What else have I done? - further recollections of my time in teaching

What else have I done?

Further tales and reflections (of an occasionally risqué nature)

Contents                                                                                         

Foreword            Why did I retire?                                                

School Trips       France        – false accusations           
               

                             London      – les misérables              
                

                             Jersey        – organised crime           
                

                             Rennes       – that choking feeling     
                

                             Rennes       – agricultural development            

Colleagues          Crawler                              
                                 

                             Our American cousin       
                                 

                             Loving technology                                            

Pupils                  Mistranslation             
                                       

                             Glasses                       
                                         

                             Speaking French       
                                                   

                             Not too old to run                                              

Holidays             Ode to a Grecian bug    
                                    

                             Heat in Crete                                                      

Names may have been altered or omitted to protect the innocent, and the guilty.

Foreword

Let’s start with the serious bit: why did I retire?

By the end of my career, I felt I was no longer in the job for which I signed up and I no longer fitted in the role of a modern teacher. I had always enjoyed and valued a degree of autonomy and freedom that went with the job, and in trying to ensure consistency and maintain standards across the country, the powers that be gradually diminished that aspect of the profession.

The system of evaluation (and the accompanying systems of learning and teaching) that I used, helped to develop (in a very minor way), and evolved with as a teacher were replaced with something far more complex, time-consuming and (to my mind) mechanical. In trying to ensure standards and consistency, the authorities created a monster of administration and demanded detailed justification and accountability rather than depend on the judgement and experience of the individual teacher.

Doubtless there were weaknesses and inconsistencies in teachers’ work and evaluations, but there was also a system of moderation and verification to check their work and identify problems where they arose. Of course, that system was expensive to operate and, in times of austerity, a new and far more detailed and complex system of verification was introduced, one that placed more work and responsibility on the shoulders of each classroom teacher rather than employ specialist moderators.

This new system was created and imposed by politicians and civil servants, and had as its purpose the eradication of variability in standards of evaluation. The basic format was to be applied across all subjects and it required very precise analysis and definitions of criteria for success, but the language used to describe the various levels and categories of success was necessarily complex yet vague and open to interpretation. This paved the way for time-consuming subjectivity in a system designed to do away with such a problem, especially as not all subjects lend themselves readily to such analysis.

In trying to analyse and share good practice (a worthy task), rigid formats in the structuring and handling of lessons were introduced, but the insistence on the “mechanical” aspects of teaching failed to recognise and take in to account another element of teaching which underpins and supports all others – the teacher-pupil relationship. Teaching is not simply the presentation of facts and knowledge. It involves rapport and the building of a bond between teacher and pupil which allows and encourages development of growth in ways well beyond the strict imparting of subject knowledge. Respect, compassion, understanding and empathy are but a few of the social aspects of the teacher-pupil relationship, and these are not covered by lesson preparation and structure. Room must be left for interaction and spontaneity, essential elements in engagement and maintaining the interest and attention of pupils (and the sanity of teachers), and these will not be necessarily fulfilled by use of technology and colourful materials.

In the dim and distant past, teachers were consulted about initiatives and amendments were made to policies following reasonable discussion and debate, allowing teachers to feel their input was valued and contributing to an ethic of professionalism (by which I mean working toward the common good and development of the profession). In more recent times, again doubtless in an attempt to maintain or raise standards, initiatives have been imposed without meaningful consultation and discussion, and without acceptance of reasoned argument.

The result of this was greater emphasis on guidelines for technical and structural aspects of teaching (intended to help deliver the initiatives), and this in turn led to greater emphasis on management (with managers often supervising subject departments about which they have no knowledge or understanding of problems inherent to the teaching of that subject). Indeed, the development of careers based on the application of management policies appears to have become more important than professionalism.

Again, this was not the job I signed up for, and these changes led to a general feeling of frustration, disenchantment and doubt about the general direction in which education was being taken.

Within my own subject, various changes meant that I felt modern languages were no longer valued by the powers that be. Languages ceased to be compulsory to the end of S4, with pupils continuing to the end of S3. Under Curriculum for Excellence, fewer subjects were examined at the end of S4 and less time was spent on languages each week (2 periods per week rather than 3). Progress was slower and more limited during their 3-year stint, leading to a decrease in motivation and fewer pupils opting to continue languages.

Beyond S3, subjects had to more or less compete to attract pupils and entice them to continue their studies.

Naturally, all of this meant a reduction in numbers wishing to study French at Higher and for me, this led to a forced combination of National 5 and Higher classes, despite the fact the courses and standards were quite distinct. This caused complications in the structure, timing and conduct of lessons, and effectively cut the time I had with each level in half.

The fact that numbers dropped and there was an impact on the format, structure and content of senior lessons was bad enough, but teachers were required to analyse their courses and performance and produce suggestions on how to increase numbers and standards. Teachers appeared to be held responsible for aspects of performance which could arguably have been the result of official policy.

In short, I felt I no longer fitted the mould required of a modern teacher. Although I still enjoyed the job itself and the company of my pupils (and colleagues), I came to realise there were too many aspects of modern teaching I no longer enjoyed and it was time to go …..

It’s time to put aside the frustrations and disenchantment that led to my departure and focus on the positive. I want to share a few more episodes which remind me of why I enjoyed my time in teaching, as well as a few tales and reflections from other areas of my life. I have no pretensions about the literary merits of these scribbles (I may even be considered the William McGonagall of memoir-writing), but I am keen to leave for posterity (i.e. my family) an account of some incidents in my life that I found vaguely amusing, and an alternative to the rather serious nature of my pages of reflections.

School Trips

France – false accusations

Late in 1985, Arthur organised the first of several school trips we made together. The pupils were delighted to be given the opportunity to extend their horizons and do a bit of travelling – this was the first foreign trip un many years and some were quite overwhelmed at the prospect of going beyond Inverness. “How much farther is it?” asked one exceptionally excited teenager as we approached the Tore roundabout (some twenty miles south of Invergordon) in our 52-seater coach …. And then there was the young lady who spent a substantial proportion of her spending money on a souvenir teddy bear ….. at the Stirling services area.

Fair to say, then, that our pupils were excited and looking forward to spreading their wings, to the extent they were even willing to overlook the minor inconvenience of travelling through the night across the north of France, having spent an entire day traversing the length of Britain to arrive at the port of Dover late evening.

The staff were less enthusiastic about the rigours of the journey, but I was comforted by the fact my wife Alison was with us, and of course we were able to take advantage of the entertainment, comfort and purchasing possibilities on board the ferry.

Once in France, and on our way to our hotel, I started to feel under the weather. Initially, I put it down to fatigue and thought little of it, but during our first evening in the hotel I was decidedly achy, queasy and had something of a sore throat. I didn’t like to consider the possibility, but these were flu-like symptoms and I realised that if I went down with a dose of the flu there would be serious consequences for the remaining five adults accompanying our pupils. I therefore asked if anyone happened to have medication that might ward off my symptoms. Fortunately, a couple of insightful souls were able to offer me appropriate medicines, but another colleague, Sheila, insisted she had something in her room that would be far more effective than anything else on offer.

By now feeling fairly wretched and willing to clutch at whatever straw was going to offer me the most support, I meekly followed Sheila up several flights of stairs to her room where she produced a litre bottle of malt whisky which she had bought tax-free on the ferry. Whether due to her generous nature or the fact she managed to buy the bottle relatively cheaply, Sheila proceeded to pour me the largest whisky I have ever seen in a glass. It was at least a triple, and probably a quadruple. I begged her to stop as she poured, informing her that I didn’t drink whisky as a rule, but she insisted that a stiff drink was exactly what I needed.

I took a couple of sips with some reluctance at first, but as the water of life flowed its way down my very sore throat the pain subsided a little, encouraging me to try a little more. And then a little more. Followed by some more. Although my voice remained quite husky, soon the pain was almost gone and I felt substantially brighter. I congratulated her on her medical insight and declared myself virtually cured.

It was at this point that I stood to go back downstairs and join the others. It was also at this point that I discovered fairly severe side effects of my miracle cure. Everything around me seemed to be moving in waves, similar to the effect of stepping off a fast-moving merry-go-round. It was not an unpleasant sensation, but it did cause some practical problems in terms of balance – I found it difficult to put one foot in front of the other and maintain a straight line.

