occurred with a small, bright, chirpy S3
class. I was explaining something and undoubtedly starting recounting some tale
in an effort to bring the explanation to life, when I became aware of one
particularly bright and chirpy lad tapping his teeth with his pencil while I
was spouting forth. To be fair, this appeared to be a by-product of
concentration rather than some attempt to distract or amuse his classmates.
Nonetheless, the persistent tapping did prove distracting – to me. I therefore
politely invited the pupil to stop the offending action as it was annoying me.
He apologised and immediately stopped.
I continued, and about
thirty seconds later I became aware that the pupil, still focused on my tale,
had restarted the tapping.
Again, I asked him
politely to desist, explaining his action was very off-putting, and again he
apologised sincerely and stopped.
A couple of minutes
further into my tale I once again heard the regular Tap ….. Tap ….. Tap ……
This time I was fairly
abrupt and simply told him it was annoying. Embarrassed at my repeated
warnings, he placed his pencil on the desk in front of him, went quite red and
said sorry nervously.
The next time (and quite unbelievably,
there was a next time), I knew I had to do something to finally get the message
across that this was to stop. The problem was he was a nice lad who innocently
indulged in a very low level disturbance and I certainly didn’t want to react
disproportionately, so I thought I would over-react in a funny way to defuse
the situation and at the same time remove the pencil from his hand.
In my mind, the plan was
thus:
I pull an exaggeratedly
annoyed face (intended to amuse and get the message across), while swiping the
pencil out of the boy’s hand with my right hand.
However, I failed to take
into account the fact the lad was anxious because of my previous attempts to
chastise him and so he didn’t recognise any humour whatsoever in the face I was
pulling, and in an attempt to make matters right, he actually made to hand his
very sharp pencil over, stretching out his arm so that the sharp point of the
pencil met my swinging right hand and embedded itself about half-way along my
life-line!
With no small measure of
disbelief at how my plan for lightening the situation led to squeals of shock
and horror from the rest of the class, never mind the utterly distraught
reaction of my “aggressor”, I pulled the pencil (which stood independently at
an angle of 90° to my palm) from the wound.
I quickly reassured the
class that all was well and that everything was my fault, and did my best to
continue as though nothing had happened.
I didn’t seek treatment -
it was just a minor flesh wound, but curiously that incident seemed to bring me
closer to the class who regularly enjoyed reminding me of my folly, but also
showed a willingness to make more of an effort in class, perhaps out of some
sense of sympathy.
Within my subject, we did
not have the advantage of being compulsory and if class numbers dropped (which
was often the consequence of levels of staffing and resultant option choices),
we were invited to consider our course content and strategies for delivery.
In part because of this,
I had a preference for a light and productive atmosphere in my room as I was
aware that several pupils struggled or didn’t enjoy the subject so I set out to
do what I could to make the class reasonably pleasant, and I preferred to
reserve more serious chastisement for more serious offences.
Thus, often if a pupil
was distracted or failed to keep on task, I would direct a light-hearted remark
at them, or occasionally try to embarrass them by sneaking up behind them and
bark sharply, causing them a fright. Usually they got the message and settled
down to the task in hand.
However, on one occasion
I was a little more effective in causing a fright than I anticipated. One S3
girl tended to be easily distracted but always returned to task when reminded
of her educational duties, though she responded more readily to a light-hearted
reminder than a serious ticking off, so I thought I would embarrass her by
sneaking up behind her as she was chatting, and barking “Work!” at the back of
her head.
This I did, but to fairly
disastrous effect for me as my dear pupil got such a shock she bucked her head
backwards and collided with my forehead and glasses.
The pain subsided very
quickly and my glasses were easily twisted back into shape. I did think to
myself that maybe it was time to stop doing these idiotic things, but on the
other hand the pupil did then get on with her work, and she even wrote a note
of apology on a card given to me by her class on my retirement. Maybe it worked
after all …..
So, you’d think I would
learn my lesson after that incident, but no …..
I continued to use this
ploy as an amusing (in my mind) means of shocking pupils back into work mode,
and it proved quite effective – several pupils whose attention had wandered got
the not very subtle message that it was time to get back to work, until the day
I used my trick on a particularly chatty and ebullient lad in S4.
The scenario was the same
as usual – chatty pupil needing to be gently goaded into getting on with some
work, but the pupil was not quite the same as usual. He was sharp, savvy and
confident, and when he bucked his head back I couldn’t be sure whether it was a
reflex action or something more calculated. Either way, the result was the same
(and was entirely my own fault) – the back of his head connected firmly with my
nose, and given the pain I felt and the crack I heard, I was fairly sure my
nose was broken.
It is at this point I
have to indulge in a Victor Hugo-like digression.
For as long as I could
remember, my nose had been slightly off-centre, veering a little to the left.
It wasn’t something to which I gave any particular thought until I needed my
first pair of glasses (at age 19) and I went to be “fitted” by a local
optician. He kindly informed me that I had one ear further up than the other,
but added that I shouldn’t worry about it as one eye was also further up than
the other to compensate. A little taken aback, I muttered something about
resembling Quasimodo, whereupon this highly sensitive professional announced
that my most interesting feature was, in fact, my nose which “went off at an
angle of about 15°”. I entered his offices needing glasses and left feeling the
need of a plastic surgeon!
I can’t be sure, but I
think I may have broken my nose originally at the age of four when I fell and
gashed my lip which required stitches, so any damage done to my nose was
overlooked due to the more obvious and dramatic wound on my upper lip.
Anyway, to return to the
headbutting of my nose. The pain was now considerable but what I noticed above
all else was that it felt different somehow. I ran my fingers over it and
realised that this pupil had actually done me a huge favour – my nose was
virtually straightened!
The pupil in question
showed little remorse (and it was, after all, my own fault), but I think he was
a tad disappointed to learn his action had had a positive effect.
Of course, having fun
with a class did not necessarily imply physical pain. Fun could be produced
through teasing, banter, singing or trying to catch one another out.
Homework (consisting of
the completion of a short piece of writing) had been set for an S2 class and it
was to be collected at the end of the period.
One charming pupil
approached before the end of the class to say how sorry he was, but that he had
left his homework at home – he would bring it in the following day.
Having made something of
a fuss about handing in the homework on time, I asked him a few questions just
to make sure he had, indeed, done the work.
I asked if he was sure
he’d done it all and wasn’t just making an excuse. He appeared almost hurt at
the implication he might be fibbing. “It’s all done. I was working on it in bed
last night and when it was finished I put my jotter under my bed and then
forgot to put it in my bag in the morning.”
I looked at him a little
doubtfully. “Are you sure? You wouldn’t fib to me, would you?” By now the
attention of the rest of the class had been drawn to our conversation as they
sensed a potential drama unfolding.
“No, I swear – I got it
done, felt sleepy and put the jotter on the floor. I’ll bring it tomorrow and
you’ll see.” He was becoming quite indignant at my continued questioning and
even started to grandstand a little for the benefit of his classmates.
“I’ll bring it tomorrow
at registration. You can’t say fairer than that”, he said, almost triumphantly,
sensing I was either convinced by his display of honesty or was caving to his
persistent offers to bring the work in at the earliest possible opportunity.
“No need”, said I, and
promptly produced his jotter from behind my back and plonked it on the table
between us.
“You left this behind
yesterday so I kept it in my desk for safekeeping”, I added.
The class loved it and
laughed appreciatively while the lad himself had the decency to go deep red and
gave me a smile which indicated he accepted defeat and he had been well played.
“Tomorrow at
registration”, I said, handing him his jotter which he took while nodding
compliance.
“Singing”
The use of songs and
singing can be of great benefit in a Modern Languages classroom. Apart from
playing, translating and singing songs from French musicals (about which, more
later), I was fond of inviting classes to chant grammar points to well-known
tunes. The various versions of “some” in French (du, de la, de l’, des) go very
well when repeated and sung to the tune of “The William Tell Overture”!
We even developed this to
incorporate simple dance moves (all led by yours truly), and we had entire
classes bouncing and chanting “du, de la, de l’, des”. At one point, we even
had a dance-off between two classes which we filmed and replayed to the classes
for maximum “fun”.
Another way of
incorporating song in the classroom while helping to build a rapport with
pupils was to sing “Happy Birthday” (or “Joyeux Anniversaire”) to those whose
special day it was. This became something of a performance, sometimes climbing
on the table in front of the pupil to cause the maximum impact and
embarrassment, sometimes singing as a duo with the Doc (both of us trying to
make the moment memorable rather than focusing on the niceties and finer points
of actually singing well), and even occasionally as a trio with Arthur joining
the duo, though I think Arthur found this somewhat awkward as he has a very
good voice and couldn’t bring himself to do anything other than sing well.
Some of these
“performances” were captured on video by numerous pupils who, despite being
told that such recordings were officially illegal in school, would
surreptitiously (they thought) return their phones to their bags upon
completion of the celebration. Fortunately, I have never been privy to a
viewing.
I should point out that I
do not have a good voice. I have a powerful voice and this occasionally served
to dupe some individuals into thinking I can sing, but I readily recognise the
limits of my “vocal instrument”.
This was brought home to
me particularly on the occasion I was invited (very early in my time at
Invergordon) to join the choir for a rehearsal.
It did not go well.
My failed attempts to
hold the notes merely attracted the attention of the other choir members and
had the effect of distracting them from their own performance. This led to a
choir-wide ticking off from choirmaster and music teacher extraordinaire, Ewan
Stewart, who said nothing directly to me but neglected to invite me to further
rehearsals. Ever.
Ewan retired many years
ago, but if ever we bump in to one another he never fails to inquire about the
continued quality of my singing voice. Clearly, an impression was made ……
Disillusion and the
possibility of an exchange
As I have already
mentioned, “Tour de France” (the course we used from S1 to S4) had its
weaknesses which led to frustration and dissatisfaction, and toward the end of
the eighties a replacement was being sought. In March 1988, I suggested an
approach based on contexts familiar to pupils but which was dependent (with substantial
input) on class input. Our adviser at the time seemed very taken with this idea
and offered to fund a cover teacher for me for two weeks to allow me to type up
an outline of contexts, vocabulary and exercises which he would then have
written up professionally and distributed.
I have to confess I was
flattered and pleased to go down this route of possible career development as
the traditional promotion route really didn’t appeal to me.
So, I spent two weeks
beavering away and produced what amounted to a two-year course with a variety
of contexts, vocabulary and suggestions for speaking, listening, reading and
writing extensions. It was duly collected and the Headmaster received a very
nice letter commending my professionalism.
And that was it. My “course”
simply disappeared into the abyss of educational ideas.
Some time later I
approached the subject with the adviser and he pointed out that my whole
approach required substantial input from both teacher and pupil (though I had
provided copious amounts of guidance, detail and vocabulary) which was seen, on
reflection, as a major problem. In all fairness, although disappointing, this
was something of a stumbling block as staff had enough to do delivering lessons
without having to create them as well.
Of course, some twenty
years later this might have been viewed more favourably under Curriculum for
Excellence in which teachers were encouraged to depart from “normal” book-based
work, but at the time it was, understandably, rejected.
I was quite demoralised.
Although I understood why my work had not been picked up, it pained me to think
my efforts served no purpose. More importantly, I had thoroughly enjoyed
producing the materials and would have liked to pursue such endeavours, and an
alternative means of moving forward which seemed to have been proffered was now
withdrawn. I had been at the school for some seven years, having intended to
see out my probationary period of two years there, and I had itchy feet. I was
reasonably happy, but I felt there may be other possibilities elsewhere. This
feeling was compounded by the fact my father died a couple of years previous to
these events and, as is often the case, loss of that kind invites reflection on
values, purpose and the future, and I was no longer sure of what I was doing
and why I was doing it.
I needed a change and
Arthur helped me on that route by organising an interview for me with the bureau
for international educational visits and exchanges.
To my astonishment, one
of the members of the panel had been my own teacher of French in S2 and S3, Mr
Joe Wake! He was responsible for ensuring the standard of French of candidates,
and after pointing out to him that this was the first time in some sixteen
years that we had spoken to one another in French, he seemed happy that I could
communicate adequately and announced that he was entirely satisfied with the
level of my language skills.
The rest of the interview
went smoothly and thus I took my first steps toward spending the following
academic year in Rennes, Brittany.
While the school was
happy to support my candidacy, there were a few misgivings about who exactly
would replace me for the year. A colleague had undertaken the same process
three years previously and while we appreciated having a native speaker and
permanent source of cultural information in our midst, there were one or two
areas where things didn’t go entirely smoothly.
Dominique (the exchange
teacher) was a relatively small, balding, bespectacled, age-obsessed (he always
gave his age as forty, though it transpired he was still thirty-nine) Corsican
with a magnificently sculpted physique of which he was (rightly) very proud.
He was a fairly tense man
not renowned for his sense of humour, and found it quite difficult to adapt to
teaching his own language (rather than English), the course and methodologies
we used to teach French, and of course his pupils and the relationship they
expected to have with their teacher. He was also accustomed to doing everything
at a steady pace and never seemed to be in a hurry to do anything.
At the start of his year
with us (and, come to that, throughout his stay), he had a few
discipline/relationship problems as French teachers tend to be a little more
distant than their Scottish counterparts and have expectations of pupil-teacher
relationships which differ from those that frequently apply in Scotland. He
didn’t cope well with questioning and challenge, and was of the opinion that
pupils should simply accept his authority. When I gently suggested that he could
perhaps make some effort to get on with his pupils and thus win their esteem,
it appeared he just couldn’t (or wouldn’t) understand that concept.
“I have to gain their
respect?”
It was really all a
matter of culture and adaptation, but therein lay the problem.
Dominique insisted on a
relatively dry and traditional approach whereby he would present the work and
it was up to the pupils to meet the standard or not, whereas our course book
was built on strategies and methodologies which aimed to engage and develop
personal communication. As he was clearly struggling with this aspect, I wrote
out some forty lesson plans (all very simple and straightforward), but he
abandoned these after about three classes.
While most of the staff
made some effort in terms of clothing (shirt, tie, reasonably smart outfits),
Dominique persisted in wearing casual clothing (as per expectations in the
French education system) and often wore rather large and heavy walking or
climbing boots which tended to attract attention.
I once was conducting a
speaking test in the base adjacent to my first-floor room, with the pupil
facing the open door which looked out on to the corridor. As my pupil gallantly
tried to answer my questions in French he was suddenly distracted by the sight
of Dominique passing by the open door, slowly but steadily measuring his pace
in his sizeable climbing boots, clutching a bottle of water and looking as
though it had required quite an effort to get this far up the stairs and along
the corridor.
“I know we’re quite high
up on the first floor, but that’s ridiculous!” he said, remarkably astutely, as
I stifled my desire to laugh and repeated my question in French.
Dominique was given the
use of a new Citroen 2CV during his stay by his exchange partner, and toward the
end of the year he very kindly invited Arthur and me to lunch at a local
restaurant and insisted on transporting us all in his car.
It is common for foreign
drivers who are unused to driving on the left to occasionally wander into the
right-hand lane, causing considerable anxiety to oncoming drivers, or to keep
so far to the left they almost mount the pavement and virtually invite fellow
road users to overtake them. Dominique found a novel solution to both these
potential problems. While both going to the restaurant and returning to the
school, he opted to drive down the middle of the road thus avoiding the two
traditional problematic approaches, but doing very little to avoid all other
traffic. This was compounded by the fact that he undertook both journeys at his
usual pace and proceeded at no more than 20 mph.
On our return, and with
magnificent understatement, Arthur whispered to me, “That was a bit hairy,
wasn’t it?”
The result of all this
was that the Headmaster expressed a desire to meet my exchange partner before
giving final approval to my year-long exchange.
I met up with Claire (my
proposed exchange partner) at a train station in Paris during the Easter break
of 1989. (I thought it best to spend a week or so in France to re-acclimatise
myself to French culture and life before spending an entire year teaching
English in a Collège (a secondary school for S1 to S4 pupils) in Rennes.) All
went well and we spent a pleasant hour or so chatting about ourselves, our
schools and our hopes for our exchange. Claire had been an assistante in
Scotland some twenty years before and she clearly wanted to recapture some of
the pleasure and benefit she had gained from that experience. She struck me as
a very competent and confident individual who was keen to make our exchange
work. We organised a visit to Invergordon in May so she could see the school
and meet the Headmaster.
Everything went well
during that visit. The Head was suitably impressed and concurred with my
thoughts on my partner, and Claire seemed very happy with what she saw of
Invergordon Academy.
Everything was in place
for our exchange to start in August 1989 and all augured well, or so it seemed
….
Rennes – experiences as
an exchange teacher
The Collège des Hautes
Ourmes was a fairly large lower secondary school (compared to what I was used
to) of about a thousand pupils in the South-East quadrant of the bustling city
of Rennes, the capital of Brittany. I taught English classes in each of the four
year groups, amounting to some 150 pupils who came not only from France, but
also Turkey, Vietnam, Cambodia and a few other French-speaking nations. Several
struggled to some extent with formal French (I spent some of my time correcting
their French in homework exercises), and it was only at the end of my year I
discovered that for several months Senior Management had sought (and failed to
find) a teacher of French as a foreign language which was, of course, my
speciality.
Names have always posed a
problem for me, but I made a huge effort for the year in France to master the
pupils’ names, from relatively common French names to (for me, at least) exotic
Cambodian and Vietnamese names. I was delighted with myself as within two or
three weeks I was able to address each pupil by his or her name. In the long
term, however, the result of this monumental effort was less good. It appears
that I largely burned out whatever section of the brain deals with retention of
names and since that time I have struggled to recall names. I can describe a
pupil’s character, progress, attitude, and even (at times) provide some family
information and history, but it is highly unlikely I will remember (at least
immediately) their name.
Having been a little
disappointed by Dominique’s apparent lack of adaptability, the shoe was now
well and truly on the other foot. I was used to working as a department with
regular meetings to discuss course progress, pupil progress, methodologies and
any problems we might have encountered. I quickly discovered that in Rennes
there was no department as such – each teacher was responsible for his/her
classes’ progress, using his/her own methods and even producing his/her own
tests to evaluate pupil progress. This created an inordinate amount of work for
me as I was using four books I didn’t know and had to invent a series of tests
for each one as resources were not shared. I was rather envious of Claire’s
position as all the resources she needed were filed away and could be accessed
easily. On the other hand, I was paid overtime for any classes I did beyond 19
hours a week while poor Claire had to do 23 or 24 hours as standard, a
situation she found somewhat unfair.
I found also that
teaching your own language is no easy option. After a few weeks of muddling
through, I was confronted by a small group of pupils who demanded more formal
grammatical explanation. It then struck me that this was a major difference in
educational culture – the French (at that time) still learned their own
language grammatically (a process whose abandonment in Britain began during my
own schooling at home), and so they were able to find common ground (in terms
of grammatical structure) or “hooks” as they learned a foreign language. This
may go some way to explaining the general willingness of French students to
“have a go” compared to the rather reserved and at times fearful attitude of
British students. Naturally, I had to rise to the challenge and I invested in a
good book of English grammar so I could pass on its words of wisdom as my own.
I also learned a lot about the structure of my own language.
My style of teaching also
caused a few problems. As I said previously, French teachers (and it is wrong
of me to generalise so broadly) tend to be more distant than their Scottish
counterparts and pursue more traditional and at times more authoritarian means
of teaching. My more informal style (involving discussion, banter and the
occasional attempt to entertain) was viewed as weakness by some, accepted with
some difficulty by others and appreciated by a few. With time, however, I
seemed to win round the majority and by the end of the year several were kind
enough to say they found me “cool” and would miss me.
One pupil I certainly did
not win over was a young lady in an S4 class called Elvire. She had no time for
me and let me know it in no uncertain terms. Something of an attention-seeker
and a drama queen, she challenged me frequently, claiming I had no authority
(though everyone else in the class worked steadily and willingly). I tried to
point out that she appeared to be the only one to have problems and that her
grades suggested that she was actually doing rather well in my class (she was a
very bright girl), but to no avail. It worried me that I didn’t have the
cultural and linguistic knowledge to deal with her and that other pupils might
follow her example, though the others remained perfectly reasonable, if wary of
her as well.
Things came to a head one
day when, the class having been set some work and largely focused on the task
in hand, Elvire decided she needed some attention and made a paper aeroplane
which she then threw in my direction. I don’t know what Elvire eventually did
as a living, but if she ever needs alternative employment she could do worse
than become a professional maker of paper planes. Her creation flew beautifully
the length of the room, with a trajectory so wonderfully judged that it hit me
perfectly on the nose. Even she was taken aback by the total success of her
effort as she snorted with delight and slight embarrassment, though no apology
was forthcoming.
As the others looked up
and realised what had happened, I started to prepare myself for what I was sure
was to come. I was certain that I had “lost” the class and pandemonium was
about to ensue. I drew a deep breath, unsure of what, exactly, I was going to
say, especially in French, but I knew I had to say something assertive.