I was acutely aware of the presence of pupils around me and did not want them to see I was incapacitated in any way, and I was equally aware of the potentially lethal dangers of descending several flights of stairs, so I gripped the banisters very tightly and placed each foot purposely in front of the other both to avoid unwanted attention and to ensure my survival to the foot of the stairs.

I managed to join the others at a coffee table in the lounge without drawing any undue attention, and quietly tried to regain my composure. However, within a very short time I started to feel remarkably hot and perspired from what seemed like every pore in my body. When I began to recount the dirtiest jokes I knew in virtually word-perfect French, Alison suggested I go straight to bed. I excused myself and headed back upstairs to the bedrooms, though I have no recollection of quite how I made it to our room. Carefully, I imagine.

I do, however, remember the state I was in as I prepared myself for bed. Although I was by now sweating profusely, as soon as I removed my clothes to wash and change into my pyjamas, I shook and shivered quite uncontrollably. All I wanted to do was curl up in bed, get warm and sleep.

When we arrived at the hotel, we paid scant attention to the bed as we focused on freshening up and preparing for dinner. It transpired that the bed was not a full-size double bed, but rather what I later learned is called a three-quarter bed, or at least that was the size of the mattress. The bed itself was a double, and so this produced a step-like effect at the sides. I also discovered a distinct dip (bordering on a hole) in the middle of the mattress. This created a kind of whirlpool effect in my mind, with a vortex that tried hard to draw me into the seemingly bottomless pit of the middle of the mattress. I resisted its pull and curled into a tight foetal position (any movement outside this position resulted in a further attack of shivering and shaking), perched on the right side of the mattress and swaddled in covers to fend off the cold, despite the fact I continued to sweat copiously.

I was vaguely aware of Alison getting in to bed later on, but offered no more than a perfunctory greeting, preferring to concentrate on trying to sleep and avoiding any movement that might cause a recurrence of “the shakes”.

Later on the following day, Alison informed me she had what was probably the most unpleasant and even awful night’s sleep she had ever experienced. She also discovered the vortex in the middle of the bed (so not just my imagination), but this was compounded by the fact a sweaty, slimy fireball kept trying to share the vortex with her, an experience she found not just uncomfortable, but even (at times) repulsive.

On the other hand, I have to say that I felt pretty good the next morning. No more shakes, headaches or queasiness. I peeled off my rather damp pyjamas, showered and dressed, and felt ready for the day. Sheila’s treatment may have had a few side effects, but it had undoubtedly also cured me of whatever had been ailing me.

I went down to breakfast and joined Arthur who was sitting alone as he downed his first coffee of the day. He asked how I was, but showed no real sympathy or compassion as I said I had felt awful but now, almost miraculously, I was returned to good health. He just gave a slow nod as he raised his eyebrows and produced what I was tempted to read as a smirk.

Something was going on, and it was something I failed to understand.

“What?” I asked simply, clearly puzzled at his demeanour.

“That was you last night, wasn’t it?” he said with a sly and knowing grin.

“What was me? I was ill last night,” but Arthur continued to grin and nod knowingly.

I asked for an explanation a couple of times and eventually he yielded and gave me an account of his late-night check-up on our pupils the night before (it was customary for us to do a tour of rooms, knocking on doors and ensuring all was well for the night).

In the course of his round, he passed the end of the short corridor that led to our room and he became aware of sounds and noises of a distinctly sexual nature. Naturally, he didn’t hang around but he couldn’t help but be impressed by the enthusiasm and vigour with which this act of lovemaking was carried out, and he clearly thought Alison and I were responsible!

“Arthur, last night I couldn’t have raised a smile!” I said to allay his suspicions, but of course he heard what he heard and it was immensely difficult to persuade him of any other version of events. To tell the truth, I’m not sure I particularly wanted to persuade him of our version – he was clearly impressed by what he heard and his conviction that we were responsible rather flattered my male ego, even if it was entirely misplaced.

With just a little investigation, Alison and I realised Arthur must have heard a couple in the room immediately adjacent to ours (whose door was not readily visible from the end of the corridor he had passed on his rounds), and we were so exhausted from travelling and illness that we heard nothing of their goings-on.

But this matter didn’t end there.

Shortly after breakfast with Arthur, I had to do the rounds of pupils’ rooms in order to distribute pocket money (it was deemed prudent after the teddy bear incident in Stirling to entrust such monies to a member of staff rather than run the risk of one or several pupils misplacing, losing or squandering their precious spending money). I knocked on the door and entered a room belonging to a group of S4 girls I taught, only to be greeted with knowing smiles, broad grins and a somewhat familiar wink. The normally serious business of receiving money and checking their “accounts” obviously came a distant second in terms of their priorities for my visit to their room. Having disappointed them by failing to understand the significance of their smirks, one young lady took it upon herself to elucidate:

“Busy night last night, sir?” Actually, it was more of a statement than a question, and as she made her announcement she nodded upward to the rather dull and old-fashioned light fitting hanging from a beam in the middle of their ceiling.

With wide eyes scouring my face for the least sign of comprehension and embarrassment (accompanied by a collective silence and attentive stares from the rest of the small group), she added:

“Our light was swinging from the beam last night, and your room is right above ours,” upon which the other girls burst out laughing and desperately awaited my response.

Somewhat flustered by the girls’ familiarity, though once again perceiving a note of admiration in their reaction, I scrambled frantically for words to remind them of how ill I had been the previous evening, but I’m afraid I succeeded only in convincing them of my embarrassment. I distributed the money as quickly and in as business-like a manner as I could muster, then left the room having failed comprehensively to convince the young ladies of my innocence.

London - Les Misérables

It is fairly rare for school trips to go entirely to plan, indeed it is often the spontaneous and the unexpected that make trips enjoyable and memorable. That said, careful planning is undoubtedly the basis of a successful trip, but sometimes fate has other plans …

I organised (with the help of enthusiastic and helpful colleagues) several trips to see “Les Misérables”, usually in London though we went to Edinburgh a couple of times. We generally arranged these trips to take place in or around June, after completion of exams and before too much headway was made in subjects ahead of the end of the session at the start of July.

At the beginning of one school year in the early 2000s (August or September), a group of senior pupils expressed a desire to see the show in London before the end of the calendar year as they had other plans for an excursion at the end of the school year.

Rather half-heartedly, I looked into the possibility of going late in October or early in November at the latest due to potential weather problems and the fact pupils sat preliminary exams in each subject in December. I was quite convinced it would not be possible to find a common date which suited our transport, accommodation and theatre requirements, but lo and behold, it all worked out, though because of the lateness of our bookings there could be no return of deposits or payments. It was all set for late October – I managed to find a hotel that was within a reasonable distance from the theatre, good seats in the stalls and a group booking for fourteen on the early morning train from Inverness to London.

About three weeks before we were due to leave, a storm hit the east midlands of England – coverage on TV showed severe flooding and then they reported that the torrential rain had caused landslides which disrupted rail services on the east coast, the line we were going to use …

I really didn’t worry too much about it as I envisaged a small blockage which I was sure would be cleared within two or three days. However, several pupils expressed anxiety so I called the train company three days after the weather event, just to confirm that all was or would be well and to put pupils’ minds at ease.

To my astonishment, I was told our party could take the train as far as York and then we would be transferred by coach to Peterborough, where we would once again take the train, and vice versa for the return journey. I pointed out the dates on which we were to travel, thinking the lady to whom I was talking thought I meant we were travelling within the next day or two, but no – the damage done to the line was severe and alternative arrangements were due to last some six weeks.

I could feel the panic rising within me. Our schedule was tight, but perfectly feasible (we had already done it on a few occasions) – arrive in London about 4 p.m., go to the hotel to freshen up and then on to the theatre for 7.30. The inevitable delays involved in transfers (two of them!) cast doubt in my mind about our arrival time. I explained our situation and asked for an assurance we would get there on time. “You will get there,” I was assured. But on time? “You will get there,” she repeated, with an unspoken “but not on time” ringing in my ear.