I don’t know if I’ve ever
been so surprised and delighted by the reaction of a class. Far from the
expected rebellion, a number of pupils actually turned on Elvire, telling her
very clearly she had gone too far and what they thought of her behaviour, while
others simply showed disapproval, shook their heads and got on with their work.
Elvire, of course, was entirely unrepentant and snapped at her classmates, but
there was a distinct change in her behaviour thereafter – still unwilling to
respect me, but less obvious in the display of her feelings.
Maybe there was something
to be said for building a rapport with pupils after all.
The only other time
Elvire’s conduct came to prominence was on a school trip to Jersey organised by
my French colleague, André. This was a trip he had done several times before –
120 pupils accompanied by 6 members of staff on a day-trip to Jersey, the linguistic
interest being that our pupils could practise their English in an essentially
English environment. To catch the early ferry from St Malo, we left Rennes at
around 4.30 a.m.. Our pupils were merry, chatty and excited as they happily got
on the coaches in a remarkably orderly fashion and set off for foreign shores.
The two-hour journey to
St Malo went smoothly enough and at the ferry port I quickly got off the coach
to guide pupils and answer any questions. Spirits were even higher than when we
left and it was almost touching to see how much they were looking forward to
their trip. Then I heard a familiar voice call out to me in English. “Good
morning Mr Fernie.” It was Elvire, but she was giggling slightly manically and
closer inspection revealed her light curly hair now dark and almost matted to
her head as she sweated profusely. She was also having great difficulty walking
in a straight line, or even just remaining upright. She was propped up by some
friends who insisted there was no problem, but it was quite clear the girl was
drunk and was in no fit state to participate in our excursion, a real shame as
she was one of the most able of our pupils and would certainly have gained a
lot from even a brief visit to Jersey.
The curious thing is that
despite her obvious state of intoxication, she insisted on chatting to me in
English and she actually spoke with remarkable clarity and grammatical
accuracy. I thought it best not to draw attention to any correlation between
her alcohol consumption and her linguistic performance – not the most reliable
method of ensuring communication!
Further investigation indicated
that she had smuggled a half-bottle of pastis on to the coach, hidden up her
sleeve, and had consumed at least half the contents by 6.30 a.m.. Her mother
was contacted and she was taken home while the others continued and had a
memorable trip. A three-day suspension from school followed. Naturally, she
showed no remorse but I have to say I was quite relieved to discover that her
antics were not restricted to me and my classroom.
The system of evaluation
(at that time) consisted of very regular tests from which average grades were
derived. Formal tests (known as “interrogations”) contributed to the overall
average (marked out of twenty) of a pupil’s performance throughout the year,
and progression to the next level was dependent on sufficient progress across
all subjects (a score of ten or more). However, some pupils calculated that
strengths in certain subjects would compensate for weakness in others and so
they could afford to focus on some at the expense of others and still maintain
a reasonable average.
This was compounded by a
practice I came across whereby some teachers (and by no means all) allowed
certain less interested pupils to remain unfocused on condition that they did
not distract others who were willing to work. The reasoning was that if these
unfocused pupils were not successful, it was their responsibility (as they had
effectively opted out) and they would pay the price by potentially having to
repeat a year if their grades fell below the required standard in a number of
subjects.
All of this was explained
to me by a pupil in S3 named Ronan with whom I had something of an altercation
as I found this practice unacceptable, but he thought it was perfectly
reasonable.
As I was explaining
something to his class, and setting some work, I noticed that Ronan was
whispering to and distracting a classmate (who was perfectly happy to be
distracted). I interrupted my own flow to ask Ronan to be quiet. “Oui, Oui”, he
said, and set to listening to my explanation. This lasted about two minutes,
when he again turned to his friend and was keen to share some amusing tale.
Once again, I stopped and asked him to be quiet, though this time a little more
insistently. “Oui ……”, he said, but with a tone of impatience. I gave him my
best “disapproving teacher” look, hoping to communicate my displeasure at his
tone without wishing to resort to another verbal ticking off. He shifted in his
seat, grimaced a little, but once again paid attention to my discourse.
Of course, it didn’t last
long. He couldn’t resist temptation and quietly but determinedly picked up his
story again.
I had to confront him,
not just because of his inattention, but because of his potential influence on
the rest of the class, so I spoke more forcefully this time and made my
displeasure clear. I knew he would respond (probably with indignation) and I
was ready to take him on if necessary, but I was unprepared for what he said:
“What’s it got to do with
you if I pay attention or not? If I don’t listen and I do badly, I’m the one
who re-sits the year!”
His tone was clearly
defiant, but I realised he actually thought that I was being unreasonable and
that he had every right to switch off if he chose to.
The whole class waited
for my response.
I pointed out to him (and
the rest of the listening class) that I was responsible for his learning and
the learning of each individual in the class. I couldn’t let him opt out and I
certainly couldn’t let him prevent the learning of others by chatting while I
talked to the class. I told him he had no right to interfere with the learning
of others and that he was letting himself down by not making an effort.
It was all obvious stuff
and I tried to be as reasonable as I could. The truth is I didn’t know what
else to say – I didn’t have the vocabulary or the cultural background to handle
it in any other way.
Although he was clearly
unhappy with the situation, Ronan accepted my reasoning and assured me he would
make more of a concerted effort.
We had an open and
interesting chat at the end of the class during which he explained his position
and why he had felt aggrieved. I can’t say he was the perfect pupil after that,
but we achieved an understanding and he did try to remain attentive – most of
the time.
Interestingly, a couple
of months later I had a bout of flu and was absent for a few days. I lived in a
flat in the school grounds (as in Le Havre, there was a residence for staff)
and one day I heard a knock on the door – it was Ronan, accompanied by a couple
of classmates. They wanted to know if I was alright. They wondered if their
behaviour had been such that I had decided to leave and they had come to
apologise!
I assured them that I was
plain unwell and that their behaviour was really not that bad. They left reassured
and happy I was ill, and I was heartened and very touched by their concern.
All my colleagues in
Rennes were welcoming, open and friendly. They readily took on board my status
as a stranger unaccustomed to their education system and were more than willing
to help me whenever and however necessary, be it taking time to clarify what
was required of me in meetings or more generally to just offer company and
friendship.
Naturally, I was closest to
those working in the English “department” and two in particular, André and
Jeannette, became good friends.
Both were a number of
years older than me and had families of their own, but they accepted me
immediately as part of their social circle and invited me (and my wife, who was
able to join me for the second part of the year in France) regularly to their
homes and on excursions.
André was particularly
willing to offer the hand of friendship and was kind enough to invite me
regularly to one of his three homes (in the city, in the country and by the
sea). This sounds very grand, but André and his wife Elisabeth bought the
properties relatively cheaply with a view to gradually transforming the fairly
small and basic buildings into more substantial and comfortable dwellings, and
this they managed to do on a remarkably meagre budget.
Neither of his two
secondary homes (in the country and by the sea) had running water or modern
facilities, but he and his wife worked tirelessly to create warm, comfortable
and remarkably welcoming homes.
Prior to investing in
their home by the sea they had not one but two caravans at a park by a beach
not far from St Malo. They were kind enough to ask me if I wanted to spend a
weekend with them at the beach, an offer I gratefully accepted and then they
brought my attention to the fact they were naturists, and the beach we’d be
visiting was nudist.
What can I say? I
couldn’t bring myself to remove all my clothing (I have never fully appreciated
laughter at my expense), but I was the odd one out and I actually felt
embarrassed at my own inability to divest myself of my clothes and my
inhibitions.
There were some beautiful
sights (which only served to confirm my preference to retain at least some of
my clothes – I couldn’t compete!), although there were also some less
attractive views on offer, and at closer range I impressed myself no end by
maintaining eye contact at all times with interlocutors. Of course, the
experience really only confirmed my own prudishness as everyone else relaxed
and enjoyed the freedom of nature, though one chap I encountered was a little
too keen to exercise his freedom for my liking ….
André and Elisabeth
positioned themselves for a spot of sunbathing on the beach, as did I. I
stretched out, facing upwards and had my eyes closed as the sun was high in the
sky directly above me, and was quite blinding.
Somewhat inevitably, I
fell asleep. Not for too long, but long enough to allow the sun to change
position and shine from behind me when I awoke. As I came to, I looked ahead of
me, toward the sea, to discover my view interrupted by a chap who had set
himself up to take in the sun some 15 feet in front of me, and the sight that
greeted me has left me scarred psychologically for life.
This man was clearly a
sun worshipper. He was tanned, it seemed to me, all over, and was a deep brown
colour. Except, apparently, for inside his thighs. And it was that area he had
chosen to tan, within spitting distance of me.
In order to successfully
tan the afore-mentioned area, he opted to crouch on his slightly parted knees,
facing the sea and therefore looking away from me. He leaned on his elbows with
his face virtually buried in the sand, therefore arching his back at an angle
of about 45°, and with his naked backside propped up neatly in line with his
knees, he spread his feet and lower legs thereby presenting his pale (by
comparison) inner thighs for tanning.
It was hideous yet
hypnotic. Disbelief took over as I tried to make sense of the man’s position.
I turned, inquiringly, to
André and Elisabeth who said quite simply, “C’est ridicule.”
Finding this response
strangely reassuring if inadequate, I shut my eyes once again and tried to find
some inner peace. It was only afterward that Elisabeth explained to me just
what the man was trying to achieve, not that it gave me much comfort.
André was keen on
windsurfing (a pastime that seems particularly popular in France) and invested
in a second-hand board which, naturally enough, he brought to the beach. He
told me about his initial efforts to master the board ….
It was a pleasant day,
sunny, reasonably warm, but a little breezy. André set up the board in the
water with the sail flat against the sea, which he would pick up once he gained
his balance on the board.
As he tells it, it took
him some twenty or thirty attempts before he was able to keep his balance and
pull the sail up, so he was delighted when he finally managed it and was
determined not to lose the impetus as he set sail. He held on to the guide bar
(whatever it’s called) as though his life depended on it and, contorting his
body in often sudden, jerking movements so as not to lose his balance, he moved
gently but relentlessly forward.
It should be borne in
mind that this was a nudist beach and André was completely naked on his
windsurf board.
He was, of course,
delighted with his success as he advanced at a reasonable pace. However, he
realised fairly quickly that he had not, as yet, learned how to steer the device
with any degree of accuracy and was able to exercise very little directional
control as he moved along parallel to the shoreline.
It is at this point that
you, dear reader, should be informed that the beach was only half nudist. The
half of the beach to the west was designated “textile” so clothing was
required, and André was heading right for that section on his poorly controlled
board, thrusting his naked body to and fro in a desperate attempt to stay on
his board, and moving at a fair pace.
It was when several
fathers on the water’s edge covered their children’s eyes, yelled at him to
cover himself and started throwing lumps of wet sand in his general direction
that André decided he should abandon his record-breaking first attempt at
windsurfing, and allowed himself to fall into the protective depths of the
foreshore. Easily able to stand in the chest-deep water, he towed his board
back to the relative security and friendliness of the nudist area of the beach.
Over the years, I have
enjoyed recounting personal anecdotes which illustrate aspects of French
culture and provide background information to pupils while hopefully making
lessons and their content more palatable and memorable.
One such aspect is
meeting and greeting. While in Scotland we may exchange nods of recognition,
say “Hi”, shake hands or even give a brief hug or kiss on the cheek to closer
friends (although this seems to be evolving among the young), in France this is
much more of an event, and it is one of which you should be aware. I once
inadvertently caused minor offence by not kissing an assistante on the cheek
despite the fact I had seen her just three hours previously.
You will be expected to
shake hands with a male friend when you meet him, no matter how long you have
known him or how close you are. This first struck me when I was an assistant in
Le Havre. I would see classmates arrive outside a classroom (kids who had known
one another for years and spent all day together), and each and every one would
shake hands with all the others. This also applied to a large number of male
staff I encountered every morning – there was the ritual shaking of hands
accompanied by a brief inquiry as to how each was feeling, and they would
actually wait for and listen to the response.
At that time, I
associated a handshake with formality and a certain distance between
participants, but I quickly realised that this was simply another difference in
cultures, and indeed in France the lack of physical contact can be interpreted
as coldness and disinterest.
When it comes to meeting
and greeting ladies, I’m afraid this is slightly more complex and is dependent
on personal judgment. However, here goes ….
You should kiss a lady
you know on the cheek. This will be expected and failure to do so may cause
offence. Offence, however, may also be caused by failure to deliver the correct
number of kisses and here, dear reader, I can be of little help to you as I
have never managed to master this aspect of French culture.
I have given a peck on
the cheek and pulled back to see the other cheek proffered, and a vague look of
offence visible in the eyes as I clearly had not intended to deliver a second
peck.
I have given two pecks
(one on each cheek) only to have caused confusion over which cheek with which
to start, and then (on occasions) realised the lady in question was expecting a
further two pecks and was vaguely insulted I had stopped at just two.
Yes, you may be required
to give four pecks, two on each cheek, but I can offer no solid advice on where
to start or exactly how many pecks to offer, except to suggest that if you are
meeting a number of ladies you should treat each one in the same manner as
differentiation in the number of pecks might also cause offence!
In the early 1990s my
colleague Colin and I accompanied a group of six S4 girl pupils on an exchange
trip to Rennes, and André kindly organised a welcome party at his country home.
Apart from the eight members of our group, he also invited our pupils’ exchange
partners, some of their parents and some staff, amounting to some thirty
guests. Everything went very well and a very pleasant time was had by all, but
before we could get down to discussing the detail of the plans for our trip, it
took about twenty minutes just to say hello as each of us met and embraced each
other guest.
The, of course, this
whole process was revisited at the end of the social event when everyone said
goodbye!
Much to pupils’
astonishment I have discussed this important aspect of French culture with many
classes, and in an attempt to introduce an interactive element to my lesson,
and to prepare them for this onslaught of handshaking and cheek-kissing, I have
frequently told a class that they will have to say farewell to me in the
traditional French manner before being allowed out of the room. The boys were
usually fairly amused at the prospect of shaking my hand, but the girls! The
very thought of having to go anywhere near my cheek came close to provoking
illness in some and a plain refusal in others. Eventually, of course, I relented
and accepted a shake of the hand from all as they scurried out of my room.
Another overwhelming (and
immensely pleasant) aspect of French culture is their hospitality. The French
are astonishingly hospitable, sociable, welcoming and congenial hosts. Very
keen to invite guests to their homes for a meal, they take huge pride in
offering high quality traditional fare, especially to foreign guests who will
be informed in considerable detail of the background of each dish and just how
each is prepared.
They will go to great
lengths to make you welcome – I knew one teacher in Le Havre who kept close to
40 different types of whisky (as well as a large stock of different wines) in
her cellar, and had cigars, cigarettes and a lighter to hand despite not
smoking herself.
An English-teaching
colleague in Rennes, Jeannette, was kind enough to invite me to her home on a
number of occasions and to celebrate a special event (the exact reason for
which now escapes me), she and her husband Jean-Yves invited ten guests, including
me and my wife Alison, and André and Elisabeth.
Nothing could have
prepared me for that evening and I still think of it as a French meal “par
excellence”. We started with nibbles and aperitifs at 7.30 and sat down at the
table at 8 o’clock. There followed a veritable onslaught on the senses. The
table was beautifully decorated with vividly coloured flowers and there were
nine courses (all a sensible size), each accompanied by a different wine to
suit the dish, while the sound of joyous chatter and recounting of anecdotes
and news was virtually deafening.
Quite apart from the
merriment and sociability of the group, what really came across to me was the
fact this all appeared normal to the French guests – they were clearly in the
habit of doing this sort of thing and were full of questions and comments not
just about events and shared experiences, but about the food, how it was
prepared, where it came from, cooking times etc.. Similarly with the wine –
they discussed the region of origin, the year, and how the weather and locality
had affected the flavour. It really was an eye-opener to a different culture.
I, however, had a slight
problem. I have no idea why but for some months my left knee had ached if I
didn’t move my leg fairly regularly, and if I couldn’t alleviate it, the pain
went from a dull ache to something akin to sharp toothache which seemed to
worsen with every heartbeat.
As I said, we sat at the
table at 8 o’clock. By about 9 o’clock the pain in my knee was making itself
felt. I tried to relieve it by moving my leg within the limited space available
under the table, but I really needed to stand and stretch my legs which was, of
course, impossible as we had only reached the third course.
By 10.30 and the sixth
course the pain was quite excruciating. It started to dominate everything – I
couldn’t think of what to say to my fellow guests and I was having some trouble
following what was going on as my main focus was the pain in my knee.
Then, about 11 o’clock
and on the seventh course, a miracle happened. The pain started to dissipate.
Through sheer relief and joy I began to readily participate again in
conversation and take greater pleasure in the general proceedings.
Within half an hour the
pain had gone completely and I was absolutely delighted. Why hadn’t I done this
before, I thought. Clearly the solution was just to get through the pain and
eventually it would go. Quite apart from the happy atmosphere engendered by the
evening, I was now elated at the thought of having rid myself of the wretched
pain in my knee, presumably permanently.
When we finally rose from
the table at 1 a.m., after nine courses, a coffee and then a pousse-café (yet
more alcohol), my pain was gone and I felt on form! Of course, the alcohol
might have had some effect on my mood, but I was just delighted with myself and
my pain-free state.
It had been a long and very
pleasant evening. Five hours was the longest I had ever spent at a table, but
clearly it was all worth it.
The next morning, after a
fitful sleep (I never sleep well if I eat late or “make merry”) I got up, and
as I was dressing I realised I had a strange feeling from my left knee down my
shin to my ankle. It was numb. No feeling in that area whatsoever. I even
resorted to giving myself karate chops the length of my shin, all to no avail.
I reasoned that if I had to lose feeling somewhere in my body, that was
probably the best place to lose it, but I can’t say I was very happy about it.
My “relief” from my knee
pain hadn’t been relief at all, indeed the situation had worsened considerably!
In the end, it took three days of gradual recovery of feeling and persistent
pins and needles to get back to normal, and I have managed to avoid five-hour
meals ever since.
A feature of French life
and society I never encountered or put to the test in Le Havre was medical
care, though clearly I paid a price for that a few years later in terms of
dental treatment.
In France, you pay for
visits to the doctor or dentist and pay for treatment, claiming costs back from
insurance companies and a small percentage from the State only afterwards.
Fortunately, I’ve always enjoyed quite robust health so I wasn’t too concerned
about having to visit a doctor, but I did learn a lesson regarding dental care
and I saw my dentist in Scotland shortly before leaving for Rennes, and he
reckoned I could go another year without treatment.
Needless to say, within
three months I became aware of a nagging pain and I realised I was going to
have to see a French dentist – I wanted to avoid a repeat of my previous
(self-inflicted) experience at all costs.
André was as helpful as ever
and even accompanied me to meet his dentist in Rennes. He was a slightly
balding, grey-haired and bearded man of average height in his late forties.
Attentive and dynamic, he quickly took a look at the problem and took some
temporary measures that alleviated the pain, but then announced that he was
less than impressed with the standard of Scottish dentistry if my mouth was
anything to go by. He immediately picked up his appointments schedule and
started to pencil me in for no fewer than a further eight sessions!
Somewhat taken aback, but
in no position to offer any arguments, I inquired as to the cost (bearing in
mind my NHS contributions counted for nothing in France), and he advised me it
would cost in the region of the equivalent of £400.
I really wasn’t sure what
to do. I was limiting myself to £300 a month in France as the mortgage and
other monthly bills still applied at home. Could I ask him just to treat the
tooth that caused me pain?
Obviously, there was a
look of pained anxiety on my face (remember my inner feelings are always
revealed by my expression) and, after a moment or two, the dentist told me not
to worry because he had a proposition for me.
That was the first time I
ever saw a dentist as anything more than “just” a dentist. Here was a savvy,
intelligent businessman offering a deal that would benefit both of us.
He explained that he had
three children, all secondary school age, including his eldest daughter who was
due to sit her Baccalauréat (equivalent of Highers/A Levels), and all were
studying English and would benefit from private lessons. If I was interested,
we could trade his dental treatment for a series of English lessons for his
kids.
I could hardly believe my
luck. Once again, I seemed to be in the right place at the right time and I
accepted his offer immediately.
While I can’t say I
enjoyed the dental work, I did enjoy my visits to his home and giving lessons
to his children. They were attentive and keen to do well, and I was something
of an exotic guest/teacher. We all got on well and eventually I was invited to
stay for dinner after the lessons.
Clearly it would be wrong
to generalise from this outcome. Might I suggest that you carry with you a
means of paying for emergency treatment if you travel to France? Not everyone
will be lucky enough to meet a dentist whose children need English lessons.
As I mentioned
previously, my father died in 1984. My mother was 64 at the time and proceeded
to withdraw into herself and away from society in general. She saw family and
neighbours but made little effort to engage in anything approaching a social
life until, at a cousin’s insistence, she attended a church fund-raising event
and was introduced to a chap called Fred late in 1987.