I had no choice. The theatre tickets and hotel were booked and paid for with no chance of a refund. Under the circumstances, we were offered a full refund from the train company, so I cancelled the train tickets, but now we had no transport for a party of fourteen to go to London and return on specific dates, about two weeks away.

Long distance travelling by coach is not my idea of fun, perhaps because I’ve taken part in numerous long, arduous and sleep-depriving school trips abroad, but I have to say when I heard that our group could travel by coach from Inverness to London on the dates we needed (more or less), I was absolutely over the moon. The relief was such that I didn’t even consider the potential disadvantages of having to travel through the night to ensure we got there on time – the day coach would not have got us there before curtain up, while taking the overnight coach meant arriving in London at about 8.30 a.m.. Ah well, all the more time for sight-seeing ….

We set off from Inverness bus station for Victoria coach station in London at about 7 p.m.. The coach was reasonably comfortable and the pupils were good company for my colleague Joan and me. I began to think it wouldn’t be so bad after all, and maybe I would get a reasonable night’s sleep.

We stopped after two hours to stretch our legs for some twenty minutes, and it was quite pleasant to get out, chat and have a coffee and a snack. It was a little less pleasant when we stopped again around midnight, and it got to the stage of being irritating, disturbing and downright frustrating when we stopped and got out around 2 a.m., 4 a.m. and again at 6 a.m.. I realised it was for our safety, but I can’t say I appreciated these regular assaults on my attempts to sleep.

Our teenage pupils, on the other hand, made the absolute best of it. You have to admire the resilience and positivity of youth – they demonstrated unending energy and a desire to profit from every waking moment through chat, games, music and jokes. I tried joining in and it was very enjoyable, but I was defeated by the physical need for some sleep and mental relaxation. I did my best to doze between stops, but remained aware of the slightly more dynamic adolescents who remained upbeat and determined to enjoy the journey.

When we eventually arrived, we deposited our bags at left-luggage (manned by a somewhat lugubrious and uncommunicative assistant who may have found our custom a little too much at 8.30 a.m.) as we couldn’t gain entry to our hotel before 3 p.m., and then headed off for some breakfast and sight-seeing.

I felt reasonably alert and ready-to-go. Just a little sleep is enough to keep me going, though tiredness generally catches up with me after two or three days. On the other hand, the gregarious group of teenagers who had displayed such energy and vivacity through the night were now all but washed out! They struggled to take note of my phone number (of my first mobile phone, bought for this trip), and take on board our itinerary for the day and instructions. They struggled to cope with the blue skies above us and the bright daylight, seemed dazed, lost (hardly surprising) and a trifle confused. Fortunately, a hearty breakfast provided some much-needed energy and then we set off on a whirlwind walking tour of a few of London’s attractions, the idea of which had greatly appealed to our group within the oh-so-familiar walls of the school, but reality was proving a little more testing.

 Over the following couple of hours, we saw Buckingham Palace, went the length of Birdcage Walk to Big Ben before sauntering down Whitehall (past Downing Street) and heading for Trafalgar Square, Regent Street and finally Oxford Street where we separated for an hour to have lunch and do some shopping.

When we met again at two o’clock, our group of intrepid and dynamic sightseers were delighted with their purchases and tourist activities, but decided they were somewhat the worse for wear and begged to be allowed to report to our hotel. After a rapid calculation, I realised our timing would be perfect, given we had to return to Victoria to collect our bags and then travel on to Russell Square and our hotel. They made one more plea before setting off – for a desperately needed toilet stop.

We followed the “public toilet” signs to Marble Arch at the end of Regent Street, and we were all somewhat taken aback by what we saw there. Adjacent to this lively, colourful shopping area dripping with expensive articles and a panoply of gear being snapped up by tourists willing to part with handfuls of cash, we came across cardboard city. Poor, exhausted and ill-looking people sleeping rough in cardboard boxes, some not much older than the youngsters in our group who were quite stunned by the sight that met their eyes. Some wanted to discuss the living conditions and lives of the inhabitants of this cardboard encampment, but time and nature were pressing, so we went about our business and moved on. Fairly smartly, actually, as we discovered the facilities themselves were hardly salubrious. Everywhere seemed dirty and run-down to the point of unpleasantness, pools of water were to be found on floors, damage had been done to dividing walls, graffiti was rife and the pervading smell was acrid and uninviting. Maybe we arrived on an off-day, but we were all happy to head off to Victoria and then make our way to the hotel.

The hotel had made a considerable fuss about a rooming list – rooms slept three or four and the management wanted to know exactly who was to share which rooms, so I didn’t bother carrying the list myself, expecting lists of occupants and appropriate room keys at reception. The keys were there, but no list of occupants or room allocations. There was a moment of panic (exacerbated by fatigue and excitement), but I quickly realised our group knew the details of who and how many were sharing rooms, so I distributed the keys to appropriately-sized groups and we all went up to our rooms to collapse for an hour or so.

I have already documented (in the previous volume of my “memoirs”) the error of judgment I made in suggesting we use the underground to travel the relatively short distance to Theatreland (an attempt to compensate for all the walking done that day). However, I shall reiterate the main points of disaster: descent to underground platforms by lift filled with crowds of people (did nothing to comfort a claustrophobic pupil), the platforms themselves were crammed with hopeful travellers while the trains were packed with passengers (both of which caused further distress to the claustrophobic pupil), our party was divided into two groups as some managed to force their way on to the train but others gave up and sought an exit (not the crammed lifts), and I jogged up the emergency exit stairs (175 steps) in an attempt to raise flagging spirits and nearly killed myself in the process (which was much appreciated by the claustrophobic pupil and her pals).

The two groups met up and we saw the show which was thoroughly enjoyed, though energy levels began to fail due to the heat in the theatre, the comfortable seats and general exhaustion, and one or two of our group came close to nodding off on a couple of occasions!

On our return to the hotel, we were greeted at reception by a vision of loveliness dressed only in a scanty bikini. At this point I suspected I had been more profoundly affected by fatigue than I thought, but it transpired a boxing match was being held in an assembly room next to reception and the young lady in question carried the signs indicating the round number around the ring. What she was doing at reception, I had no idea, but I did feel a sense of gratitude. Most surreal.

Our return coach was due to leave Victoria at 9.30 the following morning and we decided to avoid crowds and possible delays on the underground, and booked three taxis to transport us all to the station. All three groups set off at the same time, but it transpired something was causing delays on the route we were to take and each taxi driver opted for a different alternative route.

I was blissfully unaware of any problems. Although I had just invested in a mobile phone, I had no real idea of how to use it and so I only switched it on in emergencies or if I had reason to think someone might call me. I saw no reason to turn it on on this occasion as all was going according to plan, and I arrived at Victoria shortly after 9 o’clock, accompanied by three pupils.

About five minutes after I arrived, the second group arrived and the pupils came running up to me, quite flustered, and announced that they had received messages by mobile phone to the effect that the group travelling in the third taxi (with my colleague Joan) was caught in a traffic jam at Trafalgar Square, and there was a good chance they were going to be late! Moreover, Joan was apparently less than pleased with me as she had repeatedly tried to contact me on my mobile phone, only to be told I couldn’t be reached – “Bloody man never has his phone switched on!” was one quote.

I looked at my watch and assured my pupils that everything would be alright (with no grounds whatsoever for that assertion). I suggested giving them a few minutes, during which I paced up and down the reception and ticketing area of Victoria station, glancing at my watch every few seconds and looking regularly at the departures board, as if that served any purpose at all!

Eventually, at 9.20, spurred on by worried looks from my co-travellers, I approached the reception desk and spoke to a tall, solidly-built serious-looking man.

I explained in detail and desperation our predicament about how three groups had left the hotel and now one was liable to be late for our 9.30 coach. He gazed me in the eye and listened most attentively as I really piled it on in the hope he would show me sympathy and compassion, and at the end of my account of our woes I finally plucked up the courage to ask if it would be possible to hold the coach just for a few minutes to allow my pupils and my colleague to arrive …

He listened to every word I said before telling me I was in the wrong place and should speak to a representative of the coach company in an office on the left …

I was speechless. Quite apart from the waste of effort, I had also wasted precious time as 9.30 was fast approaching.

I turned around to look for the person I should have addressed and saw a wonderful, glorious sight – Joan and the remaining pupils! What a relief!

Joan made some comment about my phone, but we were all just so delighted to be able to get on the coach (at 9.28) that we immediately put the tensions of the previous half-hour behind us.

I recall very little of the journey home, apart from receiving a number of text messages from pupils, just to give me practice in the art of sending and receiving such messages, and the fact that most of us spent a large proportion of the return journey asleep …

Some three weeks later, I walked into my living room and realised a documentary about certain areas of London was on TV. Marble Arch was being discussed and it was reported that the toilets we had used on our trip were a focus of immoral sexual activity and action was to be taken to improve the appearance, security and safety of the area as it was attracting thieves and muggers.

It had taken me about two weeks to recover from the experiences and exhaustion of the trip, but this news set me back somewhat – apparently I had (in all innocence) led my party into a den of iniquity and we were lucky to escape unscathed!

I didn’t organise another trip for some considerable time after that, but when I did, we went by train and we travelled in June.

Jersey – organised crime

I mentioned in my previous volume of memoirs a trip to Jersey organised by André while I was in Rennes, and I focused on the misadventures of Elvire who smuggled a half-bottle of pastis onto her coach and as a result failed to make it on to the ferry, far less reach Jersey.

On the first day back at school after that trip, I saw my one of S4 classes (most of whom took part in the trip) and I was keen for them to share anecdotes, observations and views from their experience. However, I was not prepared for the tale they eventually told me …

Initially, they displayed considerable hesitation to participate in this sharing session and I found this difficult to understand. Usually, they were all too willing to share sometimes inappropriate information, thoughts and reactions. Instead, they shared lots of meaningful and sheepish looks, bowed their heads when looking in my direction and took no significant part in my exercise. I explained that I was genuinely interested in hearing what they had made of our excursion, and I suggested contexts such as times they did things, places they visited, people they met, how they travelled and of course what they thought of everything.

No-one cared to offer me a single detail.

I was clearly perplexed and could not understand this attitude from a normally lively and spontaneous class. After a brief whispered conversation among themselves, they decided they owed me an explanation, but also, I think, they wanted to see the look on my face as they revealed all …

On the outward journey, a group of ten or so conceived a plan (though all were complicit as all were aware of the plan) which was to be executed on the return ferry trip. Generally working in pairs, they made their way to the Tax-Free shop on the ferry and, with one diverting the attention of staff or at least keeping them under surveillance, the other would commit various acts of theft. They went on to steal numerous small articles and goods over the course of the hour and a half return crossing and they calculated the total value of their haul to be slightly in excess of £400 (1990 prices).

I was dumbstruck. This was genuine organised crime such as I had never encountered, and they were discussing it quite openly. They were highly amused and entertained by my reaction as I sat, open-mouthed, listening to their account of our return trip. I had been there and I saw nothing – not one indication that anything untoward was going on. Eventually I regained enough composure to ask how they were going to dispose of their ill-gotten gains. They wagged their fingers, gave a French shrug of the shoulders and went on to explain that one of the staff became suspicious of one of their number and this pupil alerted his fellow conspirators of the situation. Reasoning that if one was caught, they all would be, they decided to jettison their loot over the side into the sea, which they managed to do without attracting unwanted attention. No evidence, no crime and apparently no need to worry about telling me.

The purpose of the exercise was to eventually invite the pupils to recount their experiences in English, but I decided to abandon the exercise due to insufficient evidence, I mean vocabulary …

Rennes – that choking feeling

The Collège des Hautes Ourmes, where I did my year’s exchange in Rennes, was apparently considered one of the toughest schools in the area, a fact I only discovered after my stay. I can’t say I noticed – there were one or two minor arguments and it was certainly not a privileged catchment area which consisted largely of tower blocks and a few shopping centres with a number of play parks, but the kids were by and large pleasant and attentive, and the staff hard-working and caring.

One incident did suggest problems, but these were social and cultural rather than educational.

Within the school there were several ethnic minority groups, but the kids really just took differences and any potential cultural clashes in their stride at the school – I saw nothing in terms of indiscipline beyond the everyday disagreements that occur in every school.

However, one weekend some lads belonging to one group came into conflict with some lads from a different area and school who belonged to another group, and this second group wanted to settle their differences by seeking out the first group while they were in school – the easiest way to find them.

At the end of the first (and my only) lesson that Monday afternoon, I decided to stay on and do some marking rather than take it home and do it in the evening. About an hour and a half later, so approaching 4 p.m., I packed up and opened the classroom door to go home. I instantly felt a sharp sensation in my throat, as if something jagged or sharp was scratching the inside of my windpipe. As I walked down the stairs to the ground floor, the unpleasant sensation in my throat intensified and I felt a similar jaggedness in my eyes, to the point where they started to water, and I began to cough and splutter but nothing diminished the pain in my throat. I could only think a fire had released some toxic fumes into the general atmosphere but there was no sign of smoke or flames.

I reached the ground floor and turned in to the corridor which led to the staffroom and the main exit. Suddenly I became aware of a lot of coughing, spluttering and guttural attempts to clear throats. I looked through the open doorway to the medical room and there, curled up on the examining table, lay a colleague and friend who was struggling to catch his breath between awful bouts of coughing as his eyes streamed constantly. The school nurse trying to tend to him was also spluttering and struggled to see through tear-filled eyes.

Still in a lot of discomfort, though nothing compared to what my colleagues were suffering, I proceeded down the corridor and arrived at the staffroom to find friends and colleagues littering the room, crouched over chairs and tables, leaning against walls and furniture, all trying desperately to take deep breaths between bouts of coughing and wiping away floods of tears with hankies and tissues. I was the healthiest there!

It took a few minutes, but eventually one of them managed to stop choking long enough to give me an account of what had happened.

During afternoon break, with pupils gathered en masse in the courtyard behind the main building and staffroom, a group of youths barged into the school, proceeded along the corridor and out into the courtyard where they sought out members of the group of our pupils with whom they had argued at the weekend. There were soon fist-fights and on seeing and hearing the skirmish, numerous members of staff rushed out to break up the fights whereupon the intruders produced cans of teargas (apparently fairly readily purchased in shops at that time) and sprayed pupils and staff in the face, instantly immobilising them and causing tremendous pain and irritation.

As they exited the school, they continued to spray teargas in corridors and rooms, producing yet more grief and exasperation.

Though hardly the fault of the school, the Head was somewhat dismayed to learn the story made the newspapers, doing nothing to diminish the school’s apparent, and as far as I could ascertain, undeserved, reputation (apart from the odd instance of organised crime).

Rennes – agricultural development

A couple of years after my exchange year, I organised a small-scale pupil exchange with the school in Rennes. My colleague Colin and I hired a people carrier and we drove our group there. Colin stayed with a fellow history teacher in the centre of Rennes and I lodged with André and his wife Elisabeth. André is a very accomplished cook and he invited us to his house for a meal one evening. Colin, who is an equally talented cook, was very impressed not just with the standard of the meal and André’s skills as a cook, but also with the produce used to make the meal, especially the size and quality of the runner beans. It transpired that André grew his own beans and of course he was delighted to receive praise both for his cooking and “agricultural” prowess. The beans, he informed us, were cultivated in the garden of his second home near the village of St-Méloir-des-Ondes, not far from St Malo, and he duly invited us to spend weekend there – we could visit the nearby beach and get to know St Malo while we were there.

His second home was very much a work-in-progress as it had no running water and electricity had just been installed. It was a charming property which offered a convenient and relaxing alternative to city life, but the lack of running water meant there were no working toilets in the house. Obviously this was the planned next step, but in the meantime André set up a chemical toilet at the top of the stairs in a makeshift bathroom consisting of two hardboard panels to the left and rear, but open to the front and right, as you sat down. While we appreciated the makeshift nature of the conveniences, Colin and I rather prudishly couldn’t bring ourselves to make use of the temporary plumbing, so we decided to contain ourselves during our stay.

Naturally, we were given a tour of the garden where André grew his fine beans and Colin was stunned by the size and quality of the produce. In a relatively small area devoted to the growth of runner beans, they were healthy, copious and huge. Colin was very envious and wondered how he could produce beans with similar success in Scotland, but put André’s achievement down to French sunshine and climate.