Although my mother was
not keen on pursuing a romantic involvement at first, Fred persisted and
eventually my mother agreed to go out with him on a date (after which she
phoned me to say she had “got herself into trouble with a man”, at which I
laughed and suggested this was unlikely at the age of 67).
One thing led to another
and in February 1990, just two weeks short of her 70th birthday, my
mother married for the second time.
I was delighted for them
both as it gave each of them a new lease of life (Fred was 74) and a desire to
travel and share new experiences, and they visited me in Rennes at Easter in
1990.
Fred was a likeable and
affable Londoner, a retired optician and a man of considerable knowledge and
confidence, though sometimes he knew less than he thought he knew.
During their visit to
Rennes, my mum and Fred were keen to taste the ambiance of the city and try out
the famed French café society. On one outing we went into a typical traditional
café – dark wood everywhere, contrasting with the silver and black modern
coffee machines which noisily produced black, tarry coffee. There were too many
tables for the cramped space and too many customers chatting animatedly over
their small cups of espresso as they smoked and put the world to rights.
Mum and Fred were quite
captivated by the whole atmosphere and just wanted to join in.
They said they wanted
coffees so I hurriedly explained that the nearest equivalent to what we had at
home was “un grand café-crème”, a large coffee with cream and sugar if they so
wanted. They accepted my advice and ordered the coffees.
When the coffees arrived
the cream/milk was served in a separate small jug so the mug-size cup was full
of very black and very strong coffee. While waiting for the arrival of the
coffees, Fred had been observing the other customers, their manner, their
attitudes, their lively participation in discussion, and their coffee.
When I pointed out the
cream and sugar, Fred said very decisively that he was going to have his coffee
the way the locals had theirs – black, no milk and no sugar.
After a quick recce to
establish what he was referring to, I tried to point out to Fred that the other
customers were having espressos – strong black coffee in cups that were about a
third of the size of ours, and that given the size and strength of our coffees,
he needed milk and probably sugar. However, I only managed to get out “But
they’re not …” before Fred interrupted me, insisting he was going to have his
coffee French style.
“But Fred …” was all I
was able to say before he quoted some Spanish phrase (he knew Spain and spoke
Spanish quite well) about the qualities of pure black coffee, and started to
down his large pure coffee without cream and without sugar.
It didn’t take long. We
spent about twenty minutes in the café and as we left Fred muttered something
about his stomach not feeling quite right. We continued into town for about
five minutes when my mum stopped me and said Fred really wasn’t feeling too
good. I looked in his direction and he was, indeed, looking distressed. He was
very embarrassed but felt he couldn’t go on and suggested returning to my flat.
Once in the car, he
removed his flat cap (which he always wore when out) to reveal several streams
of sweat emanating from the top of his head and rolling down his forehead, ears
and neck.
I drove as quickly as I
could and got him installed in the bathroom as soon as we got in. The poor man
spent the next five hours shuttling between the bedroom and the bathroom.
Fred died eight years
later (not as the result of this experience!) and in that time not a single
drop of coffee passed his lips. Indeed, if he was so much as asked if he wanted
a coffee, his head would lower and his lips turned down as a certain queasiness
seemed to invade his stomach.
Best start with an
espresso and build up to a “grand crème”.
A couple of anecdotes I
have recounted to pupils to build awareness of and bring to life some of the
dangers involved in using the roads in foreign lands (or indeed at home).
Traffic in cities is
never easy, but there are certain rules you expect to be international,
conventions you expect every driver to respect and precautions you expect every
driver to take.
Something happens to
drivers in cities. Maybe it’s stress, maybe it’s pressure or maybe it’s simply
because they’re in a hurry, but frequently drivers in cities fail to consider
other road-users, pedestrians and safety in general, and I ‘ve seen examples of
this in most places I’ve visited, including Glasgow, Edinburgh, London, Paris, Brescia
(Italy), Athens and Heraklion in Crete.
In the centre of Rennes
flows the river La Vilaine, and one-way roads have been built on each side of
the river. At one point, just east of the city centre and on the southern bank
of the river there are traffic lights at a junction, with a zebra crossing some
thirty metres beyond them.
One day, as I was walking
along the river bank, moving eastward, in the same direction as the traffic, I
saw a considerable queue of cars backed up over two lanes of traffic at these
lights. In itself, that was nothing – once the lights changed, the drivers
would rapidly make their way through the city streets. What caught my attention
was the pedestrian on the far side of the zebra crossing who had pressed the
crossing button to allow him to cross the road and join me on the river bank, just
as the traffic lights were about to change. It struck me that this was a rather
silly place to set up a zebra crossing as waiting for pedestrians to cross
after already waiting at traffic lights was only going to cause frustration.
The “green man” at the
crossing lit up just as the traffic lights changed to green and the pedestrian
stepped on to the crossing, giving him right of way.
For a moment, I actually
felt sorry for the drivers as they accelerated toward the crossing and the
pedestrian who was now about a third of the way across the road, knowing they
would immediately have to brake and allow the pedestrian to pass.
I needn’t have wasted my
sympathy – it became clear that the cars were not going to stop. They continued
accelerating toward the crossing as if no-one was there, and the pedestrian
displayed exactly the same attitude – he carried on as well!
I braced myself for the
impact in disbelief as the two seemed to be on a collision course, but instead
I witnessed bodily dexterity and coolness under pressure such as I had never
seen before.
The pedestrian casually
looked in the direction of the cars and continued on his path, stopping in the
middle of the crossing and, without a single sign of anxiety, he dodged the
cars and their door mirrors as they shot past him, in front and behind, and he
nonchalantly moved his hips forward to avoid mirrors attacking his rear, then
backward to avoid mirrors that would have collided with his front. He waited
until all the cars had passed and then continued to cross at the same leisurely
pace.
Everything about the
pedestrian’s manner suggested he was used to this – he just dealt with it.
Perhaps a little training
with a hoola-hoop would not go amiss before tackling French road crossings in
cities.
I saw a markedly
different reaction to road crossings and traffic when, after driving out of the
school where I was teaching, I negotiated the one-way system and series of mini
roundabouts, and approached a very narrow zebra crossing. The road is reduced
to a single lane at that point and a very elderly lady was waiting to cross.
She had not set foot on the crossing and was clearly waiting until she felt it
was entirely safe before embarking on the ten-foot journey to the other side.
Feeling a considerable
degree of sympathy for this old lady, I pulled up and waited for her to cross.
She didn’t move. Indeed,
she didn’t even look in my direction, but as the car remained immobile on the
edge of the crossing she must have felt under pressure, and a few seconds later
she glanced toward me.
I waved to her to cross.
She stared back,
unmoving.
I waved again, this time
a little more insistent.
She looked me in the eye
and shook her head slowly and deliberately.
I pointed at the road and
gently and slowly traced my way across the road with my finger.
This time she shook her
head almost frantically, insisting she was going nowhere.
I gave in and crept
forward, especially because a number of cars had by now gathered behind me, but
I couldn’t help but feel guilty for the fear I had obviously caused to this old
lady. Surely she didn’t think I was going to wait until she reached the middle
of the crossing and then maniacally leap forward to increase my body count of
innocent pedestrians?
Perhaps it was simpler
than that – maybe she had also witnessed the incident with the pedestrian in
the city centre ….
While in Rennes, Alison
and I received a few guests, including our friend Fiona. Wanting to show her
some of the local scenery, we headed off to the coast for the day and after a
long and leisurely lunch we set off on a walk along the coastal path.
As we walked along the
path, chatting and admiring the landscape and catching up on all the news from
home, we saw a medium-height, dark-haired woman about our age approaching. I
paid no real attention as we were well away from our local haunts and I was
more preoccupied with thoughts of where we would go next than with this
stranger whose path we were about to cross.
However, as we were about
to pass her she stopped, smiled, and said “Well …. Bonjour!” with a distinctly
Scottish accent. I looked at her properly and realised in utter astonishment
that she was a teacher of Home Economics at Invergordon, a woman I’d worked
alongside for several years, who had invited us to dinner in her home, whose
husband taught locally and whom I also knew well! The only thing I couldn’t
remember about her was her name! Undoubtedly it was due to the change of
context, the length of time I hadn’t seen her, the effort I had put in to
making a place for myself in France and had therefore forgotten (apparently)
the detail of my life in Invergordon. All of that was certainly true, but it
didn’t help me one iota – I still couldn’t remember her name!
I managed to steer the
conversation so names didn’t have to be mentioned, frantically thinking of
topics to discuss and avoid, inquiries to make and tales to tell – all in an
attempt to avoid not so much the elephant in the room as the friend and visitor
standing beside me who every now and then looked like she was going to ask the
obvious question, and that was the one area I was trying to circumvent.
Finally it came, and I
knew in my heart it had to. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”, as though it
was a simple thing to do ….
In one final attempt to
get around the problem, I introduced Fiona in the hope that my nameless
colleague and friend would then introduce herself, but that subterfuge failed
miserably, indeed it only made matters worse as, having named Fiona, both
parties looked expectantly and then somewhat incredulously at me, and I had
nothing.
I just wanted to
disappear from this Earth as their stares bored into me and I could think of
absolutely nothing to say.
Within seconds (which
felt like a lifetime to me), Susan tutted, shook her head and introduced
herself, and I was left feeling guilty and totally inadequate. I never
discussed it with Fiona or Susan, knowing that whatever justification I offered
would only add insult to injury, but to this day I squirm when I think of that
totally random meeting somewhere on the French coast.
Fiona is a spirited,
adventurous girl who likes to live life to the full and one evening she noticed
a bottle of Calvados in our drinks cabinet in Rennes, and was most intrigued by
it.
After establishing it was
apple brandy (and explaining about “le Trou Normand”, its strength and how to
consume it), I was surprised when Fiona sought out a brandy glass and proceeded
to pour herself a very large one. I hurriedly reiterated that it should be
consumed in very small quantities, actually in a thimble-sized receptacle. She
chose to ignore that element of French tradition, though I noted she had a good
stab at fulfilling the other element of the “Trou Normand” tradition by
attempting to down the whole in one go. Thankfully, she didn’t quite make it,
but she did manage to drink what was effectively at least a quadruple Calvados
in about twenty minutes.
To my utter astonishment
there were no obvious signs of inebriation – she was perfectly lucid, balanced
and sensible having consumed at least twice as much as I had drunk as an
assistant, and that quantity caused me to outrun cars and wave hysterically to
their occupants in a city centre at one in the morning.
We decided it was time
for bed as I had to work the next morning, but I was quite disconcerted by
Fiona’s apparent capacity to hold her drink, to the point where I felt I might
have been a bit of a “wuss” in my younger days.
When I got up at seven
the following morning and made my way into the kitchen, I have to confess that
the sight that met my eyes gave me considerable satisfaction.
Here, seated on a kitchen
chair and slumped over the small table, was a leaden-eyed and totally
dishevelled Fiona with a glass by her left hand and a large bottle of still
water on her right.
She looked toward me as I
entered, struggling to find the strength to raise her head and focus her eyes.
She explained in a feeble voice that she had monumental heartburn through the
night, had managed to sleep for about one hour and was still in great discomfort.
She had gone into the kitchen looking for some means to calm the heartburn,
found several bottles of nice cool water in the fridge and had consumed
something in the region of three litres to quench the fire within, consequently
having to make numerous visits to the loo and disturbing her sleep even
further.
I did show compassion,
but I headed off to work reassured that Calvados had, eventually, had its
effect.
I have been told by more
than one French man that every (French) man is not just entitled to his
opinion, but every (French) man feels his opinion is right, and this is treated
as a matter of principle. Apparently, this means that they are willing to
defend their position to the bitter end.
This trait, according to
my sources, is greatly admired and is clearly the basis of the great French
play “Cyrano de Bergerac” by Edmond Rostand, in which the hero Cyrano refuses
to surrender to pressure to compromise and insists on pursuing his own path,
come what may, even if this leads to conflict and romantic tragedy.
In 1990 a sumptuous and
much-lauded film version of Rostand’s tale starring Gérard Depardieu was
produced, and I was informed of a special showing for pupils who were studying
the play for their upcoming exams. Colleague and friend Jean-Claude (a teacher
of French) asked if I would accompany him and his group of pupils. Being keen
on cinema in general and keen also to see what all the fuss was about, I
willingly accepted his invitation.
The day came and we set
off for an early showing (at 10 a.m. in order to avoid the general public). Our
group of about twenty headed off for the city centre cinema I had visited often
during my stay, a little bleary-eyed but reasonably enthusiastic.
It was a spacious and
comfortable cinema with high quality projection and sound. It was situated in
the heart of the city, looking on to the river that runs through the centre,
and was on one of the main bus routes so getting there was no problem at all.
The only real problem was that it was also closed. We arrived with about ten
minutes to spare and we felt it was not unreasonable to expect the building to
be open at that time, but there was not a soul around to whom we could direct
inquiries. It is not good if things don’t go according to plan when you are in
charge of a number of pupils – they lose interest, their attention starts to
wander and eventually they start to wander. Teachers feel under great pressure
when events occur beyond their control, so we were delighted to see someone
arrive bang on 10 o’clock – a bit late, we thought, but at least things were
now in hand.
The middle-aged lady who
had just arrived looked at us with a mild air of incomprehension, muttered
“Bonjour”, turned a key in the door and went inside, promptly closing the door
behind her, leaving our group stranded and bewildered.
Jean-Claude and I shared
a look of bemusement. The lady could at least have welcomed us and told us how
long we’d have to wait. Even if she had acknowledged the purpose of our being
there, we’d have felt better.
Jean-Claude was not the
most patient of men, but he had good reason to be annoyed – we were responsible
for a party of kids who were left standing in the cold morning air and we had just
been largely ignored by the only representative of the cinema we had seen. He
told me to stay with the pupils and brusquely opened the door and went in.
None of us could see what
went on behind the entrance to the cinema, but we could hear. The manager’s
office was apparently on the first floor, overlooking the street, or at least
that’s where two very loud and very unhappy voices came from. I couldn’t make
out exactly what was being said and neither could the kids, but the tone was
clear and neither man was happy with the position in which he found himself,
but neither man going to give way to the other. The arguing and the
bad-tempered exchange continued for over five minutes, which is a long time
when you don’t know what you’re going to end up doing with twenty pupils!
Eventually silence
descended and we were left in limbo, but the whole event had hardly been
positive so far, so we expected the worst.
Jean-Claude barged
through the door and instructed the pupils to enter in an orderly fashion. The
film would begin in ten minutes.
I looked at him in
disbelief, my expression inviting an explanation.
“He claims nobody told
him about it and he can’t understand because it isn’t commercially viable to
show the film to such a small group, turn on the heating, and with no staff so
he will have to operate the projector. I pointed out he or his bosses had made
a commitment so they had to keep to it – money or not. Pupils and staff made
the effort to be here at the arranged time so he had to honour his commitment”,
said Jean-Claude. Apparently, the manager kept repeating it all made no sense
and that he knew nothing about it, but in the face of Jean-Claude’s incessant
badgering and demands that he fulfil his organisation’s promises, he caved in
and agreed to show the film himself.
At the end, we just left
the cinema – no thanks were passed on to the manager and no effort was made to
show our appreciation. There was no visit from the manager either, so we just
went on our way.
The following day at
school, Jean-Claude came up to me quite excitedly and with a fairly large grin
on his face. In the lead-up to our trip, he had failed to mention to me that
our group was just one of five or six from various schools throughout the city
who had been due to see the film. Somewhat confused, I asked where they had
been the day before.
“It turns out we went to
the wrong cinema. The others saw it in the cinema next to the shopping centre.
I just assumed it was at the cinema in the city centre”, said Jean-Claude.
When I pointed out the
manager had been right all along, Jean-Claude simply smiled broadly, shook his
fist and said, “That’s French determination!”
He gave me a copy of the
play as a souvenir and wrote a dedication to me on the inside leaf, just so I
would remember.
As if I was going to
forget!
By the end of my year in
Rennes, I had gained hugely. As a teacher, I learned the importance of analysis
– breaking lessons into manageable chunks, bearing in mind what pupils had done
previously and where they were going, and offering clear explanations while linking
everything together. I also learned the importance of trying to stimulate
pupils’ interest while maintaining discipline, and of course the most obvious
thing – the importance of thorough preparation and testing.
On a more personal level,
I learned to appreciate family and friends, relationships with colleagues, and
the importance of listening to and getting on with others.
Before I left Invergordon
for Rennes, a colleague told me she thought it would be a worthwhile experience
if only to learn to appreciate what I already had, and I think there’s a lot of
truth in that statement. It’s worth going through potentially painful
experiences in order to grow, develop and become surer of what is important to
you, and I came home more settled and more appreciative of my surroundings.
Having said that, I could
not have wished for more supportive and welcoming colleagues in Rennes. Their
willingness to understand my situation, discuss professional matters and share
their homes helped me evolve both professionally and personally.
The 1990s, film, family,
focus and France
Professionally speaking,
the early 1990s was a bizarrely settled period – bizarrely because it was a
time of great change (Revised Higher and Standard Grade were being introduced
and developed), yet there was certainty and confidence about the direction we
were taking as clear and concise documentation was produced, staff were
consulted and changes in line with teachers’ reaction and recommendations were
often implemented.
“Tour de France” was out and
until we found an alternative that would fit our requirements (eventually
“Métro” was published), we used the coursework I had produced before going to
Rennes.
My own course and then
“Métro” fitted the requirements of the new exams very well and we developed
materials we were able to use (with updates) for a further ten years or so.
In line with the new
Higher course, we were able to use French films toward fulfilment of
requirements in writing and speaking, and that suited me very well. A long-time
devotee of cinema in general, but particularly interested in French films and
directors, I was delighted to be able to introduce film not just for background
study and general interest, but for specific coursework purposes at Standard
Grade, Higher and Advanced Higher (or Sixth Year Studies at the time).
I enjoyed and admired a
number of films by Luc Besson and so I developed some ideas and notes for use
with Advanced Higher students. I even suggested the pupil involved write to Luc
Besson in the vague hope that the man himself might respond, and lo and behold,
some four months later the pupil received a signed personal reply! It was a
typed note thanking her for her interest and apologising for taking so long to
respond (he had been preoccupied with preparations for his film “Leon”). The
pupil kept the original and I had a photocopy on the wall behind my desk in my
room for a couple of years.
Encouraged by this and
subsequent success in exams, I used other films and made notes available to
pupils on “Jean de Florette” and “Les Enfants du Paradis”, though these were
restricted to Higher and Advanced Higher levels. I started using other films
with lower year groups, and developing notes on them, though principally for fun,
engagement and background information purposes.
At the same time my
personal life changed irrevocably as my three children arrived – my oldest son
in 1991 and my second son and daughter (twins) in 1993.
Allow me to state the
obvious – children take over your life. Professionally speaking, things were
going reasonably smoothly, but in a way having children only made everything go
even more smoothly because I was so tired and so busy I had no time to be
preoccupied with problems – I just dealt with them and moved on to the next
one. They say that if you want something done you should approach someone who
is busy. Well, I can vouch for that – apart from all the reforms and associated
course developments at school, I also offered tuition (at its peak I saw people
on four evenings in the week), and I taught an official evening class once a
week.
Why? Because having
children is not cheap and at one point all three of our children were in
nappies and that alone was a considerable drain on our resources.
I think I also became
more reasonable and accepting of people, largely because I walked around in a
semi-permanent daze. My children did not sleep well through the night and I
became accustomed to getting up two or three times every night, and that went
on (though it tapered off in time) for close to seven years. I didn’t have the
energy for arguments, so in general I reasoned with people and tried to remain
calm, even under provocation.
There was, however, one
occasion when I was bad-tempered and I snapped sarcastically at a poor pupil
who only behaved as she normally did. When asked why I was being so nasty on
that day, I realised the reason was rather unusual and ran contrary to
expectation. I had had a good night’s sleep for the first time in months (maybe
even years), and I couldn’t handle it! My mind and body felt out of sync, I
felt excessively tired and ready to snap at the least provocation.
Naturally, I apologised
to the girl, but when she heard me explain I was crotchety exactly because I
had slept well, she clearly thought I had flipped and was in need of bed rest.
Sometime in the
mid-eighties, I applied for a minor promotion (Assistant Principal Teacher) in
a nearby school. I applied more or less because it was expected of me – I had
reached the age and stage in my career where people seek advancement, but my
heart really wasn’t in it. Promotion under the system in practice at the time
seemed like a backward step to me, dealing with elements of administration and
discipline that I have never found attractive, and effectively giving you less
time to do the part of the job I did enjoy – class contact and teaching itself.
Rather predictably, the
interview did not go particularly well. I was nervous to star with, but when
the Head of the school directed a question at me and proceeded to stare
unflinchingly at me – not a single blink of an eye or hint of a smile – I felt
I was under intense scrutiny and the resultant sense of pressure caused my
mouth to dry up and my brain to scramble. I managed to answer questions, but
even I felt I was just going through the motions and my lack of enthusiasm and
initiative must have been clear to all.