However, as Colin and I returned from a sortie to St Malo and approached André’s house in the car, we discovered another reason for his agricultural success. André was in the garden, sauntering up and down the rows of bean plants, swinging his watering can in the manner of one sowing seeds and ensuring every plant got its share of life-giving sustenance. It was only when we came to a halt beside the garden that we realised it was not a watering can in his hand, but the chemical toilet whose nozzle he had opened and he was emptying the contents onto his bean plants. Maybe Colin could cultivate huge beans at home after all …

Colleagues

Crawler

I have been fortunate enough to have not just good, dependable and helpful colleagues, but some interesting and colourful ones as well.

At one retirement dinner in a local hotel, the escapee launched into a detailed and painfully chronologically accurate account of his life. While not everyone’s cup of tea, most attendees held our soon-to-be-former colleague in high regard and accepted his version of a good-bye speech. However, when another slightly less appreciative colleague (John, a middle-aged promoted teacher with twenty years’ experience) realised it had taken the escapee some twenty minutes to reach the end of World War 2, he decided he’d had enough and started plotting his own escape from the proceedings.

He started looking around to gauge others’ reaction to the speech, often wearing a broad grin and occasionally rolling his eyes and shaking his head when he heard the introduction of yet another year. The retiree’s table was slightly set back in an alcove which meant that a few of his guests seated at the tables farthest away from the alcove were virtually invisible to him, and vice versa. This was especially true if, as John came to realise, you leaned back against the chair and pushed your head as far back as it would go. This movement blocked his view of the speaker, so John assumed that meant the speaker couldn’t see him. The look of victory that came over his face was something to behold and it soon transformed into action as John’s head rolled to his left and his entire upper torso slid down the back of his chair as he slipped, virtually unnoticed except by those immediately beside and in front of him, underneath his overlay-covered table. He seemed to slither into nowhere.

Within a minute, however, his whereabouts became apparent as he crawled from under the table into the floorspace immediately before it, still out of sight of the speaker but now attracting the attention of large numbers of guests seated at tables opposite his own. He proceeded to crawl on all fours away from the speaker and in the general direction of a door which led to the neighbouring bar area. His progress could be charted by a sort of Mexican wave of bowing heads as he continued to crawl between tables, now out of my line of sight, toward the door which magically opened about two feet for a few seconds and then closed again, followed immediately by a view of John standing up and heading for the bar where he went on to consume a pint of lager as the rest of us listened to reports of events from the mid-sixties.

John was entirely unrepentant afterward, and while some colleagues found his antics quite amusing, some others were quick to let him know their thoughts on his behaviour.

Our American cousin

Another colourful character/colleague was Lucia, an American teacher who spent a year in the school and who challenged my view of decorum on a couple of occasions. I don’t generally consider myself especially prudish but Lucia gave me pause for thought and caused me to reconsider certain attitudes through her openness and frankness.

This is perhaps best illustrated by example:

As part of her overseas experience, Lucia was very keen to be involved in the planning and execution of a school trip, preferably in mainland Europe, and so she worked closely with fellow colleague Alison who organised a trip to Holland.

Alison undertook months of careful planning and eventually four staff (two male, two female) set off with some thirty pupils. Travelling by coach, we headed for Hull where we would catch the ferry to Rotterdam and then continue to our final destination of the coastal town of Noordwijk.

However, once the pupils were settled on the ferry (numerous entertainments were available during the crossing), the staff gathered at a table in the ferry’s café, and around our coffees we started to chat and relax. I sat next to Alison and opposite Lucia, with Sean next to her. We shared a few anecdotes and information of a slightly more personal nature than we would normally be inclined to do in the more formal environment of the school, but nothing prepared me for the personal question that came next.

All of a sudden, and in keeping with none of the conversation that preceded her question, Lucia looked diagonally across the table and asked “So, Alison, what do you do …. down there?”, virtually pointing with her eyes at Alison’s crotch. All other conversation came to a sudden halt, replaced by a stunned and uneasy silence. I looked at Sean, open-mouthed, seeking confirmation that I had heard correctly, and Sean’s equally open-mouthed and dazed expression suggested he had heard the same words as I had.

All of our eyes turned to Alison. I really wanted to hear the response from this intelligent, articulate and quick-witted woman.

“Ah, erm, ooh, well, eh …” was her amusing if unhelpful reply, to which Lucia responded “I used to like the Brazilian, but now if there’s any stubble at all, I think “dirty bitch””.

The silence was palpable. No-one was entirely sure how to react to this fascinating, if somewhat superfluous, piece of personal information. Sean and I exchanged further confirmatory glances while Alison continued to stumble and stutter through some form of incoherent answer.

Lucia seemed quite surprised at our reluctance/inability to participate in this thread of conversation and went on to say something to the effect that it was all a matter of personal preference and taste. Of course, she was right. I recognised that society is much more open to discussion of such personal matters these days, and I couldn’t decide whether my prudishness was a personal character trait or down to cultural influence (though Alison and Sean were clearly as flummoxed as I was).

Toward the end of our trip, I got my answer.

On the morning of our last day in the hotel we all gathered for breakfast, the staff and our 66-year-old driver, John, at one table, and pupils at a couple of much larger ones. Sean and I had shared a room (and many a laugh), and we had both decided not to shave during the trip. However, at that last breakfast together, Alison shared her opinion of our “beards” – Sean’s looked rugged and manly, and he should keep it, but she suggested that it was not a good look for me and that I should shave it off. Immediately.

I recognised that beards were not for everyone and that in any case my growth could probably be categorised as an unkempt mess rather than an attempt to cultivate a beard as such, so I decided to accept Alison’s advice. As we stood to leave the breakfast table, I informed our little group that I was going to return to my room to shave and collect my gear. Out of solidarity, Sean declared he would do the same, whereupon Lucia announced loudly and clearly “I’ve already shaved.”

While Alison, Sean and I sought a response to this further nugget of unrequested personal information, John (the 66-year-old driver) sprayed across the table (with considerable vigour) the coffee he had just started to ingest and dropped his cup to the floor in the process, coughing and spluttering as he did so.

His reaction caused a wave of laughter, allowed us to say our farewells in good spirits and settled my doubts over the matter of personal character trait or cultural influence, which I found strangely reassuring.

Loving technology

I have already intimated that in terms of my technical expertise and investment (such as they are), I owe a great deal to my former colleague Arthur. It was Arthur who goaded me into using computers at school, helped me obtain my first email address and was indirectly responsible for my internet “presence”. This does not mean that Arthur was an expert in computing or technology, but he did love it and was keen to be at the forefront of technological advances in the classroom. So, in the late 1990s, when I offered to bring in to the department a cordless phone I no longer needed at home, he jumped at the chance.

We were very lucky in our school – some years previously, our Headmaster insisted on installing a phone in every classroom to allow instant communication and improve efficiency (virtually unheard of at the time). This was much appreciated by all, but because of some obscure technical problem, Arthur and I had to share a phone line and so a single phone was installed in our shared cupboard at the rear of our classrooms. This allowed access to both of us, with the unit affixed to the wall immediately to the right of my connecting door.

I am not sure of exactly why, perhaps because I was quicker on my feet or perhaps because Arthur was displeased at having to share a phone, but nearly every time the phone rang, I got to it first. The calls were almost invariably for Arthur and I would gesticulate to him through his cupboard door window, whereupon he would roll his eyes, rise unhurriedly from his chair to make his way to the phone in the cupboard where he would attempt to deal with queries some distance from his computer, his files and his pupils. He clearly found the situation unsatisfactory but there appeared to be no obvious solution until I offered my redundant cordless phone which would allow movement and facilitate communication and order.

The cordless phone had not been used for some considerable time and would not work without a lengthy period of charging. I therefore plugged the unit into an electrical socket but didn’t bother connecting it to the phone line itself as it wouldn’t have worked – the existing phone remained connected in the meantime.

Arthur was actually quite excited at the prospect of being able to move about his room freely while on the phone, allowing him to check information on his computer, refer to documents in files and of course keep an eye on his pupils.