Needless to say, I did
not get the job and I decided there and then not to apply for any further posts
unless it was something I really wanted and believed in.
In the late
eighties/early nineties a new grade of teacher was introduced – that of Senior
Teacher. The original idea behind the post was to reward “good” teachers and
encourage them to remain at the “chalk face” rather than apply for promoted
posts which then took them away from the very thing they were good at. Of
course, unions and education authorities fairly quickly stipulated there should
be extra duties attached to the position in order to merit a wage increase, but
nonetheless this appealed to me as it did not involve (in theory) having to
spend extra time on administrative or discipline matters. Essentially, it meant
developing teaching strategies and possibly sharing them with others, and I
found that very attractive so I applied for the position (still in
Invergordon).
The interviews were
announced for February 1990 and I was in Rennes at the time. Fortunately, a
mid-term holiday fell at exactly the right time and I was able to return home
not only to attend the interview, but also to attend the wedding of my mother
and Fred.
This time I was keen to
do well and I prepared thoroughly for the interview. I believed in the job and
in myself, and curiously I was not especially nervous, in part because I wanted
the position and had things to say, but also because I was based in France at
the time and that seemed to lend distance and a sense of proportion to events.
Questions were asked and
I was able to give confident and detailed responses to them all, though the
Head cunningly incorporated a question on the one area I had not discussed in
my application because I had been unsure of the definition of a term used in
the job description, but I had done research at home and put some thought into
that aspect, so I was able to respond adequately. That is, until I had to make
reference to the position of Depute Head (an essential point as he would be my
line manager), and I could not think of the term “Depute Head”.
I was so accustomed to
speaking French that French was the language that came into my head first. I
had already experienced a few “blanks” when speaking English with friends and
family, but at worst I recovered after a moment’s hesitation and I was able to
laugh it off. Here, in this situation, it was different – formal and
potentially far more embarrassing. I could only think of the French for
“Depute” – sous-directeur. I was aware of this gap in my vocabulary as I
formulated the sentence but I hoped that by the time I reached the end of the
sentence it would come to me. It didn’t. My sentence was left hanging in
mid-air, incomplete.
“I could speak to the ……”
The interview panel (the
Head and one other member of the senior management team) looked up from the
notes they were taking in expectation, waiting for the words that would not
come.
I repeated (in the hope
the words would come of their own accord) ….
“I could speak to the
….”, but still I just fizzled out.
Suddenly I felt hot and
clammy, and the puzzled looks and expressions of wearing patience only
increased my sense of growing panic (I was the fourth applicant and therefore
this was the fourth time they had asked this question and heard the expected
response).
I could think of no way
round it. I had to confess I couldn’t think of the English for the term I
wanted to use, only the French.
This was clearly new to
them. An English speaker who couldn’t continue in English, but who could do so
in French.
“What’s the expression in
French?” asked the Head, bemused but at the same time fascinated.
“Sous-directeur”, I
replied
“You mean the Depute?”,
he asked, quite astonished that such a small and common piece of school
vocabulary could have escaped me.
“That’s it!”, I exclaimed
in sheer delight and relief at being able to complete my sentence.
I got the job, despite my
minor display of linguistic incompetence.
Part of my remit was to
establish a code for equal opportunities in the school, and then I was invited
to develop a new region-wide initiative, Highland in Europe. Initially, I
looked into ways in which knowledge and awareness of all things European could
be advanced within various subjects and eventually this led to developing links
in Rennes to enable an exchange of work-experience placements between
Invergordon and Rennes. While the principle was much lauded, in practical terms
the whole project had to be shelved due to a lack of available funding.
However, as a school we did manage to send two pupils to Rennes and they
successfully completed work placements with a newspaper publisher.
Various offshoot schemes
came about as a result of the Highland in Europe initiatives, including one
plan to encourage teachers and pupils in different schools (and countries!) to
share resources and work on projects together. Within our school this was
largely the responsibility of our geography teacher, John, and he invited me to
participate in a trip to a secondary school (a lycée) in Troyes, not just to
help linguistically, but to look into the possibilities of establishing links
across the board between our two schools.
We received a very warm
welcome and embarked on several excursions in and around the area, visiting the
historic city itself (including a square in which, I was told, Victor Hugo
witnessed the guillotining of a prisoner and acquaintance, Claude Gueux, a
visit that would soon have particular significance for me), the gothic
cathedral and a number of champagne vineyards.
I videotaped interviews
with several pupils in English and in French with a view to producing
comprehension exercises and encouraging pupils to do the same thing in
Invergordon. I also filmed various places (especially in the school) and people
to provide background information for pupils at home, and I hoped pupils might
produce a similar documentary-style video about life in Invergordon that could
be sent to Troyes. Despite initial enthusiasm and a genuine desire to
communicate and develop correspondence, the whole project gradually lost
momentum as pupils moved on and the pressures of time and schoolwork came to
bear, forcing this linguistic luxury into the background.
When Arthur heard that we
were going to France, he took me aside to ask if I could do him a favour. He
was very fond of an exclusive eau de toilette for men called “Bien-être”
(Well-being) which he just couldn’t find in this country. He asked if I would
be kind enough to hunt some down for him while I was in France, and he offered
to give me some money there and then as it was likely to be rather expensive.
Of course, I agreed and told him we’d settle up on my return.
I don’t know anything
about aftershave or eau de toilette as they tend to make me sneeze, (my wife
once bought me some expensive Aramis which I duly put on just before going out
to dinner whereupon my neck erupted in red blotches and I sneezed for twenty
minutes before washing it off again), but I took careful note of what to look
for and promised I would seek it out.
Sitting with John in a
café in the centre of Troyes, I looked across the street and spotted a
swanky-looking pharmacie (chemist’s) with upmarket products in the window and
freshly painted bold lettering above it, which did a very good job of drawing
my attention. It looked like just the sort of place that might carry the
exclusive product Arthur was looking for.
A bit anxious about
asking for something about which I knew absolutely nothing except the name, I
pushed open the door and entered the plush premises. I had hoped to be able to
look for “Bien-être” on the shelves without having to engage in conversation
with an assistant, but as soon as I entered and realised I was the only
customer in the entire place, I understood this was unlikely. A very
bored-looking man sporting designer stubble and an air of superiority (I was in
very casual clothes and must certainly have given the impression of being of
limited means) saw me come in and, almost in relief at having something to do,
he instantly asked if he could help.
I told him I was looking
for an eau de toilette called “Bien-être”.
He hesitated and then
gave me a look which combined disbelief and annoyance at having his time
wasted.
“Monsieur, pour cela il faut aller chez Monoprix …. ”
Translation: Sir, to get
that you’ll have to go to Monoprix (roughly an equivalent of Superdrug or
Woolworths).
So, not quite as
exclusive as Arthur thought …. I thanked the man and left his shop, then headed
for the nearest Monoprix about 200 metres to the left.
I entered the fairly
run-down and tremendously busy Monoprix and headed straight for the toiletries
section. There, on the second shelf of a badly stocked display, lay two plastic
bottles (one on its side) of the much desired “Bien-être”. I grabbed them and
looked at the price on the shelf. I looked at it more closely and couldn’t
believe my eyes. I found the price label on the bottles themselves and it
confirmed what I had seen on the shelf – the decimal point was indeed in the
right place. The bottles cost 20 francs (about £2) each.
Even as I handed them
over to the assistant behind the cash desk, I expected her to tell me there had
been a mistake, but no – it came to 40 francs (just under £4).
I spent the rest of the
trip worrying I had bought the wrong product and Arthur would mock me for weeks
afterwards. But no …. Arthur was delighted with my purchase and of course
wanted to reimburse me.
I just couldn’t bring
myself to tell him the price, so I asked him to accept it as a gift. The poor
man clearly thought I was being very generous …. until now!
Theatre
The summer of 1998 saw a
significant change of influence and direction for me. Although I had been to
the theatre and enjoyed various events, it had never grabbed my attention and
appealed to me as much as the cinema, which remained my principal interest and
hobby. However, in the summer of 1998 my wife and I thought we should get out
more (our children were still very young) and broaden our fields of interest,
and when a national tour of “Les Misérables” was announced, it seemed the
perfect birthday treat for my wife who has always loved musicals and who was
very keen to see Les Mis, though I was rather indifferent.
Before that, however, we
were looking for a way to celebrate our wedding anniversary in July and, on
looking up what was on at Eden Court (theatre in Inverness) two days before our
anniversary, we saw that Michael Barrymore (of TV comedy and gameshow fame) was
in concert on our anniversary. To our astonishment, Alison managed to procure
us tickets – in the front row. I have to say this perturbed me a little due to
what I’d heard about his shows and audience participation, but Alison pointed
out there would be nearly 1000 members of the audience to pick on, so we had
nothing to worry about.
We took our seats at the
end of the front row and the first half went well (a Scottish singer who had
risen to prominence through a TV talent show). Michael Barrymore opened the
second half and was amusing and entertaining us in his usual fashion when he
launched into some audience participation, picking out various members of the
audience and engaging in brief conversation and repartee. He then made his way
across the stage until he was standing directly in front of me, lowered his
gaze to the front row and stared me straight in the eyes.
“What’s your name, Sir?”
he asked politely and innocently.
I actually had to think.
I was so taken aback that my own name did not spring immediately to mind.
“Stuart”, I said correctly,
after a moment’s hesitation and not without some trepidation.
“Stuart, Stuart”,
repeated Mr Barrymore in a fake Scottish accent. “I think we’ve got something
for you ….”, and he marched across the stage away from me very purposefully.
I turned to Alison who
was clearly highly amused at the fact I had been chosen for whatever fiendish
plan Mr Barrymore had up his sleeve. Remembering it was our anniversary, I
quickly put two and two together and accused Alison of setting this up –
whatever “this” was. It crossed my mind he might produce an anniversary card or
something similar, but whatever was going to happen, I told myself to roll with
it and not offer any challenge as I would certainly come off worst! It would
soon be over and at least Alison was enjoying it – tears of laughter were
already rolling down her cheeks as she witnessed my predicament and my reaction
to it.
Mr Barrymore came back on
stage carrying a big red book with gold embossed letters on it, and announced
“Stuart, this is your life” to howls of laughter from the audience.
He descended into the
audience and proceeded to make his way along the length of the front row,
displacing each and every audience member in the row, kicking belongings out of
place and generally causing havoc which was much appreciated by every
spectator. Except me.
I was terrified at the
thought of what was coming, a condition aggravated by Mr Barrymore’s riotous
and relentless approach and my dear wife’s fits of laughter and attempts to
catch her breath as she anticipated my impending fate.
Finally, he reached me –
the wait was ended and I told myself it would all be over in a few seconds.
“Tell you what”, said Mr
Barrymore into the mic, “Why don’t you come up on stage with me?” to roars of
approval and encouragement from the audience. I stood and turned, bewildered,
to Alison who was now a giggling heap almost on the floor and offered me no
moral support whatsoever.
Mr Barrymore climbed the
short set of steps onto the stage ahead of me and as I followed I was blinded by
the stage lights beyond which I could see nothing. Then, all of a sudden I felt
a force hit me full on, knocking my head back and seemingly enveloping my whole
body, and I was shrouded in darkness.
Mr Barrymore had turned
on me as I approached from behind, embraced me and apparently wrapped his right
leg around my lower body, all to ecstatic applause and hoots of approval.
I’m not complaining as
such – I just hadn’t the faintest idea of what was going on!
He then directed me to a
chair that had been set up centre stage and he launched into a “This is your
life” routine during which he whispered instructions and kindly wiped away the
tears that started to roll down my cheeks.
Upon completion of the
routine I returned, bemused but happy, to my seat and found Alison with her
make-up run halfway down her face and in some pain due to laughter.
At the end of the show,
Mr Barrymore leaned over to the front row and gave me a hearty handshake. He
provided a most entertaining and amusing evening, as well as a highly memorable
one for me, and also provided a highly successful re-introduction to going out
for a couple of tired and weary parents, and a reminder of how effective and
enjoyable a trip to the theatre can be.
Alison’s birthday present
that year was tickets to see “Les Misérables” at the Playhouse in Edinburgh in
September. She has always enjoyed musicals (while I generally disliked them,
finding most of them bloated, self-indulgent and of little interest) and
eagerly bought the videotape of the 10th anniversary concert which
she played regularly at home. While I found a few of the tunes quite catchy, I
spent little time actually following the storyline, preferring to find
something else to do while the tape was played.
When the national tour
was announced, Alison bought tickets a good six months before the show was due
to arrive in Edinburgh and her excitement was built to virtually fever-pitch by
the time the date came around. Her expectations were so high I was afraid they
couldn’t be met and she was going to be terribly disappointed, so I pointed out
that she couldn’t, in all fairness, expect the same quality of production and
performance as in the 10th anniversary concert, but her enthusiasm
continued unabated.
It was a very warm
evening and the theatre was packed. The buzz of excitement was virtually
palpable as the three thousand-strong audience chatted animatedly while waiting
for the performance to begin. Alison was in good company and it seemed that I
alone harboured any doubts about what we were about to see. I remember checking
my watch and thinking, “Never mind, it’ll all be over in three hours and at
least Alison will have enjoyed it.” I have to admit I did enjoy observing the
excitement and enthusiasm of the audience – there was even a cheer and applause
as the lights went down, but I could not share their unconditional zeal.
Then the music started
and the curtain went up, and the impact on me was immediate. I was hooked. The
combination of music, movement, drama and emotion hit me like a train. The
excerpts I had seen of the concert focused on static performances at
microphones but here, on stage, the constant toing and froing of the characters,
the telling of a compelling and rich story and the music that engulfed the huge
theatre just swamped me.
At the end of Act one
Alison turned to me, glowing with admiration and appreciation of what we’d
seen, and asked “Well?” I could only nod and say it was fantastic, but in my
heart I knew that was totally inadequate to express what I felt.
The second Act was, if
anything, even stronger and had an even greater impact on me. I have always
loved film music (music that helps reveal character and tell a story), but this
superb musical which told a tale with themes that were close to my heart
through a tragically heroic principal character affected me more than any film
had managed to do.
When we arrived at the
theatre Alison was the enthusiast, but when we left, I was the devoted fan.
It took me several days
to “recover” as I thought constantly about the music, the performances and the
production, but also (and more importantly) the themes, characters and spirit
of the show.
Like most people who are smitten
with something, I wanted to share the experience so I proposed a school trip to
Edinburgh to see the show, I wondered if there would be enough interest to make
the trip viable, but some forty pupils, especially senior students including
all those doing Higher French, plus four staff set off for Edinburgh for the
mid-week matinee performance in the third week of November.
On the way south I was
asked numerous questions about the show and I’m afraid my excessive enthusiasm
shone through, and I’m sure I bored my captive audience to the point of
discouragement. I was asked if I had cried (they had done some research into
the show) and I had to confess I came mighty close at some points, which of
course caused some mockery and derision. I was also asked by a couple of young
ladies if I had a favourite part, and I replied I particularly remembered the
very beginning as the orchestra struck up and the convicts came on stage. I
certainly didn’t do a good job of conveying the drama as their heads nodded
with little conviction and their expressions indicated they were doubting their
own judgement in joining the trip if that was what I considered a “good bit” ….
Many other schools had
organised similar trips and the theatre was once again packed to the gunnels and
the atmosphere was awash with expectation and excitement. We were in the first
two rows and our pupils were eagerly taking in the occasion, turning around and
impressed by the sheer size of the auditorium and the hubbub generated by the
largely school-age audience.
The lights went down and
a cheer went up. The orchestra struck up the opening bars and the convicts
entered as the curtain went up (made all the more visceral due to our proximity
to the stage), and within 30 seconds I felt a tap on my arm from a pupil
inviting me to look along the row. The two girls who had been quite unimpressed
by my choice and description of a “good bit” had obviously had second thoughts.
They were in tears – already.
I was a little anxious
when organising the trip as I was aware that my own reaction and enjoyment were
no guarantee that others would share my response. Everyone appeared to enjoy
it, but at the interval I made sure I did the rounds to gauge their reaction
and of course it was unanimously positive, some using words like “amazing” and
“fantastic”, while others seemed a bit lost for words, rather like I had been.
I was most relieved and
felt a sense of satisfaction at the chorus of approval, and I was able to
settle back and enjoy the second Act.
I’m giving nothing away
(the show has sold over 65 million tickets worldwide as I write) when I say
that one of the characters, Gavroche (a boy revolutionary), is shot and killed
at the barricades by government soldiers. This character is presented as a
loveable little rogue and invariably appeals to the audience, and he appeared
to bring out the maternal instincts of some of our girls who whispered “Aawwww”
and “He’s cute” whenever Gavroche appeared.
In a tense scene at the
barricades, the government forces gain the upper hand and the revolutionary
students are running short of ammunition so Gavroche volunteers (despite
vehement opposition from his student friends) to cross the barricade and
collect ammunition from the bodies of the fallen in “no man’s land” between the
two opposing groups.
As the audience focuses
on a solitary Gavroche and he picks up bullets from the corpses littering the
stage, singing a defiant little ditty as he goes, a single shot rings out from
the back of the theatre, narrowly missing him.
Seconds later, another
shot, and this time he is wounded, but continues his song though he is clearly
in pain, drawing gasps of sympathy from the audience, and then …. BOOM ….
another shot, much louder and more powerful than the others, and Gavroche is
fatally wounded.
Due to the carefully
crafted build-up of tension and atmosphere culminating in the ringing out of
the fatal shot, two of our girls (in the second row, and directly in front of
the young and cute Gavroche) got such a fright when they heard the BOOM that
they actually screamed, breaking the tension and at the same time amusing the
young actor playing Gavroche to such an extent that as he keeled over and
“died”, he wore a rather large grin on his face!
The closing scenes are
very emotionally charged and I was interested to see how the pupils would
respond to them. In a way, this was the “litmus test” for the success of our
trip, at least in my eyes, as an emotional response to these scenes suggests
engagement with the storyline and its themes.
As the aged and dying
Valjean sat immediately before us and prepared to say his goodbyes to his
beloved Cosette, I again felt a slight nudge and my attention was brought to
Josina, a senior pupil seated right in front of me. She had obviously been
warned to take a packet of tissues with her and she was certainly making good
use of them as tears ran freely down her cheeks, punctuated by frequent and
involuntary sniffs as she tried to keep control. She held a tissue to her face,
dabbing it regularly, and I noticed a sizeable pile of used tissues on her lap.
Is it awful to confess
this touched me greatly, but also gave me huge satisfaction?
The cast received a
well-deserved standing ovation and huge cheers of approval and appreciation
from the entire audience, though our group was particularly vocal and also
visible as we were immediately in front of the stage.
I didn’t need to ask –
our pupils had clearly thoroughly enjoyed the performance and they were
animatedly discussing what they had seen with one another. At this point a
lively young lady named Tracy, who was in my Higher class, came bounding up to
share her thoughts and her excitement.
“That was just fantastic,
and …. the old guy …. he could be gentle sometimes and powerful at others …. he
was great”, she said breathlessly, referring to Phil Cavill who played Valjean.
I wanted to continue our
conversation, but I had to escort our group out of the auditorium. Because we
were by the stage, we were among the last to leave and I went ahead to see
where to go exactly and to count everyone as they passed through the exit. I
had a quick word with a pupil and I somewhat inattentively approached the main
door, and as I made to open the door I walked into a sturdy chap who had just
come in and stood before me.
I looked up and as I was
spluttering an apology I realised that the shaven-headed lightly bearded man in
front of me was none other than Phil Cavill, Valjean himself! It was raining
heavily outside and he had come in to buy a “Les Misérables” baseball cap. I
expressed surprise he had to pay for such things, told him how much I had
enjoyed the show and asked him to convey my congratulations to the rest of the
cast, which he said he was happy to do, and then I remembered the forty pupils
behind me. I raised my hand and said “Wait here!”
The pupils were delighted
to meet him and the poor man was besieged with requests for his autograph which
he gave very kindly and with great patience.
In the meantime, I went
toward the rear of our group and found Tracy. I asked her if she recognised the
chap speaking to her fellow pupils. She looked over, asked “The bald guy?” and
shook her head, wondering why I was wasting her time. I suggested she imagine
him in a grey wig and an open-necked white shirt (which Valjean wore in the
finale), and the result was instant and dramatic.
“Oh, my God! It’s him ….
the old guy …. Oh, my God! I can’t
breathe!”, after which she went over and joined the queue to get his autograph.
Once on the coach I was
moved almost to tears when a senior pupil who joined our group at the last
minute sat next to me and proceeded to thank me profusely for bringing him as
this had been one of the best experiences he’d ever had, and I couldn’t help
but feel he had summed up what teaching was all about (for me).
The trip was a huge
success (and would led to several others, of which more later), but on our
return, there was another unexpected consequence. As part of the Higher course,
pupils were now expected to write about a French book or film and my Higher
class asked me if they could use “Les Misérables” as the basis for the written
element of their course work. I was, of course, delighted but I pointed out the
original text was huge (some 1400 pages), but they were undaunted and quite
determined that this was what they wanted to study.
I quickly realised they
would need some help and so I started planning a sort of study guide. Little
did I know that this would lead to a passion, even an obsession for the
subject, and the founding and development of a website.
After producing a fairly
extensive analysis of “Les Misérables”, I created a website and uploaded my
thoughts to make them available to students throughout the world. This
encouraged me to share my thoughts on many other films, books, educational
topics and even one or two other French musicals.
I went on to discuss some
of these films (especially French films) and my approach to their analysis at
regional and even national modern languages conferences, and I discovered there
was something of a niche for my web pages as students all over the world
referred to them. I am astonished, delighted and honoured to say these pages
have now been viewed over a million times and have been used in the university
of Texas, with a masterclass at Cambridge (by none other than a former “Javert”),
and have been cited in numerous essays, dissertations and theses. As a result
of the internet publication of these pages and an interest in their subjects I
have made many contacts and friends throughout the world, from Steve McQueen’s
photo-double and stand-in for “The Sand Pebbles” to a fellow teacher in
Portland and a student in Islamabad, and my life has been greatly enriched by
these interactions.
All this because my
Higher class wanted to study “Les Mis” as part of their course, but also because
my colleague and friend Arthur pushed me into using a computer, something I had
resisted doggedly for years.
Using technology
Arthur was keen to take
the department into the 21st century and insisted on buying in and
using computers to aid us in our attempts to spread knowledge and awareness of
French language and culture. His prescient thinking was ahead of its time to
the extent that internet access was not yet available throughout the school at
that time – few departments had gone in that direction, though the Doc (in the
room directly across the corridor from mine) knew a lot about computers and had
organised the installation of an internet access point in his base.
Arthur got the go-ahead
to share science’s internet connection, so all that remained to be done was to
set up a cable connecting the computer in our base to the socket in the science
base across the corridor. Running the cable along skirting boards, up door
frames and across the corridor ceiling was the obvious solution, but visible
wiring offended Arthur’s sense of aesthetics so he sought a solution that would
be more pleasing to the eye.
At that time, quite a lot
of work was being done to the school – a lift shaft was being built and the
entire building was being rewired, but the new wiring was channelled into
conduits fitted along the join between the top edge of the walls and the
ceiling. Arthur decided he would run our cable in these conduits which ran
along the top edges of our corridor walls, so it had to run the width of my
room plus the width of the corridor, then back 20 feet or so to reach the
window above the science base – a fair-sized job, but it did mean there would
be no ugly wiring running up walls and door frames, and across the ceiling.
His first attempt was not
a great success. In the lift shaft several workers were busy setting up the
pulley system and the electrics within a dark and enclosed space, illuminated
only by artificial light. After inserting a length of our cable into a section
of conduit, Arthur slapped the cover into place and this was accompanied by a
bright flash immediately followed by yells of panic and confusion from the
gentlemen at work in the lift shaft as it was plunged into darkness and chaos.
The electrician took it very
well and repaired it very quickly, shaking his head yet amused at the same
time. We decided to wait until the next in-service day before persevering in
our task.
Shortly afterwards, on a
day when there were no pupils to disturb us and no construction workers for us
to disturb, Arthur set about opening the conduit casing, inserting the cable
and closing it again, while I was to take care of the connections themselves.
Clearly, I could not do
my part until Arthur had completed his task. At morning interval, I stepped out
of my room and into the corridor where Arthur was working. He was about halfway
along the width of my room, perched on a large table which allowed him to
stretch up and reach the conduit casings running along the top of the wall. I
engaged the Doc in conversation at his doorway, so still in the corridor
itself.
As the Doc and I casually
conversed about what we had done that morning and the progress Arthur was
making with the wiring, we were suddenly interrupted by a loud and persistent
shriek, “AAAHHHH…”.
I spun around to see
Arthur on his table, arms stretched up and hands seizing the conduits, his body
shaking violently as he screamed incoherently. The man was being electrocuted!
Instinctively, I started
running toward him to help but it struck me that I also would be electrocuted
if I touched him, so with reason-defying logic I put my right shoulder first
and prepared to launch myself at him, hoping to knock him off the table and
break the flow of the electric current.
When I was about four
feet away from the table, Arthur suddenly released the conduit, crouched,
pointed at me, pulled a face and cried out “Na, na, na-na, na” in the manner of
a child who has just fooled a friend. I don’t know if I have ever felt such a
wave of mixed emotions – relief, anger, embarrassment and amusement.
I no longer remember exactly
why, but for years after that our computer was connected to the science base
internet socket by a cable that ran across the ceiling between our two rooms. I
suspect my nerves couldn’t take the pressure of pretty wiring.
Despite such an
inauspicious start, this was the beginning of what proved to be a life-changing
development in my life and I owe a debt of gratitude to my Higher class, my
colleague Arthur, and of course my wife for leading me to the water of Les Mis
in the first place.
Assistants
Because I spent a year in
Le Havre as an assistant, and then a further year as an exchange teacher in
Rennes, I’ve always had a lot of empathy with and compassion for the young
people who are willing to uproot themselves and leave their family and friends
behind for a year to become assistants, and help teach French in an education
system and a culture which are unfamiliar to them.
It is quite a test of
character as they arrive with no knowledge of the local area, no training in
teaching, and usually with little experience of dealing with people, far less
dealing with potentially bolshie teenagers whose favourite subject at school is
not always French. Yet most assistants dig deep and rise to the occasion,
discovering their strengths and weaknesses as they learn about aspects of life,
teaching and getting on with others.
Of course, much depends
on their personality and that (in keeping with all professions where contact
with people is an essential element), is what made life interesting for both
pupils and staff as they received a new teacher and colleague each year.
One or two arrived
overconfident and dismissive of the culture and system in which they were to
work, but most were successful by being adaptable and respectful of the people,
structure and environment they encountered.
One of the first
assistants I worked with was a young man called Patrick from Lyon. Lyon, as you
undoubtedly know, is a sizeable city in the south east of France. It is a
beautiful and historic city which is regularly bathed in bright sunshine and is
known for its bright blue skies. Because of this, Patrick became fascinated,
indeed almost obsessed, by clouds. He loved them. He couldn’t take his eyes off
them and was very keen to learn all he could about their shape, density and
formation. While I could vaguely understand his interest (though I’m afraid I
tend to take them completely for granted), I was somewhat stunned to learn he
had taken some 360 photos of clouds during his stay. It should be borne in mind
that this was long before the digital age and so each one of these photos was
developed, printed and then transported home to be appreciated even more in an
apparently cloudless environment.
To fully appreciate
another memory I have of Patrick, you have to be aware that for some reason,
when speaking English, French students frequently put an “h” before an English
word that starts with a vowel.
One evening Alison and I
met Patrick and he told us how he had spent the day in Inverness but he was now
very tired, so naturally I asked why.
He then got very
frustrated because he couldn’t remember one particular verb in English, the
verb “to row” (as in a boat), so in the best traditions of a good linguist, he
found another way to express the idea: “I am tired because I have spent the
whole afternoon in a boat with two hoars!”. Which did rather explain his
tiredness, but more importantly provides a lovely example of the fun you can
have with language.
One assistante’s father
was a teacher of English who loved Scotland and insisted on spending every
summer here, especially near Ayr and Troon. The result was that not only was
our assistante that year completely fluent in English, but when she spoke it
was with a distinctly Ayr-shire accent!
Another assistante was a
strict vegetarian who was very anxious about putting “poison” in her body,
though I didn’t know this when I invited her (and a few others) to our home for
dinner one evening. When we found out about her dietary requirements, my poor
wife was thrown into a panic and hurriedly concocted a suitably vegetarian
alternative, though I doubt if the young lady actually cared that much about
what was served to her that evening as, before dinner, she consumed the six
cans of lager she brought with her as a gift.
Of course, assistants do
not just help develop pupils’ linguistic skills, they are also a source of
information and knowledge of customs, culture and daily life in France, and
while I was in Rennes I was able to put some of that knowledge to the test when
I visited an ex-assistante who lived with her parents in the Parisian suburb of
Boulogne-Billancourt.
I made the 200-mile trip
to Boulogne-Billancourt and after negotiating the heavy city traffic, I parked
outside the block of flats where our ex-assistante lived with some relief. We
met and had a coffee together, after which she suggested going into the city
centre so she could show me around the Sorbonne (her university) and the
surrounding area. I willingly agreed as I have always loved Paris and enjoy
wandering around simply admiring the architecture, beauty and sheer scale of
the buildings and streets. We left the café and I moved in the direction of the
underground station just a couple of hundred yards away.
“What are you doing?” she
asked.
I explained that I
thought we were going into the city so naturally I headed for the underground.
“I thought we’d take your
car. That way you’ll see more.”
There was no disputing
her logic. I would see more, but I would also be seeing more traffic than I had
even seen in my life, in an area I didn’t know and surrounded by city drivers
who did not enjoy a reputation for patience.
She was adamant I would
gain so much more this way.
I couldn’t back down and
she was right, so we got into my car and set off on the main carriageway out of
Boulogne-Billancourt and toward Paris itself.
At the first major
junction, I pulled up at a red light and pointed out she would have to help me
and guide me through the streets and traffic system.
There was a brief silence
followed by her response which contained a tone of vague amusement.
“But I’ve never driven
into Paris. I always take the Métro.”
The stunned look of
realisation, anxiety and rising panic on my face was not intended to provoke
hilarity and yet she was now laughing almost uncontrollably and with genuine
mirth.
I repeated the gist of
her statement: “You’ve NEVER driven into Paris.”
“No. Why would I, when I
can take the Métro?”
The irony was
dumbfounding but I now had to focus on negotiating the Parisian streets without
causing damage to my own or anyone else’s property, and without killing and
brave pedestrians who might opt to cross a road in front of me.
We made it to the
Sorbonne and back unscathed, though on a few occasions I stopped at lights in an
awkward position and couldn’t see the lights as they changed, but the kind and
eternally helpful Parisian drivers quickly found a way to gently point out to
me that I could move forward!
I learned that I can cope
with heavy traffic and considerable stress, and I also learned not to make
assumptions about assistants’ knowledge of their own country and environment!
Engagement
I have always tried to
engage with pupils and I think engagement underpins and reinforces all other
teaching strategies and techniques.
I used many films and
many types of video entertainment to try to connect with, educate and inspire
pupils. Musicals turned out to be among the most captivating and successful
forms of video stimulation. “Les Misérables” proved immensely popular across
the board, as did “Notre Dame de Paris” (the French-Canadian adaptation of
Victor Hugo’s tale of Quasimodo, the Hunchback of Notre Dame). While senior
classes wrote essays and reviews, younger classes translated songs and even
sang along as we watched each musical unfold. All classes seemed to enjoy
discussion of themes and character development and this would lead to
discussions of broader or perhaps more personal interest.
One of the most popular
songs was “Le Temps des Cathédrales” at the start of “Notre Dame”, both because
it was catchy and repetitive and because it is sung so powerfully by Bruno
Pelletier. For many pupils, this was an introduction to vaguely operatic
singing and storytelling, and it worked very well. I greatly admired Bruno
Pelletier’s performance and voice (as did the pupils), and I wrote to a contact
address on his website to ask if he would be kind enough to provide a signed
photo for my pupils while explaining that we used “Notre Dame” to help in the
teaching of French. Fairly soon afterward, and to my utter astonishment, I
received such a photo with the message “To Mr Fernie’s pupils, Sincerely, Bruno
Pelletier” which I pinned on my classroom wall where it remained for several
years. Inspired by this, a handful of S4 girls also wrote and requested signed
photos which he was kind enough to supply. That personal connection made a real
difference not only to that year, but also to later year groups to whom I told
the story and showed the photo.
A film that proved hugely
popular with every class that saw it was “Les Choristes”, the story of a group
of pupils in a school for boys in difficulty run by a disciplinarian Headmaster
set in post-war France, and the boys’ lives are changed significantly by the
arrival of a kindly supervisor who introduces the boys to a more human approach
to teaching and learning while using music.
The film appealed to
pupils because of its school setting, but the story itself evoked empathy,
sympathy and even outrage. I discovered that classes were happy to produce work
on the film, but also worked on other exercises while listening to the
soundtrack of the film in the background. Indeed, one S4 class was so taken
with the songs in the film (the supervisor formed a choir) that they organised
a mini concert based on the songs from the film and invited along one or two
members of staff. One of the main instigators of the concert was a young lady
called Lauren who could hardly have been accused of being crazy about French,
but she was inspired by the film and its songs, organised our mini production
with her friends and sang beautifully. Tragically, just a couple of years after
leaving the school, she was killed in a road traffic accident just outside
Invergordon.
It was not just in using
film and songs that I tried to engage my pupils – there were more personal
efforts too, most notably by making courageous if ill-conceived attempts to sing
myself.
I cannot sing, but I do
have a powerful voice and I discovered that if I belted out a few words of a
song I managed to dupe people into thinking I had a talent. And so, I started
singing with Bruno Pelletier for a few bars, or accompanied Valjean as he sang
“What have I done?” (always an appropriate choice, I thought), and I actually
received praise from a number of pupils! As I have already indicated, I also
sang “Happy birthday” to pupils, often in a duo with the Doc, and often
standing on a table in front of the pupil concerned in order to cause maximum
embarrassment. I wish I could say we made a deliberate effort to sing off-key
and as badly as possible in order to amuse, but the truth is that by and large
we were doing our best.
Apart from telling
anecdotes from the past to illustrate a cultural or thematic point, I came to
realise that storytelling in itself was a useful endeavour (exercise in
comprehension and also in focus). However, I did realise that often pupils
would not completely comprehend the tale I told them and so I felt the stories
needed a dramatic finish and delivery (to maintain interest and concentration),
indeed I came to realise that the finish and the way I built up to that finish
were probably more important (in terms of comprehension of gist and focus) than
the content, so I started telling vaguely creepy stories in French. These were
stories that were worthless in themselves (and in fact had no real ending), but
served to concentrate pupils’ attention on what I was saying and I built up the
tension until …. BANG …. I would suddenly yell and gesticulate threateningly,
usually causing screams of panic and fear, followed immediately by laughter and
relief.
What I have never been
able to fathom is why classes would ask for a repeat performance the following
day, or, even worse, ask for a translation of what they had just heard and
reacted to in French. I would point out that it couldn’t possibly work because
this time they knew what was coming, but they persisted in their demands for
another “performance”, so I would do it again. And it would work – again. They
got a genuine fright and they screamed even though they knew what I was going
to do and roughly when!
So, it’s all in the
telling of the tale ….
Many years ago, a teacher
of English was discussing Macbeth with a senior class and he emphasised the use
of blood and the colour red in the course of Shakespeare’s tale. He made very
good and salient points, went into detail and produced many examples to
elucidate the symbolism and meaning of the text.
Listening to the teacher
was a young man who was not particularly gifted at English, but he was a hard
worker and so he listened attentively. Some pupils seem to need tools to help
them achieve the level of attention required to work well – some like music
playing in the background, some like to drum their fingers on the table or
their cheeks, and others like to tap pencils. This young man had a very sharp
pencil which he held in his right hand and which he tapped gently and silently
against his lips, immediately below his nose.
While most teachers know
what they’re talking about and manage to convey a wealth of information and
intelligent interpretation, not all teachers are gifted with a lively and
interesting delivery with which to inspire and motivate their listeners. I’m
afraid the English teacher in question tended toward a rather monotonous
delivery which did little to encourage attention and concentration, and indeed,
at least in this case, had the effect of inducing tiredness and drowsiness.
It will be recalled that
the young pupil was tapping a very sharp pencil on his lips immediately below
his nose as his teacher’s delivery had the effect of making him dozy. As his
eyes began to close, his head arched gently back and he faded into a state of
semi-consciousness, but still with the sharp end of the pencil where his lips
had been before his head rocked backward.
As he became less aware
and consequently exercised less control over his neck muscles, his head fell
forward at the perfect angle to allow the sharpened lead point to enter his
right nostril and tear the inside, instantly waking the pupil and producing a
gush of blood onto his open jotter.
The accompanying scream
jangled the nerves of every person in the room and as all eyes landed on the
shocked, bleeding pupil, he shot out of his chair and the room at great speed,
leaving the teacher and the remaining pupils to contemplate the sight of blood
and the colour red in more tangible form.
Concerts, plays and charity
events
Pupils enjoy seeing their
teachers outside the context of the classroom. They like seeing their teachers
in different frameworks and situations, especially situations in which they
don’t take themselves too seriously and which allow pupils to see them as human
beings.
Come to that, it is a
pleasure for staff to present a different face, open up a little and work with
pupils in different circumstances and conditions in which each helps the other
to achieve a common end.
School concerts, plays
and charity events provide a wonderful opportunity to enjoy a change of
routine, pace and environment while building rapport and friendship with pupils
and other members of staff as we all work toward the goal of presenting a show.
When I started out in teaching,
I attended a couple of musical events at the school and found myself quite
envious of the camaraderie and fun the participants clearly had, so when I was
approached to be a joint master of ceremonies at a charity concert (with a
colleague named Bill), I jumped at the chance.
Bill was a natural – he
remained calm, collected and competent throughout, but I quickly discovered
that my desire to participate was greater than any meagre ability I had to
present the acts. I became very nervous, anxious and unsure of myself, and the
low point came when there was a delay and Bill and I had to fill the time. I
resorted to doing impressions and invited the audience to identify my
“victims”. It wasn’t good and I resolved never to repeat the experience, at
least not as a presenter. I decided I would help out in sketches or small
parts, but I really couldn’t face extended appearances involving chatting to an
audience again.
I know that’s bizarre,
given my job involved speaking to groups of people all day and every day, but
it’s something I never completely got over. Even when, years later, I addressed
groups of colleagues at conferences or presented ideas on the use of film in
the classroom. The old dry-mouthed, blank-inducing nervousness and anxiety
reared its ugly head. In order to cope I prepared thoroughly and tried to amuse
and appear calm and controlled, but underneath I was often a quaking wreck.
Nonetheless, there were
plenty of opportunities to make shorter contributions to various theatrical
enterprises. I found I could cope better if “performances” were comic and
brief.
In a charity version of
“Blind Date” I impersonated none other than Sean Connery (my boyhood hero), and
titillated the audience by suggesting I could “swing my niblick” (a golfing
term), but I was a little put out when Bill (I can’t remember who he pretended
to be) stole my best line and claimed he was “big down under” (reference to
Australia)! Later on, I was somewhat baffled when the wife of a colleague
congratulated me on how much I sounded like Mr Connery, but confided that
close-up, I really didn’t look much like him ….
Arthur has a very good
singing voice and was happy to sing at charity events and concerts. He decided
that he would sing “Do Wah Diddy Diddy” on one occasion, and thought it would
be hilarious if I and another colleague acted as his backing singers for the
chorus. This was a good idea, but for some reason I just could not cope with
the words (Do Wah Diddy, Diddy Dum, Diddy Do) and each time I was required to
produce these words I uttered a jumbled and largely incoherent version which,
fortunately, many took as an attempt at humour and which, indeed, many appeared
to find amusing, but the fact is I could not get the nonsense words into my
head, except as soon as the music stopped and then I recalled them perfectly,
and have been able to do so to this day.
On another occasion,
Arthur sang “Unchained Melody” as a duet with our colleague and friend Alison,
who also has a very good voice. Despite (or perhaps because of) my performance
as Arthur’s backing singer, they asked me to join them on stage though this
time as a strictly non-singing participant. It will be recalled that in the
film “Ghost”, Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore have a romantic interlude with a
potter’s wheel while “Unchained Melody” plays in the background. Arthur and
Alison thought it would be amusing to set up a potter’s wheel in the foreground
of their stage set, clearly referring to the sensual scene in the film. As
Arthur and Alison launched into their rendition of the song (which was
videotaped for posterity, by the way), I was unsure of what, exactly, to do
with myself, but when I spotted the potter’s wheel, I received inspiration.
As Arthur and Alison
focused on their delivery and harmonies, I placed myself immediately behind the
potter’s wheel (and immediately in front of the audience), and set about
running my hands up and down an imaginary piece of pottery in as sensual a way
as I could to evoke the spirit of the scene in the film, all the time pulling
faces and pouting my lips à la Les Dawson. The young audience was most
appreciative and appeared highly amused. At the end of the song, Arthur and
Alison seemed quite happy with their performance, thanked the audience most
graciously and left the stage without a single word of rebuke to me, nor even
mentioning what I had done. Naturally, I thought they were happy with the way
everything had gone and that was an end to it.
Until …. five years
later, just after registration one morning, Alison burst into my room and
declared, “I know what you did!”, brandishing a video tape in my face.
Apparently, her mother
had been on a family visit that weekend and, while talking about “old times”,
Alison suddenly remembered the video tape of her performance of “Unchained
Melody”, which she had never watched, and so she decided to share the moment
with her mother ….
“I wondered why the
audience was laughing!” she yelled, accusingly, but other than that she was
left quite speechless, which was something of a first for Alison!