Eventually, a couple of hours after I had set the cordless phone to charge, the phone rang. As was my practice, I muttered an apology to my class and walked the length of my room to the cupboard door. However, just as I approached the door, I heard Arthur open his cupboard door and saw him quickly, almost excitedly, pick up the cordless phone. He pressed a green button at the base of the unit and said proudly “Arthur Scott, languages.”

The ringing repeated.

Arthur stared at the cordless phone, quite perplexed, trying to identify why he had failed to answer the call.

Ring, ring.

Once again, he pressed the green button and repeated “Arthur Scott, languages.”

Ring, ring.

A look of panic came over his face and he pressed the green button three times in quick succession, then held the phone to his ear, saying “Hello?”

Ring, ring.

It was at this point I opened my cupboard door, reached in to the existing handset, put the receiver to my ear and said “Hello.” The ringing stopped immediately and I paid no attention whatsoever to my interlocutor – I was totally preoccupied by a wildly gesticulating Arthur who suggested I was unsure of my parentage and that I should never tell ANYONE of this incident. EVER.

Barely able to control myself, I handed the school phone to Arthur and took up my position in front of my class. Naturally, they desperately wanted to know the reason for my state of virtual collapse. I resisted telling the truth ….. until now.

Pupils

Pupils always played an integral part in enjoyment (or otherwise!) of my professional life. Banter and rapport more than compensated for the potentially repetitive nature of the job. Individual response to discussion of what was taught always made life varied and interesting. Progress made in class was, I suppose, taken rather for granted on both sides, but I heard the occasional horror story from teachers in other schools which made me realise how lucky I was to have the pupils I had. Even if they didn’t always enjoy French, my pupils generally “played the game” with me and I had very few real problems. At times I even received notes and messages indicating their appreciation of what we studied together and I found that very touching.

Of course, some of the most memorable moments are also the funniest – occasions when pupils would make mistakes, say daft things or just react spontaneously and perhaps inappropriately.

Mistranslation

Language is a field which is open to all sorts of mistakes, misinterpretation and plain failure to communicate, and such faux pas can prove educational as well as amusing, and are to be savoured.

A few examples of linguistic adventure:

Very early in my career I discovered that traditional prerequisites for the study of languages such as intelligence, application and focus took second place to timetable clashes, teacher popularity and personal preference. The result was that while most pupils were willing to “give it a bash” and do their best, not all were suited to what was, ultimately, a fairly demanding and academic discipline.

In order to stimulate interest (as well as to develop linguistic competence), I used to encourage exercises above and beyond the “classic” fields of endeavour to incorporate work of a more personal and often more humorous nature – pupils could create their own short stories and sentences as long as they applied the rules of grammar we had studied. However, these exercises also tended to reveal that old favourite of language teachers: dictionary mistakes.

The game of Alibi was particularly fruitful in this area. Two pupils accused of some heinous crime (usually my murder) would have to produce exactly the same accounts of their movements in order to be found not guilty – any deviation meant they had failed and they were instantly found guilty. Pupils loved to produce outlandish tales of their activities in an attempt to amuse their classmates. Of course, I was quite happy as they eagerly sought words in the dictionary and did their best to form coherent sentences. Unfortunately, some of their efforts were not as accurate as they might have been ……

One pupil made reference to a “vaisselier fâché” (literally an angry Welsh dresser – for displaying crockery) when he thought he was referring to a cross-dresser (fâché – angry or cross, vaisselier – a dresser). Don’t ask!

Another referred to “les devoirs frappent”, mistakenly using a verb phrase instead of the noun I eventually discovered she wished to use. I prided myself on being able to identify what pupils tried to say, even if it wasn’t always obvious, allowing me to take appropriate remedial steps when necessary and lead them to an improved version of their efforts where possible, but in this case I was stumped. I failed utterly to see the sense and meaning of what she was trying to say, even given the broader context of the surrounding language (to do with school rules and discipline). I conceded defeat and had to ask her what she meant. When she told me, I literally slapped my forehead and howled with laughter. It was so delicious that at a languages conference some months later I challenged several fellow teachers to solve it, but they couldn’t either (much to my relief), though they were just as amused as I had been when I revealed the solution.

“Devoirs” means homework. “Frapper” (and the verb was given the correct ending in her original phrase) means to hit or strike, so “homework strikes”. Obviously not. The key is to think of an alternative for “to hit”, something more specific ….. to club (as in to club to death). She wanted to say “homework club”, looked up “club” in the dictionary, found the verb “frapper” and added the correct ending to agree with “devoirs”. Perfectly logical!

My favourite faux pas, however, has got to be that of a young man (Kyle, who went on to have a glittering career in the design of apps) who wanted to say “I dragged myself out of bed at 7.30”. With masterful misuse of a dictionary, he produced “J’ai un travesti à me sortir dans ma chambre à sept heures et demie”. Unfortunately, that sentence does not have the same meaning as the one he formed in his head in English. It means “I have a transvestite to take me out in my bedroom at 7.30”.

I was in the habit of going over pieces of writing with classes and, apart from noting corrections on individual sheets, I also noted phrases and sentences to review with the entire class (anonymously) if I thought there was something of value to learn from them. I kept Kyle’s until last and it was just as well as the class (including the man himself) collapsed in laughter when I translated his sentence and then dissected it for grammatical clarification.

(To say “I dragged”, he knew he needed the perfect tense and so in theory he should start with I have (J’ai), followed by the past participle of the verb. He then looked up “drag” and unfortunately found the term for “drag queen” which ends in an “i”, the past participle ending for “ir” verbs, so he was convinced he had the right combination. Then he looked up “out” and found “sortir” (to go out or take out), but then he remembered he needed “myself”, so correctly placed “me” in front of a verb (though the wrong verb). Time and place he got right!).

In another class, slightly younger, a pupil was invited to translate “deux fois par an”. The context was health care, specifically the number of times per year French patients visit their dentist. The girl in question was stumped by the phrase, so I suggested breaking it down to identify words she already knew. She correctly identified “an” as “year” and then “deux” as “two”, so within seconds she managed to translate the phrase as “twice a year”. However, she looked quite shocked at this translation and sought clarification.

“You mean they go to the dentist twice a year? No wonder their teeth are in a terrible state!” (The image accompanying the text showed a boy with rotting teeth for comic effect).

“What do you mean?” I asked. “That’s the same as we do.”

“No!” she answered vehemently. “Here we go every six months!”

I thought it best to leave the explanation to her highly amused classmates ….

On another occasion, the class was doing a fairly straightforward reading comprehension exercise. I no longer remember the exact format of the question, but the subject of the text was “Le Roi Lion” and reasons for its popularity. One phrase in the text was “Les dessins sont très réalistes” and pupils were invited to show understanding of this expression. Most coped well, jotted down their translation and moved on to the next question. However, one young lady came out to my desk to ask for help. I didn’t want to simply tell her the answer, so I thought I’d ask her a question or two that might trigger the answer in her own head.

I asked if she understood what film was being discussed. The Lion King – right. I asked her what kind of film it is. Animation – right. I pointed out that she already knew the word “dessin” – what did it mean? Drawings! – right. A big smile lit up her face and she went back to her seat quite happily, and I was pleased that my strategy had obviously worked.

Thirty seconds later, however, she re-appeared at my desk and explained she didn’t understand the rest of the sentence. I applied the same technique and pointed out the word “réalistes”. I asked her if it reminded her of a word in English. Realistic – right. I then reminded her we were talking about an animated film and I repeated the semi-translated sentence three times, slowly, “The drawings sont très realistic”, convinced the words “are very” would pop into her head if she heard the beginning and end of the sentence in English. Indeed, she slapped her forehead as if to say “how obvious”, smiled broadly and returned to her seat to write her completed answer.

As I was correcting the class’s efforts, I came across the afore-mentioned young lady’s work and her answer to the question about which she quizzed me stopped me in my tracks.

“The drawings 113 realistic.”

It took me a few moments to process her response and her thoughts. Then I realised what she had done. She heard me say (three times) “The drawings sont très realistic” and, going by the sound of the French words I left in the middle of the sentence, she translated them as one hundred (sont became cent) and thirteen (très became treize)!

From that point on I took nothing for granted in terms of comprehension ….

Glasses

Glasses and their appearance, effect and usefulness seem, on reflection, to have played a regular part in my professional life.