At the next charity
concert, I decided to abandon the prospect of singing and considered instead a
“career” in dancing. I had attended a “Blues Brothers” evening with friend and
colleague Mike and, inspired by the dynamic and infectious music and dance we had
witnessed, I suggested to Mike that we do a dance duet to “Everybody needs
somebody to love” from the film soundtrack. To my astonishment, he agreed
wholeheartedly and we set about choreographing our routine.
Hardly natural or
talented dancers, we concentrated on short, sharp and simple foot movements (à
la Bob Fosse) combined with wild arm movements (à la falling over) to distract
from the said foot movements. What we lacked in talent, technique and
knowledge, we compensated for in terms of energy, drive and commitment. After
school, we even cleared away tables and chairs in a computing room and went
through our paces with the music booming in the background.
Of course, we failed to
take in to account the possibility that another colleague might be tempted to
work late in the second computing room next door, and he might be
attracted/distracted by the pounding music, the sound of furniture being
dragged across the room, or the hysterical laughter of two grown professionals
as they fell over one another while trying to produce the simplest of dance
steps.
The other colleague
(another Mike) never entered the room. He could have come in, chatted, laughed
with us or even joined in, but instead he simply stood at the adjoining door
and stared fixedly through the window.
When we eventually became
aware of him, we just cracked up with embarrassment at the thought of what he
had seen.
He, on the other hand,
continued to stare in apparent disbelief, his mouth slightly open and with a
very slight shake of the head. Then he just walked away, giving us no
opportunity to explain ourselves, and he never mentioned it to either of us. It
is to be hoped he subsequently learned of the charity concert for which we were
rehearsing ….
At exactly the same time,
my three young children (aged five and three) contracted chickenpox. I couldn’t
remember if I had caught it when I was young, but we quickly discovered that in
fact I had managed to avoid it in my youth because now, at the age of 38, I
caught it from my own darling children.
Friends, family and
colleagues all thought this was hilarious and told me just to enjoy a few days
off, though when I was examined by a doctor, he leaned forward and said rather
ominously, “You’re going to be very ill” and went on to tell me he had access
to medication normally used for HIV patients, though he preferred not to give
it to me as it cost £100 per pill. Up to that point I hadn’t felt particularly
ill, just itchy.
As it transpired, I
needed only four days off school and, covered in some 250 very itchy spots, I
was able to perform our routine with Mike, though I have to say the effort
nearly killed me!
I was eventually
persuaded to perform a song at another concert and I agreed because this time
the song itself was not to be the focus of attention – my appearance would
distract attention from my awful singing.
I sang “Man, I feel like
a woman” by Shania Twain, but dressed as Shania Twain. It took a lot of
persuasion because I really am not attracted to the idea of dressing in women’s
clothing, but eventually I was convinced that it would be fun and entertaining
for the audience.
It is a matter of great
regret that I was never photographed in my Shania Twain outfit, in fact I never
even saw myself in a mirror. I wore tights, high-heeled shoes and a blouse that
belonged to my wife, and a very short hockey skirt. I also received a full
make-up job from one of the sixth-year girls who took great pride in applying
foundation, lipstick and mascara, and placed a long black wig on my head. Come
to think of it, maybe it’s just as well no photographic evidence exists ….
I made my way along the
corridor to the rear of the stage, struggling to keep my balance in the high
heels (although I found if I took my time and placed my feet carefully, it went
quite smoothly), and praying I would meet no-one (which was idiotic, given I
was about to stand in front of an audience of about 300).
There were several gasps
and titters from the stage crew as I took my place in the centre at the rear of
the stage. The curtains were closed and a choir was singing just in front of
the curtains. The idea was that after their song a “special guest” would be
introduced, the curtains would be drawn to reveal me in all my feminine glory
and, as the entire audience laughed, I was to launch into “Man, I feel like a
woman”.
The choir’s song ended
and I took up my position, arms stretched out to receive the audience’s
applause and warm reception. The curtains were opened quickly and I stepped
forward to …. nothing.
No response whatsoever.
No laughter, no applause,
no warm reception.
Then, just as I was
beginning to panic under my fixed smile, there was a communal and very audible
intake of breath and an outbreak of laughter and applause as the audience
finally recognised me!
I was so convincingly
made up and dressed that the entire audience took what felt like an eternity
(but was probably about three seconds) to identify me and share the joke.
Now the problem was that
the laughter and applause drowned out the musical accompaniment so that I
couldn’t hear when I was to sing, so I just launched into it anyway, and I
think that only added to the entertainment value.
I even received a special
mention from the Headmaster at the end of the show as he gave a vote of thanks
and he complimented me on my “performance”. However, the following day I
received an even greater compliment when the young ladies in my Higher class
arrived and congratulated me on my appearance, one remarking “Nice legs, by the
way”, and another agreeing with “Yes, you’ve got better legs than me, and
that’s saying something!”
I felt greatly, if a
little disconcertedly, honoured.
There was one occasion
when I sang “properly” at a charity concert – Arthur and I sang “Le Temps des
Cathédrales”, but we had Bruno Pelletier playing on DVD behind us and Arthur
can sing, so I got away with it.
I was also invited to
yell “It’s Christmas” at the end of the choir’s rendition of Slade’s “Merry
Christmas everybody”. I was so loud that some asked about the power of the
microphone I had used, and they found it hard to believe I didn’t need one.
For Children in Need in
2010 a number of senior pupils, a student teacher and I cobbled together a
routine based on “Haben sie gehord das deutsche band” from “The Producers”. It
was suitably awful but reasonably entertaining and evidence of this effort can
still be found on YouTube. As I write, the video of our performance has been
viewed 188 times. Brave souls.
Apart from these
performances, I also helped out backstage with school productions of “Grease”
and “Annie”, and I have to say that in every production in which I participated
I was struck by the willingness, determination, engagement and professionalism
of all concerned. Apart from developing umpteen educational skills, such events
enable pupils and teachers to evolve relationships and a community spirit as
all work together toward a common goal.
And apart from that,
they’re fun!
Student teachers
It is an honour,
privilege and responsibility to try to teach others how to teach. I was keen to
have a go at mentoring student teachers as I didn’t feel that I was
particularly well trained and I felt I had picked up a few ideas on what to do
and what not to do during my time in teaching. Of course, mentoring students
requires a similar set of skills to those needed for “normal” teaching, but
applied to a radically different context – you have to be able to distil a set
of principles from your experience, analyse the strengths and weaknesses of the
student and try to offer helpful and personalised advice on moving forward.
Just like pupils, every student is different and as a mentor you have to adapt
in order to help them get the most out of their time and experience with you. I
felt I was reasonably successful at engaging pupils and I had managed to guide
assistants, so I as happy to try my hand at mentoring student teachers.
For a while we seemed to
receive nothing but French students – native speakers who decided to make their
careers teaching French in Scotland. Apart from the obvious areas of interest
such as the structure of a lesson (the content and its delivery), I also
focused on rapport and engagement. French students had a number of other
hurdles to negotiate as well. It isn’t always easy to teach your native tongue
as you may not be entirely sure of grammar, and as a native speaker you will
not be as conscious of the pitfalls, difficulties and mistakes that foreigners
often encounter when learning that language.
French students are
educated in a different culture and environment but as I had some experience of
that environment in Le Havre and Rennes, I felt I might be able to offer some
insight and understanding – not just about what they knew, but about what they
didn’t know in terms of the educational culture they were entering.
I oversaw six student
teachers and only once did the arrogance of youth rear its head. Generally,
students were willing to take on board advice concerning what to teach and how
to teach it. Most went on to pursue careers in teaching (indeed, one became my
“boss” when we developed Higher materials together several years later), and it
is a source of considerable satisfaction to me to think I made even a minor
contribution to these students’ professional development.
School trips abroad
It is, I think,
impossible to overstate the extent to which school trips provide opportunities
for personal development and growth. Travel, meeting people, experiencing
different cultures and coping with various situations and circumstances all
provide a stimulus for learning, evolution and the development of interpersonal
skills. And that applies to the accompanying staff as much as it does to
pupils!
Experience can make an
almost subconscious (if, at times, painful) contribution to growth and
development, and it can be difficult to analyse and quantify its effect. People
accept it and move on often without realising and appreciating the impact an
experience has had. However, people do recognise and recall the fun moments of
experience and I have taken great pleasure in sharing amusing anecdotes of my
travels with pupils in order to encourage them to seek their own moments of
fun, experience and growth, and anecdotes from school trips are particularly
appealing as pupils can identify with them and aspire to embark on their own
school adventures.
In the French department
we organised several trips, usually to France, and always by coach as it was
the most economical way to travel, it was door to door, and the close proximity
of all concerned added to the social element of the venture.
The driver (or drivers)
plays an important role in the success (or otherwise) of a school trip. He
plays an essential part not just in terms of the safety and security of the
participants, but also in the general atmosphere. Drivers I have encountered
have almost invariably been friendly, open and interested, and have always made
a real contribution to the ambience on a trip.
On one of our early
ventures our driver, Andy, was aware of the considerable distance we had to
cover to reach the south-east of France, and in order to spare us the
fatigue-inducing effects of such a long journey he tended to set a good and
steady pace. He was a very good, smooth driver and we were unaware of excessive
speed, but we did recognise and appreciate the good time he was making as we
trundled along the motorways in Scotland, England and France.
At a payment booth on a
motorway not too far from our final destination (with a police station
immediately adjacent to it), the French police stopped us for a routine
inspection. Andy went quite pale and became almost panicky when asked for his
tachograph disc (which recorded the duration of our journey and the speeds at
which we travelled). He gesticulated wildly and announced “Kaput!” (which I’m
sure was appreciated by the French-speaking police) as he handed over the disc.
The look on the
policeman’s face when he examined the disc and read the speed at which we had
been travelling was something to behold – his mouth fell open and his eyes
widened as he leaned in to the disc to verify what he had already seen two
inches farther back, and he gasped.
I don’t know what the
reading said, but the policeman looked up, fixed poor Andy in his sights and
simply crooked his finger at him, inviting him to follow him as he stepped down
from the coach.
Andy was led into the
adjacent police station, and we were left without a driver.
Some ten minutes later,
more than a little anxious about the situation and the fact we had forty pupils
who should have been en route to a hot meal in their hotel and who were instead
parked in a driverless coach outside a French police station, Arthur and I went
in to the station to inquire what was happening.
Long story short, Andy
was to pay an on-the-spot fine of the equivalent of £60 for speeding offences
and he had responded by taking from his trouser pocket and slamming down on the
sergeant’s desk the equivalent of 75p. It didn’t go down well.
We explained that we
desperately needed our driver in order to transport our charges to their hotel
where they were due to be fed. The authorities remained completely unmoved.
Andy would be released after he had paid his fine, and not before.
Naturally, we continued
to express our concern for our pupils and pointed out the consequences on them
if we were not allowed to continue our journey, and soon, but all to no avail.
They would not budge.
It was then that Arthur
had a stroke of genius. He invited the police to keep our driver, but to provide
us with another, and that did it! Clearly, they were not willing to go to these
lengths and reconsidered the time and effort that was going in to obtaining a
£60 fine. They produced a huge tome containing translations into umpteen
foreign languages of useful phrases for such situations, dumped it
unceremoniously inn front of Andy, found the right page and pointed to a
sentence. He was receiving a warning – this time – and he was being released
without charge.
Needless to say, there
were celebrations among staff and pupils and Andy was extremely grateful,
though he was somewhat taken aback when Arthur informed him of his gambit to
gain his release as he was none too sure of just how serious Arthur was when he
made the suggestion to the police ….
Andy was a very gentle,
kind and sincere man who knew very little French. His vocabulary was restricted
to “Oui”, “Non”, “Merci” and “Beaucoup”, but he was determined to make use of
what he knew. So, when the waitress in the hotel brought him his soup one evening,
he was pleased to be able to thank her, saying “Merci beaucoup.”
Unfortunately, due to a
magnificent mixture of hesitation (or lack of confidence) and slight
mispronunciation (or lack of awareness), he converted “Thanks very much” into
“Thanks, nice bum”. Upon hearing this issue from his lips, I feared the worst –
I imagined his tomato soup in his lap or in his face, but no …. the lady in
question merely went slightly red, smiled appreciatively and gave a short and
sweet little giggle. Clearly, she understood what had happened and what Andy
had set out to say and chose not to embarrass him, though she did come over to
me and suggested I inform Andy of his mistake, presumably in case he came
across a waitress who was less understanding. He, of course, went the colour of
his tomato soup when I told him of his inadvertent faux pas.
On arrival at the hotel
we were all allocated rooms and Arthur and I set about distributing keys.
Within two minutes Andy was back and asked for a different room as he needed to
be near his coach (its security was his responsibility, and he had been given a
room at the far side of the hotel. Arthur kindly offered to swap and he set off
for what had been Andy’s room.
Once there, he checked
that Andy hadn’t left behind any of his belongings and in so doing, he glanced
under the bed. There, on the floor under the foot of the bed he spotted three
polaroid instant photos. Curious, he picked them up and realised, to his
horror, that a previous male occupant of the room had photographed himself in
the full-length mirror attached to the room’s wardrobe. Why to his horror?
Well, the previous occupant was naked and concentrated his photographic efforts
on the middle section of his body, strategically placing a pair of large-rimmed
black glasses to give the appearance of a face – bespectacled eyes above a
nose, if you follow me.
The next morning, Arthur
just couldn’t resist teasing the obviously innocent Andy and discreetly passed
him the photos over breakfast, inquiring if he had left anything behind in his
original room. The poor man just didn’t know what to say – misfortune seemed to
be piling on misfortune on this trip, and he was just aghast until Arthur and I
could contain our laughter no longer and we were able to reassure him he was in
no way considered a suspect.
When travelling abroad,
pupils can be a little disorientated and, naturally enough, they will seek what
is familiar in order to gain reassurance, but may only find the unfamiliar. For
example, before setting off on a trip, one pupil was shocked to discover she
would not be able to watch “Top of the pops” on the Thursday evening, and
declared she would take her own mini TV with her so she could watch it …., and
in Chamonix a young lad approached a member of staff and inquired as to the
whereabouts of the nearest R S McColl ….
We therefore attempted to
provide background information before leaving, and prepared linguistically for
numerous situations in which pupils might find themselves – buying food, drink,
clothes, souvenirs, asking for directions or information etc. We prepared
vocabulary and structures for several contexts and did role-play in the
classroom during the weeks preceding the trip. I was therefore reasonably
confident that most of our pupils would be able to get by in most common
situations.
While visiting the
south-east of France on one trip, we ventured into the north-west of Italy and
entered the town of Aosta. The journey into the town centre was quite an
adventure in itself as the streets were very narrow and of course we were
travelling in a 48-seater coach. Our driver negotiated the “roads” brilliantly
and eventually we made it to the charming and relaxing town square in the
centre.
Our pupils were reassured
to discover that most of the local shopkeepers spoke good French and so they
would be able to communicate, and they set off in search of exotic souvenirs
for their families.
Toward the end of the
allotted “discovery time”, as I was enjoying an Italian coffee on the terrace
of a café, one of my younger pupils approached me quite excitedly and said he
had found what he wanted to buy, but lacked the confidence to make the
purchase.
He wanted to buy a plate
which was in a display case immediately below the counter in a shop just around
the corner. Reducing the required vocabulary to a bare minimum, I reminded him
of how to say various things and how to ask one or two questions – he only
needed to know how to indicate what he wanted, ask the price, hand over the
money and say thank you.
He was quite anxious, so
I accompanied him into the shop which was filled to overflowing with souvenirs
and fellow pupils. I could see the plate, exactly as he had described it, and I
took up position about ten feet away so I was close enough to hear if he ran
into any difficulties.
The young pupil
positioned himself directly in front of the desired plate and looked across the
counter. The shopkeeper arrived momentarily and asked (in French) if he could
help the young lad.
The pupil looked at the
plate and then raised his head to address the shopkeeper. I was proud of him
already as he drew breath to speak.
“Uuuuhhhh”, he said
loudly, pointing clearly at the plate.
“Aaaahhhh”, he added
loudly, pointing at himself.
And then, the pièce de
résistance – “Ooohhh”, he grunted as he shoved his right hand forward,
containing every Italian banknote he possessed.
The shopkeeper carefully
withdrew what the lad owed him and wrapped his plate with great care, and as he
did so, I left the shop.
I was totally bemused –
it shouldn’t have happened, but a successful transaction had taken place and
communication had been achieved, yet I couldn’t help but feel a tad superfluous
and maybe even a professional failure!
On a trip to Holland, we
paid a visit to a theme park in nearby Germany. The big attraction, according
to the kids, was a rollercoaster with a difference – it was enclosed and it ran
in the pitch black. Most of the accompanying staff joined the kids in the queue
and it took half an hour to reach the start point, during which time there was
constant discussion of what we could expect, heightening anxieties and building
tension and apprehension among those of us who disliked heights, darkness and
the unknown.
I discovered that Arthur
had a fear of heights. Quite an acute fear of heights. He wasn’t happy just
climbing the stairways to reach the start point, and he fell almost completely
silent – very rare for him.
As we advanced up the
stairs, our group mingled with the other guests and so we were separated and
placed in a variety of rows in the car when it came to our turn. I was
fortunate enough to have a couple of pupils on either side of me (which I found
strangely reassuring), and I turned around to see Arthur and another member of
staff take their seats two rows behind. I gave Arthur a reassuring smile and he
tried to do the same but only managed to produce a rictus-style grin which
contained no sincerity whatsoever and indeed rather suggested a fear of
imminent death. I noticed he also had a firm grip on the hand rail attached to the
seat in front of him. Already.
And then we were off.
Suddenly we flew forward and were launched into blackness. Our car climbed
steeply at speed, banked abruptly, stopped sharply, and even reversed at one
point, all accompanied by screams and calls of “Oh, my God!” I have to say,
however, that the enclosed darkness was counterproductive in my case. I can
only think that precisely because I couldn’t see anything I felt no genuine
fear – there was no build-up of apprehension or dread, no surprise and no shock.
I simply felt buffeted as I was transported up and down, right and left. I was
more entertained by the reactions of those around me than by the experience
itself.
Eventually we pulled in
to the well-lit end point and I clambered out of my seat feigning terror and
relief as the kids excitedly got out of the car and, noisily comparing moments
of terror and fright, they headed for the exit and their next death-defying
experience.
As the crowd cleared, I
looked for Arthur and finally found him – still in his seat in the car, still
wearing a rictus grin and still holding on to the hand rail in front of him,
but his fingers had been so tensed up they were now virtually locked in place.
It was hard not to laugh
as he gazed, unseeing, before him.
With encouragement from
the rest of the staff, he finally managed to unclamp his fingers and exit the
car. As we descended the stairway to ground level, he kept his left hand on the
hand rail and said not one single word.
Once we were again on
terra firma, Arthur went over to a fence surrounding a couple of trees and
fumbled for a packet of small cigars and his lighter. I went over and asked if
he was alright. He stared me straight in the eye, gave a slight shudder of his
head to indicate “no”, and then managed to light his cigar. After a very long
draw and an equally long exhalation, he looked at me again and burst out
laughing. I was as relieved as he was!
On another trip to
France, we decided to pop to Switzerland for a brief visit, if only because we
could. We did a little sight-seeing and even stopped for a session in an
ice-rink near Geneva, though I have to confess I remember very little about the
whole sortie – I had other things on my mind ….
It was going to take two
and a half hours to reach our destination in Switzerland from our hotel in the
south-east of France, so it was decided to get up and set off early to give us
a reasonable amount of time there. Before heading downstairs for breakfast, I
laid my passport on the bed so that I wouldn’t forget it (I don’t have a good
memory) when I returned to my room for a last-minute spruce-up before setting
off for Switzerland.
After breakfast, which
took a little longer than expected due to some pupils’ malingering in the
bedrooms, the driver was anxious to get started, so we went straight from the
dining room to the coach.
On the way, everything
was going smoothly – there was lovely countryside to contemplate, it was chilly
but remarkably sunny, the driver was coping with the twists and turns of the
mountainous and panoramic routes, and the pupils were happily engaged in
chatter or card games.
About halfway there and
half an hour from the border, as I sat next to another member of staff, a very
ugly and overwhelming thought hit me rather abruptly. I let out a totally
involuntary and spontaneous oath which expressed my sudden panic and anger at
myself as I realised I had left my passport on the bed in my hotel room!
It was far too late to go
back. I felt terrible as I reckoned I had jeopardised the entire trip, though I
quickly reasoned that in fact only I was affected and that if I was honest at
the border I would simply end up kicking my heels at the border post for some
four or five hours. However, my absence would also have a knock-on effect on
excursion possibilities as we would be short-staffed. Although I am generally
very honest, I felt I had to find an alternative to total honesty if I wasn’t
to let everyone down.
As we approached the
border post and Arthur started gathering the staff passports to present to the
authorities along with the group passport for the pupils, I wondered how likely
it was that they would check passenger lists and passports individually, or
even that they would do a headcount, and I took action.
I got out of my seat and
went to join a group of pupils about halfway up the coach. I didn’t want to
arouse their suspicion (I was, after all, supposed to set an example AND it
struck me that some members of our party might find it amusing to draw
attention to me if they knew I was “on the run”), so I sat between two pupils
and tried desperately to strike up a conversation or start a game of cards –
anything to distract attention from the officials now boarding the coach.
Young people are not
stupid. They may not have guessed exactly why I was among them at that
particular time and place, but they knew something bizarre was going on. Nonetheless,
they played my game and went along with my scheme as the officials looked
swiftly at the passports, chatted jovially with the driver and even called out
“Have a good trip” to all of us before they left the coach and allowed us to
continue on our way.
Feeling mightily
relieved, I made my excuses to the now clearly suspicious and curious pupils
and re-joined the staff who were all highly amused at my situation.
I can recall very little
of the excursion. I vaguely remember accompanying pupils to the ice-rink, but
the whole time I was preoccupied with thoughts of my illegal status and my
criminality – I just couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel room, or at least
out of this country again!
On the return journey, I
desperately tried to think what to do. I couldn’t repeat the same strategy – it
was tempting fate, would be too obvious and the pupils would know for certain
there was a problem. As we approached the border and Arthur once again
collected the passports, I did the only thing I could think of and I headed for
the on-board toilet. I know it’s obvious, but I was desperate (for a plan, not
the toilet). As I made my way to the toilet there were winks, knowing smiles,
giggles and a variety of comments. They knew, and I had to endure the
embarrassment as I climbed down the steps and hid in the toilet.
The worst thing? The
coach wasn’t even stopped – we were waved through and I had hidden for nothing.
I heard a cry of “You can come out now, sir”, and I walked along the aisle to
my seat accompanied by a few slaps on the back and any number of giggles.
Never have I been so glad
to return to a hotel room and to see my passport. I have never forgotten it
since.
In 2009 the school
participated in an exchange with a secondary school in Brescia, in northern Italy.
The Italian party came to us in March, attended various classes in the mornings
and visited several landmarks in the afternoons. Although I accompanied the
group on a couple of occasions, I wasn’t part of the organising team, but when
a colleague fell ill I was invited to take her place on the return leg of the
exchange. And so, in September we embarked on a highly enjoyable trip to
Brescia.
The staff and pupils were
very welcoming and organised all sorts of cultural activities and excursions
for us. Two of us, Karen and myself, were given accommodation with an Italian
teacher of English and her husband, Mariagrazia and Sergio. Sergio spoke little
English, but what little he spoke was considerably better than my highly limited
Italian. He was a social worker whose main hobby seemed to be singing. He was
part of a choir and one of his ambitions was to perform in a large and
prestigious venue such as the Teatro Grande, the Opera House in Brescia.
As it happened, the
mother of one of the Italian exchange students worked in the Teatro Grande and
kindly organised a tour of the newly-refurbished opera house for our group. It
was a beautifully furnished and ornate building with lush red velvet seats and
a huge stage. We were treated to an extensive tour and, as several of our party
occupied the seats in one of the boxes, I couldn’t resist the temptation of
exercising my powerful (if tremendously flawed) vocal instrument.
I made my way through the
wings to the enormous stage and took my place in the centre. I was somewhat
taken aback by the distance from the others in the box and I called out to them
to check out the acoustics. I found we could converse at a perfectly normal
level despite the distance and the angle. What fantastic planning and
engineering had gone into the designing of that place.
When it came to singing a
song, I realised there was really only one I had “rehearsed” enough to sing in
such surroundings – Happy Birthday, so I launched into a vaguely operatic
rendition of Happy Birthday and dedicated it to Mariagrazia whose birthday had
fallen, by happy coincidence, just four days before. Needless to say, the event
was captured on a number of mobile phone cameras and I left the stage a very
happy man having sung on the stage of a famous opera house, and the
“performance” can still be seen on YouTube.
Of course, I could barely
contain myself when I saw Sergio and told him of my performance in the Teatro
Grande. The poor man was a little upset as this was one of his great ambitions,
yet this upstart foreigner had achieved that about which he had only dreamt. I
did try to make him feel better by pointing out that I had only sung Happy
Birthday – badly – to an audience of about eight, and they laughed at me!
A few days later, as we
attended a farewell party for our group, Sergio and I stepped outside into the
dark, chilly evening and sang a duet – our shortened version of “Nessun Dorma”
(from Puccini’s “Turandot”, don’t you know). We gave it our all and encouraged
one another to hold the final note as long as we could. Not only were we happy
with ourselves, but a solitary drunken figure in a corner of the car park where
we sang actually applauded us! I shall hold on to that moment of singing
success forever …. no need to spoil it with the truth!
On one of the excursions,
we made our way up an incline that wasn’t too steep but was very long, to be
greeted at the top by a beautiful panorama which made the journey worthwhile.
However, what I remember most is a brief conversation I had with a German
tourist in a small open-air café which looked out on to the magnificent view.
After our efforts to
reach this vantage point, Mariagrazia, a pupil called Rebecca and I felt the
need for some refreshment so we ordered a couple of coffees and a coke, and sat
next to a middle-aged German chap and his wife.
He heard us speaking
English and clearly wanted to practise his reasonable, if fairly limited,
English (though miles better than my smattering of German), and so he asked
where we were from and what we were doing there. I provided the details, but he
wasn’t sure where Invergordon was, so I knew I had to give him a landmark he
might recognise. People have nearly always heard of Inverness, but frequently
can’t place it on a map, while if you mention Loch Ness there is usually a
glimmer of recognition and a finding of geographical bearings.
And so, I told this
German chap about our relative proximity to Loch Ness and his eyes lit up. He
became quite animated and obviously had some knowledge of Loch Ness. I prepared
myself for the usual conversation about the Loch Ness Monster, the arguments
for and against its existence and its effect on tourism. He looked me in the
eye and was struggling to find the vocabulary to express what he so clearly
wanted to say.
“Loch Ness. I have read
about this. It is where they have giant ….”
I didn’t really want to
be rude and supply the missing word “monsters”, though he was taking so long to
get there, I took a breath to say the word when suddenly he finished his own
sentence.
“ …. potatoes!”
I was stunned and
surprised, but most of all highly amused by this information that was so far
removed from what I expected to hear. So surprised and amused that I couldn’t
contain my laughter. I turned to Rebecca who had clearly thought along the same
lines as I had and was struggling to stifle a laugh of her own, and the look on
my face didn’t help.
The chap started to
explain that he had read in some scientific publication about agricultural
experiments that were taking place near Loch Ness, but I had to stop him to
apologise for my reaction to what he had said. Fortunately, he had a good sense
of humour and was equally amused when I explained what had tickled me. I never
did make inquiries about those giant potatoes ….
During their time with us
in Invergordon, the Italian group received some training in Scottish country
dancing before taking part in a ceilidh held in their honour. They loved it and
were very taken with the dynamic dancing involved and the social aspect of the
event. Consequently, on our leg of the exchange they were keen to reciprocate
and they organised an intense training session in traditional Italian dances
led by professional dancers. This was followed by some social dancing involving
the whole exchange group – pupils, staff and some parents. It took place one
afternoon after lessons in the school courtyard.
Just as with singing, I
have little (if any) talent for dancing, but what I lack in ability and
fitness, I try to compensate with enthusiasm, so I threw myself into the dances
in a bid to encourage others to join in and simply to help the event go well. However,
my enthusiastic participation may have been a trifle excessive as, at the end
of the session, a pupil approached me and advised me to have a shower, adding
“You REALLY need one!” Frankly, I was more concerned by my wildly racing heart
rate and the fact I struggled to catch my breath and could barely speak a full
five minutes after the music stopped. As death seemed imminent, I couldn’t have
cared less about my personal hygiene, but of course I eventually recovered and
came to consider the sense of smell of others and had a shower at the earliest
opportunity.
My only other dalliance
with dancing came at the farewell party held the evening before our departure.
Abundant food and light drinks were laid on and music was provided in the shape
of disco equipment. But no-one was dancing – this group that had shared so many
experiences and had helped one another get through homesickness, anxiety and
apprehension to become more rounded, sympathetic and understanding young people
just weren’t willing (or able) to cast aside their inhibitions to dance
together at their farewell party, and I felt it was my duty to get the ball
rolling ….
I had never done this
before (and I am unlikely to ever do it again), but I got up on a table and
started gyrating to the music in an attempt to break the ice. This is really
not typical of me and I don’t know what made me do it, but I swivelled my hips
and tried to produce elegant lines with my arms and hands to the best of my
ability. Strictly Come Dancing it was not, and to my surprise and disquiet, my
“dancing” did not have the desired effect and the pupils simply gathered around
me to enjoy the spectacle of this teacher who was making a fool of himself! Fortunately,
one or two eventually felt some pity and started swaying to the beat of the
music and that was enough for me – I jumped down from my table-top and joined
in with the others until I could discreetly withdraw altogether.
The things teachers do to
inspire their charges ….
Incidentally, and rather
embarrassingly, short footage exists of both these dancing interludes on
YouTube.
There are, of course,
many other memories of trips abroad such as the time I thought I lost 14 pupils
on the second floor of the Eiffel Tower and spent 45 minutes hunting for them,
only to discover they (and a member of staff) had taken the lift to the third
floor without telling me.
There was the time a
colleague, Sean, and I shared a room and couldn’t get to sleep as we recounted
stories from the day and laughed so hard we had to resort to taking painkillers
at 1 a.m. to rid ourselves of the headaches we had induced through intense
giggling, and then nearly got another colleague banned from Holland when we
shared some of our stories with a Passport Control officer as we left the
country.
Or the time I crept up
behind a pupil on a ferry as she sat next to her friend, and waited for her to
turn and find my face just millimetres from hers to give her a fright, only to
discover she wasn’t a pupil at all, but a member of the public who must have
thought goodness knows what about my strange interpersonal habits!
Too many memories to bore
you with here, but such memories only testify to the value (in so many ways)
and lasting effects of school trips abroad.
Trips to see “Les
Misérables”
I have made it clear that
my interest in “Les Misérables” bordered on obsession (my family would tell you
there is no doubt about it – it was clear-cut). Because I used it in school, my
obsession became contagious as pupils took to it (though I would not have
insisted if they had said they didn’t like it). They read the book or extracts
from it, watched DVDs, wrote essays and reviews, discussed characters and themes,
translated the songs and even occasionally sang them (in French and in English)
in concerts and in the classroom.
At one point, even
innocent phrases used in class reminded me of songs from Les Mis and I would
add to the phrase, singing lyrics from a song from the show, e.g. a question
such as “What have I done?” might be asked, and I (or eventually a pupil) might
add …. “…. Sweet Jesus, what have I done, become a thief in the night …. etc.”
Naturally enough, all of
this led to repeated requests to see the show live rather than depend on books,
DVDs and CDs, so we organised several excursions to London (and another to
Edinburgh) to attend performances. As I have already said, all school trips and
excursions serve not only to fulfil their direct educational purpose, but also
help develop personal skills and growth which can be achieved in all sorts of
ways, and this principle is applicable to both pupils and staff ….
When organising these
trips to London, I quickly discovered that while the cost of transport and
theatre tickets remained pretty static, the cost of accommodation varied
considerably, and not just between hotels – the time of year and even other
events (such as the London Olympics) influenced the price. I therefore
researched hotels carefully in an attempt to find the best deal for our party,
especially as accommodation was the costliest element of our trip.
And so, on one occasion,
I opted for a hotel in Russell Square because it was more reasonably priced
than many of the other possibilities, though it meant a fair hike to the
theatre in the evening for our group of 14, but I thought that might be quite
enjoyable as it was London and everything was new, big and fascinating.
However, I failed to take in to account the fact that by early evening our
group was tired and hungry and couldn’t face the fairly lengthy walk to theatre
land. So, thinking on my feet, I came up with the obvious and easy solution of
taking the underground – a station was just a few hundred yards from our hotel.
Those readers who have
travelled on the London Underground in the early evening will know why this was
not a good idea. To say the station was mobbed is a gross understatement. If
ever there was a physical embodiment of the phrase “packed like sardines in a
tin can”, it was Russell Square Underground station that evening shortly after
five p.m. You could not move without rubbing up against someone, nudging them
or pushing them, all in order to get nearer the train platform, which was also
awash with people.
I was also unaware of the
fact that at Russell Square station, there is a considerable distance to
descend to reach the platforms themselves. We all piled into one of the three available
lifts, the capacity of which was some fifty persons, but it filled remarkably
quickly as there seemed to be no alternative flights of stairs, and it appeared
that half of London’s population had decided to join us at that particular
station at that particular time.
As we descended and I
began to realise the mistake I had made in choosing this area for our
accommodation and then in opting for the underground as a means of transport to
the theatre, I realised we had another somewhat more pressing problem. One of
the pupils, Nicola, was slightly claustrophobic and was not coping well with
the crowds we encountered on entering the station, and then in the busy lift.
The poor girl was struggling to remain calm and breathe at a regular pace. I
tried to be reassuring and pointed out we would soon be out of the lift and on
the platform. Of course, when the doors parted to reveal an almost solid mass
of people she felt even worse and she began to sound panicky and breathe even
more heavily.
It was clear we had to
get Nicola (and the others) out of there as fast as possible. I suggested
leaving immediately, but that would have meant taking the lift again and that
prospect didn’t go down well. Nicola and a few of her friends sat on a bench at
the rear of the platform and I turned to seek information on when the next
train was due, only to see and hear it make its triumphant entrance into the
station. I was overjoyed. Obviously, we’d have to battle our way on to the
train, but at least we were making progress and our pupils’ ordeal would soon
be over.
My colleague Joan and I
called our pupils forward to make their way on the train, and as it pulled up
my heart just sank. The train was, naturally, just as crammed with people as
the station. The warning klaxon sounded and the doors opened to reveal a wall
of people, some of whom stood with their backs to us, still in the slightly
curved shape of the doors against which they had clearly been pressed quite
firmly.
I stood and hesitated,
failing to see how our group could possibly join the train, but Joan leapt into
action, announcing “Right, come on!”, and charged into the group of passengers
on the train. With about half of our group immediately behind her, Joan led what
amounted to an assault on the carriage and, astonishingly, managed to get
several of her charges on board. However, it was physically impossible to get
the others on board, especially Nicola for whom the prospect of boarding the
packed carriage was virtually crippling.
Joan gave me a look from
inside the carriage that said “Come on then!”, but I could only shake my head
despondently and mouth “We can’t”. I moved two of my fingers in a walking
motion in front of me, indicating we would go to the theatre on foot. As the
warning klaxon sounded again and the doors started to close, a look of horror
came across Joan’s face and she mouthed “Where’s the theatre?” Fortunately, I
had just invested in a mobile phone (they were relatively new at the time) and
we had all shared our numbers in case of an emergency, and this was definitely
an emergency, so I gestured to her to phone once we got to the surface, and as
I did so the train whisked them off into the tunnel.
I turned and saw looks
that asked “What now?” from the remaining half of the group. Having reassured
them we were leaving, we looked for an alternative to the lifts as a means of
exit and within seconds we found the entrance to a spiral staircase which led
to the surface. Our joy was slightly diminished when we saw a sign informing us
there were 175 steps. However, we saw no alternative so we set off on our
ascent.
Initially, I wondered if
Nicola would cope with this situation, but it turned out she was so relieved at
escaping the crowds on the platform that even the relatively confined space of
the spiral staircase posed no problem as long as our progress was unimpeded by
other people. The others in the group also seemed happy to join in the
“adventure”.
I, on the other hand, was
feeling guilty and felt the need to lighten the mood and lessen the impact of
having to climb 175 steps to reach the surface, so I started making jokes and
ran up several steps at a time with exaggerated dynamism and energy. We reached
the surface shortly afterward and the whole party seemed to have enjoyed the
experience amid much joking and laughter, and Nicola seemed to recover with
every step she took until she showed no sign of distress by the time we reached
the top of the staircase. The same cannot be said of me – I was so unfit,
became so breathless and expended so much energy trying to entertain as we
climbed, that when we got to the top I sounded like a loud, asthmatic Darth
Vader about to expire.
Once I had recovered
enough to make a phone call, I called Joan and gave her directions to a
restaurant near the theatre where we all met and had dinner together.
The funny thing is I
remember hardly anything about the performance that night.
Pupils (and staff) went
through a lot to see the show in London or Edinburgh – hours of travel, fatigue
and discomfort, high expense and usually lots of walking, but every trip was
marked by excitement, pleasure, admiration and even inspiration. The show
generally had quite an effect on those who saw it. Apart from producing
heart-felt essays for me, many pupils went on to make repeat visits to the show
(some even in New York), while others developed a broader interest in the
theatre and literature, reading more Victor Hugo and writing pieces about
“Notre Dame de Paris” for Advanced Higher Music. One pupil even went on to
pursue a career in acting and claimed it all started with a visit to Les Mis.
For me, it is a source of great satisfaction and pride that these trips should
have had such a positive effect.
Of course, sometimes the
excitement was the result of meeting a celebrity who was in the cast. Producer
Sir Cameron Mackintosh has regularly cast young pop stars in the role of Marius
and some years ago, that honour fell to Jon Lee, formerly of S-Club 7 fame, and
who was now trying to establish a career in musical theatre.
Several of the girls on
one trip were keen to meet him and get his autograph so I agreed we could go
around to the Stage Door after the performance. By that time, we were all quite
tired and I was a bit grumpy as we had a fairly lengthy walk ahead of us and it
was starting to get cold. That said, I understood the attraction of meeting
someone they had seen on TV, so I was happy enough to go along with being Stage
Door johnnies – up to a point.
Several members of the
cast appeared and our group was quite thrilled to see them close up as they had
thoroughly enjoyed their performances, but still the “main event” (Jon Lee)
hadn’t emerged. It was cold and getting late, and I was keen to make a move,
but our party was equally determined to see Jon Lee and I was left in no doubt
that seeing him was our priority.
I was somewhat appeased
when Sophia Ragavelas (who played Eponine) appeared and immediately started
chatting with the kids. I had a brief conversation with her and she took a
genuine interest in where we were from and what we thought of the show, but
still no Jon Lee.
Eventually the young
blond-haired singer barged out of the Stage Door, to the obvious delight of his
Invergordon fans, and he looked around, grunted something as he slapped his
forehead and re-entered the building! The girls were crest-fallen and I was not
happy at all. I rapidly rehearsed to myself a speech about how these young
people had travelled 600 miles and spent eight hours on a train to see him, so
would he mind signing a few autographs. A few seconds later he re-appeared,
this time carrying a sizeable musical case presumably with a large instrument
inside. He had simply forgotten it and had gone back in to collect it, and had
not, as I surmised, decided he couldn’t face any adoring fans and run away.
I felt a little guilty at
my misinterpretation of his actions, and in the face of a strange reluctance on
the part of my pupils to initiate a conversation, I stepped in and asked –
nicely – if he would give them his autograph. The lad couldn’t have been any
nicer or more accommodating. He chatted with them and supplied as many
autographs as they requested, though when he spied a free cab, he decided he
had to grab it. At that moment, he was chatting to Nikki who was a very big fan
and who was over the moon at meeting the man. He apologised and explained he
needed to grab the taxi and, placing his hands around Nikki’s waist, he moved
her gently to one side so he could go for his taxi. As he hurried off, Nikki
just stared at me with a little smile which suggested something approaching
bliss, and then she let out a lengthy squeal of pure excitement and disbelief.
I think she virtually floated all the way to the hotel after that.
In a vaguely similar
incident, I scared the living daylights out of Gareth Gates in April 2010. That
was the year of the 25th anniversary of Les Mis and Sir Cameron
Mackintosh launched a nationwide tour of a reworked version of the show
(incorporating new staging and direction), and it returned to the Playhouse in
Edinburgh, a mere 12 years after its last visit and the first time I saw it.
A colleague, Linda, and I
organised a trip and a party of about 20 set off for Edinburgh to catch a
matinee performance. Valjean was played by John Owen-Jones, probably my
favourite actor/singer in the part, and Marius was played by Gareth Gates who,
like Jon Lee, had had success as a pop star and was now breaking in to musical
theatre. As usual the show was much appreciated and at the end, our group
joined me giving the cast a standing ovation.
After the show our coach
driver kindly offered to bring the coach to us so we were to wait outside the
entrance to the theatre. As we huddled together to chat about what we had just
seen, one of our young ladies, Emma, looked down the steep hill at the side of
the theatre (which leads to the Stage Door) and announced to our group, “Oh my
God! Gareth Gates is coming up that hill right now!” To my surprise, she and
her friends moved not one inch, despite their obvious excitement at catching
sight of Mr Gates. Realising they would later regret their inaction, I
suggested they go and speak to him. There were abrupt shakings of the head and
cries of “No!”, but I repeated my suggestion and pointed out he would soon be
gone. Their response was the same – it was clearly considered uncool to
approach him, though their desire to speak to him was clear to all. “Do you
want me to go and speak to him?” I asked. It was evidently not considered
uncool for an ageing teacher to accost a young pop star as they uniformly
nodded their heads in agreement and looked at me expectantly.