When I first started in teaching, I wore a pair of dreadful dark, thick-rimmed glasses that often reminded people of the 1960s puppet character Joe 90. Goodness only knows what I was thinking when I chose them – they did nothing for me, enhanced a nerd-like appearance (I also wore a large-checked sports jacket) and actually blocked my peripheral vision both left and right.

I changed them shortly after an unpleasant incident during my first week at Invergordon. I passed a pupil and her boyfriend in the playing fields on my way in to the school and, in an attempt to impress his schoolgirl girlfriend, the lad yelled “What a geek!” after me and proceeded to utter threats when I attempted to ignore him. The young lady was terribly apologetic and nothing came of it, of course, but I decided a change was needed and I hope the young lady felt the same…..

As the years went by and I had to change my glasses on a number of occasions, I took to keeping a couple of my old pairs of glasses in my desk drawer at school. It frequently came to my attention that pupils struggled to see clearly what I wrote on the board (and eventually on screen), especially if they sat toward the rear of the room. They would screw up their eyes in an attempt to focus or they would resort to copying notes from a neighbour. Without wanting to cause embarrassment, I would quietly offer them a “shot” of my old glasses – just to see if it made a difference. As often as not they would admit the glasses did, indeed, make a difference and they would organise an appointment with an optician. Because they were my old-fashioned glasses it allowed them to relax and laugh at themselves (and me) when they tried them on, making the whole process less of an ordeal and more acceptable. Some would even come to borrow my glasses if they had forgotten or broken their own.

Of course, there were a few who denied any need for glasses – they blamed the light, the weather or lack of sleep for their inability to focus. On one occasion, I was teaching a small group of senior pupils in the base next door to my room and one young lady at the back was clearly struggling to make out my writing on the whiteboard at the other end of the small room. I suggested she change seats to be closer to the board and after some argument, she accepted my suggestion. However, even in her new position she could barely make out my writing.

I then suggested, light-heartedly, that she try my old glasses. She insisted absolutely that she had no need for glasses – the light in the room was poor (everyone else managed to see fine) and she was tired. After I begged her to try my glasses, if only to prove me wrong, she accepted my request (with very bad grace).

She went over to the window overlooking the school, the sports field and the tree-lined roads in the distance and put them on.

The look of shock on her face was a picture to behold. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, she declared “The branches! The leaves! The colours!” Naturally, we all laughed and so did she. Two weeks later she turned up for class wearing her own glasses.

On another occasion, also with a senior class, a young man had left his glasses at home and so I offered him my old pair, just to try. “Oh,” said a classmate, “do you think they’ll be the right height?” What can one say?

Once (and only once), I even used a pupil’s glasses as a means of controlling a pupil’s behaviour. The precise details of this incident are long gone, but I do remember a young lad (in a junior class) being keen to challenge just about everything I said – not nastily, but rather in a sort of game of wits. Whatever I said, he tried to top it, usually with resultant groans and slaps on their foreheads from his fellow pupils. They didn’t appreciate his poor attempts to best me and he failed to recognise the weakness of his responses. Eventually, as his “witticisms” became perceived as cheek, I advised him to stop or I’d be forced to take action. This was no discipline incident or instance of genuine rudeness – the lad simply wanted to show off to his classmates by taking me on, but he didn’t know when to stop and he was beginning to annoy and embarrass his friends.

He made another challenging remark, much to the general displeasure of the class so, rather than engage in further witless banter, I went up to his table, removed his glasses, licked each lens and returned his glasses to his face.

The class roared with laughter, the situation was defused and the young man in question shut his mouth – at least for the remainder of that lesson.

Speaking French

When I was a pupil studying French, we were rarely invited to converse. We focused very much on grammar, reading, listening and writing. Speaking tests (at least in years one to three) consisted largely of reading aloud a passage and we were graded on pronunciation and intonation.

Just as I started to teach, there was (rightly) a move to incorporate speaking as an essential element and pupils were understandably anxious about speaking in class, in pairs, with the teacher and eventually (if they went far enough) with an outside examiner. I did my best to put my pupils at their ease by trying to create a pleasant and informal atmosphere and by preparing them as thoroughly as possible for the event.

In the senior years, and especially for the testing of speaking, I continued to help pupils prepare as fully as I could, but the degree of formality increased with the level at which they studied and so pupils’ level of anxiety increased proportionately despite displaying perfectly adequate (and well beyond) linguistic competence.

We practised the kind of question they could be asked and the type of answer they could provide. We considered pronunciation, intonation and grammatical precision, Yet still the very fact they were being tested meant they were nervous, but add to this the fact they were to be recorded and anxiety levels hit the roof. Recordings were sent to SQA for verification of teachers’ marks if requested and that happened only every few years, but evidence had to be available. All I could do was help them prepare and be as patient and positive as possible.

Most rose to the occasion, produced the goods and did very well, but nerves got the better of a number and although nearly all soldiered on and did well in the end, some really suffered.

I witnessed tears, panic attacks, memory loss, slow delivery, rapid delivery, fits of the giggles and even one attempt to physically hide, but only one swore on tape and declared she wanted to give up!

This was a young lady who had opted to do Higher French because she had to fill her timetable and no other subject suited her or was available to her. She was therefore somewhat half-hearted from the start, but with a lot of gentle coaxing (confrontation would have resulted in no effort or abandonment) and persuasion, she got through the various stages to qualify for exam entry.

Her preparation for the speaking test was weak both in terms of content and delivery, but with support from a sympathetic examiner (me), I thought she could get by.

Finally, after some debate over her willingness and ability to complete the task, she turned up on time and we started to record her test.

I prepared many questions for her test as she tended to produce short and succinct answers and the whole thing had to last a minimum of six minutes. We fought our way through it. She showed little initiative but I thought there was enough to allow me to give her a pass – if she maintained the same standard throughout.

With thirty seconds to go before we reached the minimum length, I started to feel hopeful and almost relieved – it wouldn’t be great, but there was certainly enough to warrant a pass. Then it happened. Out of the blue. No warning or hint.

“F*** it, I can’t do this!” she announced clearly and articulately.

I froze. Just thirty seconds to go! No, no, no …..

I threw questions at her, questions I knew she could answer, questions she would find difficult NOT to answer, even very simply. She provided her minimal responses and we made it to the six minutes. She didn’t really care and was quite amused by my reaction, but I felt I had to get her through this element as I felt responsible, at least to some degree, for her preparation.

Fortunately, that year I was not required to provide taped evidence for my evaluation of her performance. While the authorities would probably have accepted my judgment of the performance itself, I’m not at all sure how they would have viewed her somewhat negative and defeatist outburst shortly before the end ….

Not too old to run

One of the school’s social highlights of the year was the sixth-year night out, a farewell dinner for senior pupils in their final year. This was usually a very pleasant event at which staff and pupils relaxed together in a setting outside school, would share memories and occasionally become a little boisterous.

Toward the end of one such evening, a group decided it would be fun to move on to a pub just along the road from the hotel in Tain where we had celebrated the sixth-year’s time with us and their impending departure. I reluctantly accepted an invitation to join them – it was getting late by this time and staff, unlike pupils, had to attend school the following morning and it is ill-advised to face classes when under the weather.

I followed the party down a steep hill (the whole of Tain is built on a fairly steep incline) to an establishment which advertised Karaoke at the door. I went in, but once seated by a mini stage and having realised we would be expected to perform, I had second thoughts and decided it would be in everyone’s best interests if I left.

I waited for an opportune moment when everyone was engaged in conversation and slipped away. I got about five yards up the steep hill when I heard a call of “Mr Fernie!” from behind. I turned around to see three sixth-year lads at the entrance to the pub, looking in my direction. “You’re not going anywhere!” they commanded, and I bolted.

After ten yards I turned to check I wasn’t being followed and, to my horror, I saw that all three were pursuing me, at speed, up the steep hill! I started running, already struggling to keep my breath as I fought my way up the hill, finding strength in the mental image of being carted back into the pub by three pupils and the ignominy of being forced to sing on the pub’s stage.

I reached the High Street and turned, somewhat breathlessly, to check on the progress of my pursuers. They were still there, and were catching up! The survival instinct kicked in and I ignored the weakness of my body and the desperate and painful efforts of my lungs to catch breath – I crossed the High Street and started up the sharp incline of Market Street.