Now, you have to
understand that if I am tasked with doing something, I like to get on with it
straight away and I prefer to be direct. So, without even considering the
possibility of waiting for Mr Gates at the top of the hill, I set off down the
steep slope at a pace.
Mr Gates and two or three
fellow cast members were casually making their way up the hill when he looked
up and caught sight of me bearing down on him. The look of growing concern that
came over his face made me realise how I must have appeared to him – a total
stranger with a look of intent (focus) approaching at considerable speed. I
realised I must have inadvertently seemed quite threatening.
It was then that I
flashed a big smile (supposed to be reassuring) and called out the classic
line, “It’s all right – I’m a teacher!” As if that was a guarantee of anything!
The young man’s mind was,
however, suitably put at rest when we shook hands and he was able to verify I
was, indeed, quite harmless. He willingly agreed to have his photo taken with
our group, with whom he chatted happily for several minutes.
The favour was returned
to me within just a few minutes when several pupils pointed out John Owen-Jones
to me, as he also made his way up the hill from the Stage Door. I learned from
my experience with poor Gareth and I allowed Mr Owen-Jones to reach the street
before pouncing on him. We had a brief conversation about the qualities of the
new version of the show and a few pupils were thoughtful enough to photograph
me talking to him, and although I didn’t squeal with delight, I was a very
happy man as we clambered on to our coach and headed for home.
Colleagues and pupils
Although a teacher may
sometimes feel alone when facing a class, in fact in a good school a teacher
should always feel part of a team which is striving toward a common end. Communication
is key to the success of a school – listening and talking to colleagues and
pupils. All should feel valued, supported and respected, and essential to that
end are the character and personality of all concerned.
I have been very lucky
over the years to have some wonderful colleagues to whom I could turn with
professional or personal concerns. The camaraderie and support among the staff
helped me get through some difficult times and helped to create a family-like
atmosphere in which the surface of familiarity, gentle teasing and banter was
underpinned by care, compassion and consideration.
Within the languages
department, Margaret was a rock of common sense and stability in what became a
sea of change and occasional madness. She also loved “Les Misérables” and
introduced her daughter Amy to it at a fairly tender age. This clearly did her
no harm at all as she went on to become a drama teacher and, as I write this,
she has just announced that she is to direct the schools’ edition of “Les Mis”
within her own school.
There have been some
interesting characters who have produced memorable moments – moments that help
to enliven daily routine or provide an entertaining diversion in what can be a
repetitive business.
One colleague (who shall
remain nameless) seemed to be drawn to our assistantes. All of them. Each year
he indulged in a little harmless flirting with our young lady (I can think of
only two male assistants in all my time at the school), exercising his French
to compliment and general charm them. One year, however, I couldn’t resist the
temptation to have a little fun at his expense ….
Our young lady (I’m
afraid I can’t remember her name) had been taking classes in the base next to
my room. She finished her lessons mid-afternoon and, after a brief chat with me
to ascertain how things had gone and to make arrangements for her next visit,
she left early to catch a bus, leaving behind a half-consumed bottle of water.
As I sat in the base writing a few notes, I noticed the bottle and an idea came
into my head.
I jotted a brief note on
a scrap of paper, picked up the bottle and carried it to the room of my
flirtatious colleague just along the corridor. His door was open and he was in
full flow, reciting some notes from the back of his room while his young class
took them down in their jotters. I entered his room as quietly as I could,
though not without attracting the attention of those pupils nearest the door. I
put my finger to my lips and placed the bottle and the scrap of paper on the
teacher’s desk, but a bemused giggle from a pupil caught my colleague’s notice
and he looked over at me. I had no choice but to deliver the message in person.
I picked up the bottle so he could see it and whispered (loudly) what I had
written on the scrap of paper, “Her lips have touched this”, whereupon my dear
colleague virtually flew across his classroom as I exited as fast as my legs
would carry me, with the sound of pupils’ laughter dimming behind. My colleague
seized the bottle and, laughing and yelling somewhat incoherently, he set out
to pursue me along the corridor, launching the contents of the water bottle in
my general direction.
Fortunately, his sense of
duty outweighed his desire for revenge and he returned immediately to his
class, laughing and uttering threats toward me to the great amusement of his
pupils.
Every year in June, the
incoming Primary 7 class would visit the Academy for a week’s transition and
acclimatisation. They would follow the timetable set for their first year with
us, get a taste of life in the Academy, meet their new classmates and, of
course, meet their new teachers.
One teacher of geography,
John, had a highly developed (almost wicked) sense of humour and if an
opportunity to have some fun presented itself, he was quick to take advantage
of it.
At the end of a class
with the visiting Primary 7 pupils, a young lad stayed behind to ask John a few
questions. Naturally, John did his best to provide answers, but in so doing he
caused the lad to be separated from his classmates who moved on to their next
class which was French, with Arthur.
After satisfying the
lad’s curiosity, John gave him precise directions to Arthur’s room and advised
him to apologise for his lateness and to simply say why he was late, assuring
him that Arthur was a very reasonable and pleasant man, and telling the boy
exactly what to say as he entered Arthur’s room.
Now, you have to be aware
that Arthur had a thick dark moustache and bore, at the time, an uncanny
resemblance to the comic actor John Cleese (of “Fawlty Towers” fame).
The lad followed John’s
directions to the letter, found Arthur’s room, entered and said, “I’m sorry I’m
late, Mr Fawlty, but I was talking to the geography teacher”, upon which the
class roared with laughter and poor Arthur was left to pick up the pieces.
I was equally lucky to
have lively but attentive pupils who were willing to “play the game” with me.
Just as teachers can play an important part in pupils’ lives, so too do pupils
play an essential role in teachers’ lives, and my pupils helped make my
professional life relatively easy and worthwhile. That is not to say, however,
that they did not, occasionally, present challenges ….
In one S3 class I had a
pupil (we’ll call him Paul) who liked to make his presence felt each time he
came into my room. He had a routine of minor defiance of which he was, I think,
largely unaware, but after this initial “entrance” he usually settled down and
was largely co-operative, though French was certainly not his favourite
subject.
He had been placed in the
front row so I could keep an eye on him and he would come in, plomp himself
down on his seat, dump his bag at his feet and then put his feet on the chair
next to him. I would tell him to remove his feet from the chair (eventually it
was enough just to look at him), which he did with a show of reluctance,
usually within three seconds, and then I would have to tell him to take his
things from his bag so he could get on with the work of the class. After that,
while he hardly set the heather on fire, he would make enough effort to get by
and keep me off his back.
During our inspection in
November 1999, I was to be observed with this S3 class. I was not unhappy about
it – they were not especially keen on French but they were lively and made the
effort required. I did, however, let them know that an inspector was going to
join us for the following lesson and Paul seemed surprisingly concerned. He
even asked a few questions about what we were going to do during the observed
lesson. I advised him and the whole class just to be themselves, do what they
normally did and everything would be fine.
I had known and worked
with the inspector in question for some years and was well used to his
appearance, but he cut quite a conspicuous figure as this tall man in a good
suit with red cheeks and a long, flowing grey beard toured the school, and
pupils certainly took notice of him.
On the day of our
observation I was, as might be expected, a little nervous – it’s never nice to
be judged – but I knew what I was doing and I had confidence in the kids. The
bell rang and the pupils trooped in. Inspectors often give classes a couple of
minutes to settle so I wasn’t surprised when ours wasn’t there at the start of
the lesson.
Everyone settled and Paul
took his place. I had hoped he might have abandoned his routine for once but
no, up went the feet on the chair next to him. I took a deep breath, looked at
him and said, “Feet.” After a moment’s hesitation, he removed his feet from the
chair. I started to explain what we were going to do that day and as I did so,
I realised that Paul, as per usual, had no equipment on his table so I stopped
myself mid-flow, looked at him sharply and said, “Books” rather pointedly. He
gave me a look of disapproval and bent down to gather what he needed for the
period.
It was at this point that
the inspector crept into the room, opening the door and closing it behind him
as quietly as he could so as not to interrupt the flow of the lesson. He walked
past me and made his way to the rear of the room where he propped himself
against a pillar, and as he did so, Paul sat up and placed his materials on his
table, ready for work.
Once again, I started to
introduce the lesson, this time for the benefit of the inspector as well as the
pupils. However, I didn’t get very far before I was interrupted by a familiar
voice in the front row:
“Excuse me. I thought
that inspector gudgie was going to come in today”, said Paul.
The atmosphere in the
room suddenly became very tense as the rest of the class jumped to the same
conclusion as I had, that Paul was trying to be funny and draw attention to
himself. I couldn’t be bothered indulging him on this occasion – I had other
things on my mind, so I gave him a knowing look accompanied by a slight shake
of the head which were supposed to mean “Not today!”
I re-turned my attention
to the class and for the third time I began to introduce the lesson. Paul
looked outraged and insulted that I hadn’t answered his question.
“Excuse me. You didn’t
answer my question. I thought we were having a visitor”.
I looked at him,
uncertain of how to respond but certain in my own mind that Paul was up to
mischief. Paul lost patience with my hesitation and added:
“You know – Santa. The
guy with the beard”, and he feigned stroking a long beard as he said it.
At this point the others
in the class erupted in laughter or gasped with embarrassment.
“You mean the inspector
who’s standing at the back of the room and is looking at you right now?” I
asked.
I don’t think I’ve ever
seen a head swivel any faster as Paul turned around and stared, open-mouthed
and quite aghast, at the inspector who icily returned his stare. He clearly had
not been playing up and had been genuinely unaware of the man’s entrance and
presence in the room, and now he was totally confused and shocked.
The class was highly
amused but quickly regained its composure as I embarked on my fourth (and
final) attempt to introduce the lesson. Paul, whose credibility had completely
evaporated, just got on with his work that period – until the next time.
Last years and retirement
My last few years in
teaching were marked by significant and far-reaching changes in the education
system. I still enjoyed the company of my pupils and colleagues, but as the
character and demands of the job evolved, I felt I no longer fitted the profile
and that it was time to step aside and allow the next generation to take over.
It didn’t help when a new
S1 pupil came up to me at the start of my final year and pronounced those words
no teacher should hear: “You taught my Granny”. Worse still, I remembered the
Granny well and it was like yesterday that I taught her! I knew then that it
was time to give serious consideration to retirement.
I had jokingly referred
to a countdown to retirement for years, inviting pupils to hurry a response in
class because I was due to retire in ten, then seven, then three years etc.,
but in the last few months it became strangely real, yet unreal. After so many
years doing something, you become inured and it’s difficult to conceive of a
different way of life, even when you have a specific date from which you know
your life will change. It was difficult to comprehend a series of “lasts” – the
last time I attended a parents’ night, my last set of reports and my last staff
meeting etc.
I put a brief
announcement on Facebook to the effect that I was going to retire and I was
stunned by the response. I received about 400 “likes” and some 100 messages
which were invariably immensely kind and flattering, and I was deeply touched
and humbled by the reaction of pupils present and past, and friends and family.
During my last days at
the school I received many cards and gifts which were completely unexpected and
I was deeply moved by everyone’s thoughtfulness and generosity. I received even
more “likes” and messages on Facebook when I posted photos of my gifts and
cards.
A cardinal element of
teaching (and one which is mostly taken for granted or ignored) is the
environment in which you work. My room was plastered with colourful posters,
drawings, essays, photos and grammar notes. Even the ceiling had items hanging
from it. I would like to think this contributed to a warm and welcoming
atmosphere which in turn encouraged industry and collaboration. Of course, I
had to clear the room for my departure and it is one of my greatest regrets
that I didn’t photograph it before it was stripped as, without me realising it,
that room had become an essential part of my teaching and my professional life,
and it was rather sad to see it bare and to have that as my final image of the
room.
I did, however, leave
behind a single souvenir in the hope it would remain untouched – a figure of a
frog on top of a snail which I used to place around the room and challenge
classes to find. It would be nice to think it’s still there, but I rather doubt
it.
Curiously, on my final
day I was remarkably calm. I had expected to blub and make a fool of myself, but
I remained composed as I said my farewells and received even more kind and
generous gifts and cards. Once again, it seemed unreal. My final “class” was
with a young lady, Zoe, who had done the Higher course with me and was about to
embark on Advanced Higher. She showed me an email she and the rest of the
Higher/National 5 class sent to Bruno Pelletier, inviting him to send a video
message wishing me well for my retirement. Each member of the class sent the
message three times in order to ensure he received it! They got no response,
but I was tremendously touched that they had thought of doing that and had made
such an effort.
I left the school at
about 12.30 on the 1st of July 2016, laden with gifts and cards, and
many happy memories.
The first of July is also
the birthday of my younger son, Michael, and my daughter, Lauren, (who are
twins), and so we were to have a family dinner to mark both their birthday and
my retirement in a local hotel. My older son, Scott, and Lauren’s husband, Ryan,
had also made the effort to be there.
The family had given me
some lovely gifts the evening before (including a “leaver’s hoodie” which I
wore to school for my last day), and there was some excitement in the air,
though I was still dazed and trying to come to terms with the momentous events
of the day.
When we arrived at the
hotel I went straight to reception to confirm our booking and I was immediately
escorted in the opposite direction from the dining room and ushered into a
private function room instead. As I entered, I caught sight of a group of
Lauren and Michael’s friends. I was a little confused, and then I turned and
saw several of our friends (Alison’s and mine), including a number of people to
whom I had said an emotional good-bye just seven hours before! It took a few
seconds to dawn on me that this was, in fact, a surprise retirement party for
me. Alison and Lauren had organised everything “on the fly”!
I made my way around the
room and chatted to the guests, thanking them for coming and sharing some
anecdotes from the dim and distant past, and a few minutes later Alison took to
the floor and made a speech (her first ever). She delivered it with a
confidence and poise which I envied, and summed up the events and emotions
surrounding my retirement very articulately and touchingly. At the end of her
speech, another surprise – everyone was invited to another room where Lauren
was going to show a PowerPoint presentation she had prepared in my honour.
Somewhat warily, I made
my way through to the TV room. I had no idea what was coming, but I was
reasonably sure it would prove embarrassing.
I took pride of place on
a sofa directly in front of the screen while all the other guests gathered
behind and I steeled myself for whatever was to come.
Lauren had uncovered some
old photos dating back 30 years or more, and had trawled YouTube to find
footage of me dancing and singing. The guests were suitably amused and I was
suitably embarrassed yet honoured she had made all this effort.
Toward the end of the
presentation, we read about my obsession with Les Mis and how I had organised
trips to London and Edinburgh, then up popped photos of me speaking to John
Owen-Jones with a teasing text saying he’d sent a message (upon which I thought
we were going to hear an extract from “What have I done?”, Valjean’s
soliloquy), followed by a still of Mr Owen-Jones looking straight into a
camera. Suddenly the still sprang to life and John Owen-Jones said “Hello
Stuart”. He went on to say he was between acts of Les Mis on Broadway and
wanted to wish me all the best for my retirement! I was utterly speechless and
could feel the tears welling up, so pleased was I that he had taken the time to
record a message for me, but also grateful to Lauren and Alison for organising
this whole surprise.
However, the presentation
was not yet over and there appeared some text saying Bruno Pelletier was
another of my idols, but that I had never met him so there were no photos. It
crossed my mind that Lauren had come across the signed photo sent to me by
Bruno and she was going to show that. Next, there appeared a picture of Bruno
Pelletier in a baseball cap, accompanied by text which said that if I couldn’t
speak to Bruno Pelletier, he would speak to me, and once again the still photo
sprang into life!
“Hello everybody. Hello
Mr Stuart Fernie”, he said, and went on to wish me well for my retirement (four
times) and to thank me for my efforts to teach French, adding that it was an
honour for him to take part in our party.
To say I was stunned,
deeply moved and delighted just doesn’t cover it.
How honoured was I that
these two video guests should have made their appearances, that Alison and
Lauren should have gone to all this trouble for me (and kept it a secret!), and
that my family, friends and colleagues should have made the effort to attend my
surprise party.
Needless to say, I was
delighted to share these video messages on Facebook, especially with my former
Higher class who had requested such a video message, and who, it transpired,
had been informed that the video was in hand and they said not one word to me!
Exactly one week before
my retirement, a retiral dinner was organised by the school for the six of us
who were leaving at the end of the school year. As well as the present staff,
invitations were sent out to many former colleagues who had shared at least
some time with us in Invergordon Academy. It was a delight to see so many “kent
faces”, and to chat with them about the old times as we embarked on a new and
different future.
Pivotal events such as
retirement invite reflection and as I prepared my second speech of the year (my
daughter had got married in January), my head was filled with memories and
contemplation. Not everything was wonderful in the course of these 35 years. I
have experienced joy, happiness and satisfaction, but I have also known
frustration, anger and exasperation. Three constants helped me get through
difficult professional times – my family, my colleagues and my pupils, and I
thank them all from the bottom of my heart for the contribution they have all
made to my life, and I dedicate this volume of memoirs to them all.
I leave you with the
speech I made at the retirement dinner.
Many thanks for taking
the time to read these pages. I hope you found them of some value.
Ladies
and Gentlemen,
It
is difficult to sum up in a few words the thoughts, feelings and experiences of
some 35 years. The obvious thing is to discuss the changes I’ve seen in the
education system in that time, but don’t worry – I’ll spare you that rant.
However, I will tell you about my first observation.
Bear
in mind what is involved in an observation today – a double-sided sheet
incorporating at least 20 if not 30 elements. At the end of my observed lesson
the Assistant Head Russell Preston (who was responsible for probationers)
approached and gave me his purely verbal feedback – “That was fine, Stuart, but
you might want to move the tables away from the wall”. How things have changed
….
When
starting out in teaching, it is essential to find your own style – you have to
work out what works for you and your pupils, and you have to learn from your
mistakes.
I
would like to think I did learn from my mistakes, but I should point out that I
am a life-long learner.
For
example, I learned that it is best to prepare in advance and not have to leave
a class to collect some photocopying you’ve forgotten, giving the class time to
set up a waste-paper bin filled with water above the classroom door which has
been left ajar. This is particularly true if the depute rector decides to pop
in to your room just ahead of you.
OR
It’s
best not to assume that parents will be able (or willing) to exercise control
over their offspring. One parents’ evening, a pupil and his father sat in front
of me and the pupil held a polystyrene cup filled with tea. While I was
speaking to this pupil, he bit a chunk out of the lip of the cup and proceeded
to eat it. A little taken aback, I pointed out to the pupil “You’re eating the
cup”, whereupon he took another bite. I looked at the father and said “He’s
eating the cup”, at which he looked at me and smiled, making a bizarre sound
which indicated agreement, amusement and a complete inability to influence
events.
OR
It’s
probably best not to physically remove a pen from a pupil’s mouth – even if he
has arrived late, is under the influence of magic mushrooms and refuses to
remove his pen when speaking to you. Physically removing the pen is
particularly ill-advised if you consequently discover it is ridged and causes a
distinct rattle of teeth while being removed.
OR
It’s
probably best not to suddenly roar out of the blue at pupils who are
inattentive and chattering, even if it has the desired effect of correcting
their behaviour. At least not if you have a pupil with a heart condition right
in front of you who has had such a fright when you bellowed that he starts
gasping for air and goes very red.
There
are many, many happy memories from the classroom, charity concerts, school
trips and the staffroom, car sharing to get to work, even meetings – far too
many to be able to share with you here tonight, but memories which I will
cherish and may well go on to write about in my memoirs.
Although
there are many happy memories, I have to say it hasn’t always been great.
There
have been difficult and frustrating times both professionally and personally,
and I think in teaching it is often difficult to separate the two, and it is
during the more difficult times that I learned to appreciate and value the
wisdom and camaraderie of my colleagues. At the risk of sounding like the theme
song to “Neighbours”, it’s at those times you discover that good colleagues
become good friends. Clearly, I worked most closely with Margaret and Arthur
over the years, but I would like to thank you ALL for your camaraderie,
friendship and support.
I
have frequently said that I have no luck – I rarely win anything, have no luck
in cards (ask Jim Bryce about that), and the only time I put a bet on the Grand
National, my horse actually ran away before the start of the race.
However,
I have come to rethink my position concerning luck. I met Alison (aside to
Alison - that is what you wrote, isn’t it?), and I was lucky enough to find a
job at Invergordon Academy and have some of the best colleagues and pupils I
could hope for, and I am now lucky enough to have been made redundant!
It
has frequently been said there is something special about Invergordon, and
actually I don’t think it’s hard to define – it’s just not that common.
It’s
about caring. Putting pupils first and wanting what’s best for them, but
extending that attitude to colleagues. It’s about professionalism with humanity
and I know that I have benefited greatly from that environment, and I thank you
most sincerely, past and present colleagues.
I
wish you all the best for the future, but whatever that holds, please remember
you are already getting it right.