Half-way up, my legs were turning to jelly and a searing pain was spreading through my thighs. I was reduced to short, sharp, painful breaths and my heart was pounding so hard I could almost see my shirt rising and falling with each beat. I had to stop.

I turned to throw myself on the mercy of my pursuers, only to see the three young men stopped about thirty yards down the hill, stooped, fighting for breath and looking at one another. One made a vague gesture of farewell in my direction (it may have been something more aggressive, but I didn’t care) and they turned back down the hill, moving at an easy pace and with their hands on their sides as they took rapid breaths.

I had outrun three strapping sixth-year lads! Delighted with myself, I continued up the street but quickly discovered the physical effects of my efforts were not diminished by my euphoria.

Long story short, the five-minute walk up the hill to my home took me approximately thirty minutes. I had to stop every few yards to catch my breath and to allow the pain in my thighs and heart to subside long enough to permit me to take another few steps. At one point I actually contemplated the possibility of my own death and realised that even singing was better than this ….

Holidays

Since the principal purpose of this volume of memoirs is to share amusing (hopefully) anecdotes, as opposed to my more serious output in my “reflections” articles, allow me to share just a couple of tales from holidays rather than my professional life.

Ode to a Grecian bug

In July of 2008 we had a family holiday in a spacious Greek house on the coast some 200 miles south of Athens. There was a private pool (where bats swooped down at night to take tiny mouthfuls of water) and nearby there were lovely coastal villages with restaurants, beaches and numerous tourist activities.

One bright, beautiful morning I got up before anyone else, slipped on my summer clothes and headed through the kitchen out to the balcony. Shortly afterward, Alison joined me and we had breakfast together. Having been told I needed to relax (I kept coming up with suggestions for activities and trips while the rest of the family wanted to do nothing and recharge their batteries), I stretched out to read a book and Alison did the same.

After a few minutes, I felt a slight pinch of discomfort in the groin area so I wriggled to straighten out any creases in my shorts that might have caught me in that sensitive zone. That seemed to do the trick. A few seconds later, however, I felt another pinch – on my pride and joy, so once again I shuffled in my seat to get rid of any folds that might be catching me. Within seconds it struck again, this time more jagged. Then again – this time there was a definite nipping sensation. A terrible thought ran through my head – this felt like a bite or a sting! Again! This time even more pronounced and I couldn’t help but swing my legs to the ground and sit bolt upright. Panic flooded me and my head angled suddenly and involuntarily in the direction of my crotch and I found myself staring avidly at my shorts, repulsed at the thought of a foreign body doing goodness knows what to my pride and joy!

Alison asked what was wrong but I was so consumed with anxiety that I couldn’t answer. I wanted to remove my shorts but yet another nip convinced me I needed to take instant and urgent action. Again! I had to kill whatever was responsible before it did real damage! Immediately! I started punching myself in the groin and each punch was met by another nip plus, of course, the pain I was inflicting on myself. I stood up but was bent over my groin, shouting to Alison “Something ….. biting ….. me!”, each word punctuated by another frantic punch to my groin. After a brief period of puzzlement, Alison became helpless with laughter and tears formed not through sympathy, but mirth.

I made my way back to the kitchen amid punches (from me), groans (from me) and bites (from the beast). Alison followed me into the kitchen and managed to produce a strangled apology for not being able to help – she couldn’t due to the crippling hilarity of the situation and the fact tears were now preventing her from seeing with any clarity.

I finally succeeded in slipping down my shorts and underpants. To my utter and dumbfounded astonishment, a small centipede-like creature fell to the floor and attempted to crawl in a dazed and drunken fashion toward the open door. I observed with a degree of satisfaction that it only had one feeler attached to its head and it had clearly suffered just about as much as I had.

The relief was huge, but I was by now utterly exhausted and helped in no way by my sobbing wife who could only whisper a weak “sorry” between outbreaks of uncontrollable laughter.

Heat in Crete

In the summer of 2015, Alison and I returned to Greek territory to visit Crete. We stayed in a nice hotel on the north coast of the island, a little to the east of Heraklion. At breakfast one morning we started chatting with some fellow guests who were French. This turned into a regular event and we became quite friendly with this couple who went on to introduce us to four other French guests. We always spoke in French but to my embarrassment, I discovered numerous gaps in my vocabulary and a surprising lack of confidence on my part. Years of discussing curriculum-based topics with pupils but having only infrequent and relatively short spontaneous conversations with genuine French people had left my scope for conversation rather restricted and my willingness to “throw myself in” (advice I frequently gave to pupils) somewhat diminished.

To mark the final evening of their stay, the original French couple invited us and their four French friends to dine with them at the hotel. While delighted to receive their invitation, I was a little anxious on two counts: was my French up to conversing for two or three hours (I was sure French traditions concerning meals and conversation would apply even in Greece), and would I embarrass myself by displaying patches of perspiration on my shirt in what was (for me) the intense heat of Cretan evenings? Everyone always seemed to remain cool but I found the heat quite oppressive – I would even remain under the parasol while Alison sunbathed. I decided that for both these issues the best solution was to take deep breaths and try to relax – just let events unfold and try not to worry.

We went to the dining area where we generally ate al fresco (to be able to count on the weather in this way!), but because of our number, staff prepared a table for us in the covered area, therefore depriving us of the always-welcome gentle but cooling breeze.

The evening went very well – my resolution to remain relaxed seemed to pay off linguistically as vocabulary came into my head as and when required and we all conversed happily, discussing our holiday experiences, our lives at home and even shared a few anecdotes. I was really quite pleased and relieved that my French had not, after all, abandoned me. As for my disquiet about the heat, I was vaguely aware of beads of sweat forming at the base of my spine but the occasional rapid glance at my shirt revealed very little sign of perspiration, certainly nothing untoward that would attract attention. All told, toward the end of the evening I was very happy with the way things had gone – my French had flowed and my perspiration hadn’t.

Note to self, I thought, remember to relax!

By the time we finished and decided to leave the table it was after 10 p.m. It was dark, the temperature had decreased to a pleasant 20 degrees or so and we were among the last to leave the dining area. I pushed my chair from the table and leaned back to turn and appreciate the view as lights stretched out romantically along our little section of coast. My mellow mood was abruptly interrupted by a sudden and unpleasant sensation of cool dampness at the base of my back and the top of my backside. I knew from experience (of walking in this heat) that there would be a visibly darkened area at the waist band at the back of my trousers, and it would probably descend an inch or two.

Everyone stood. I remained seated and waited to allow them to head toward the exit. My hastily conceived plan was to hang back so no-one would see my back, but now they formed little groups to chat and embrace one another. I had to get up! As I stood, I became aware that the damp patch was probably bigger than I had anticipated. I turned to face the others as I rose and stepped away from my seat, then took a couple of steps backwards in the direction of the exit, chatting face to face with each group as I went. Finally, I reached Alison and we were facing the six others. There was just one problem – we were blocking the path to the exit and they all wanted to leave. Short of walking backwards all the way out of the dining room, I could see no solution – I had to turn around. Maybe they wouldn’t notice. Maybe they’d be too engrossed in conversation to allow their eyes to stray in my direction. In any case, I realised, why would they look in the general direction of my backside? I was being far too self-obsessed. I turned to lead the way to the exit.

The roars of laughter were instant and deafening.

The sweat patch was indeed huge. I discovered later that it stretched from half-way down my back to the base of my backside. The steady drip, drip, drip I had been vaguely aware of had accumulated and certainly revealed itself, banishing all possibility of a dignified departure.

They didn’t mock, but they did find it uproariously funny. One of the few waitresses still on duty asked “pee-pee?” and, much to everyone’s delight, stuffed the edge of a large and dazzlingly white napkin in my rear waistline in a vain and completely unsuccessful attempt to camouflage my patch (she gave me a knowing look and giggled when I went for breakfast the following morning). What could I do but shake my head and join in the merriment?

At the time, Sudoku was all the rage and I felt I redeemed the situation (to a very minor degree) when I announced (in French) that I had invented a new game – “sue-du-cul” (soo doo coo) – a French play on words meaning “sweats from the bum”.