With Much Ado

So Quirkie once told me that a cold is maximum misery for minimum sympathy. She sure had that right. I've been walking around in a mucus fog for the past few days. There's a kid in one of my classes who is a nice enough boy, really, but he wears mirrored aviator sunglasses and the big headphones with his doof doof music blasting out as he walks into the class, and every time I have to pull him into line he says, in this quiet, easygoing way, "You're breaking my balls." (And I do have to tell you that secretly I find it pretty funny.) And The Antiquer came over last night as I was settling into a nice little coma on the couch. He rang the doorbell and I was on the phone to someone and as it was a quarter to nine I got a little freaked out so I told the friend to stay on the phone so she could immediately call the constabulary if required, and it was of course just The Antiquer who had come back from a four day weekend away with Tam O'Shanter and Small Thing and the Whenwe couple he despises and he just needed to offload about the horror of his weekend and he stayed until 1am so I guess that was about 1 hour per day. And then I got home tonight and saw on the floor a pair of dirty socks and I wondered if I could fit them into the load already awaiting the ministrations of the washing machine and I debated it back and forth for a while and then decided to just go into the laundry and check and then my brain decided to just have a little break so as a consequence I walked through the laundry into what is sometimes referred to as "the littlest room in the house" and promptly deposited the socks into the toilet.

Luckily I had bleached it this morning so I just know things are turning round.

This is all by way of saying: hello, I'm back.

Can you hear me, Major Tom?

Almost every day at either lunch or recess the head of the English department at the school I'm on prac at now will come staggering into the staffroom and, overhearing a conversation, will be reminded of a story from her past that she simply must interrupt you to tell and is every bit as amusing as she claims it will be.

Today she wafted in as my supervisor and I were talking about kayaking.

"Oh that reminds me of a story about the one and only time I went kayaking. I'll have to tell you. It really is quite amusing."

It seems her husband was mad keen on kayaking and, deciding that he needed to get his wife involved, he bought her a kayak. One morning they launched the boats in the river at North Fremantle, where the water is always so clear and blue. This day was particularly bright and sunny and the water was particularly sparkling. Plenty of people were out enjoying the sunshine and the slight breeze. The bit of beach they were on was particularly popular, it seems. Our narrator noticed to one side of her a group of people who all seemed to be watching her commence her maiden voyage - just curious onlookers she supposed, laughing at the old biddy. Although most of her mental effort was going into staying balanced and mastering her first few wobbly paddles she did, nevertheless, have the presence of mind to notice that the usually pristine water was marred by a grey film, through which she was gliding. She turned her craft around to wave to her husband - "Look at me!" - and it was then she realised that the grey film and the fascinated onlookers were all part of the same event: she had ploughed her kayak right through some dear departed (and cremated) soul's ashes, only minutes before committed to the water.

Not surprisingly, she kept on paddling and didn't look back. Which, I suspect, is a kind of meta-statement for this grand dame's life.

Je ne suis pas bovvered!

A friend from uni rang last night and we were swapping notes about our latest prac. She was jealous that the Year 11 English class I'm teaching only has three students in it, all girls. I told her that the downside to this is that I get to hear everything they're discussing.

I was taking the class for a double period and gave them a break in the middle. Because it was a cold, rainy day they drifted over to the heater and chatted there. One of the girls lives with her boyfriend and he had bought her a puppy. The kids can leave the school grounds during the day and this girl was encouraging the other two to come back to her place and meet her dog.

You gotta see the baby!

One of her friends agreed. The other demurred. There was much nagging and refusing until finally the hold-out said, "But if I go to your place I'll just have to listen to you in bed!"

I tried to look busy with the papers in front of me. Absorbed, if you see what I mean. I was aghast. I mean, what poor manners to invite someone back to your house and then disappear for a shag! Where's June Dally-Watkins when you need her?

I was away when we did geography - my Nan died.

The Antiquer and I were breakfasting by the river. Well, we stayed so long that he insisted on having dessert: scones with jam and cream. It's alright for him, he runs 65 kilometres a week.

We were chatting about this and that when he said, "Oooh, I forgot I have something for you." He produced a small square parcel wrapped in drawing paper on which his daughter, Small Thing, had drawn a helicopter:

[picture to be inserted on the 19th, or shortly thereafter, god give me strength]

Upon unwrapping it turned out to be a spoken word CD: The whole business with Kiffo and the Pitbull.

...this wild and witty story is a laugh-out-loud comedy about two unlikely friends who are drawn into a dramatic series of events through their mutual mistrust of their new English teacher, known as the Pitbull.

Just what the hell is he trying to tell me?? Anyway, I'm going to bung it on the iPod and listen along while I'm doing the housework (as if!). This Pitbull woman might have a few tips for me.

Okay kids, here's where the lesson gets a little freaky...

For the last couple of weeks I was on prac I had the company of another student from a different university. We'd swap daily horror stories of things that had happened in the classroom and share our tips for getting attention, how we got kids to stop misbehaving, etc etc. (I tended to wind up activities by clapping my hands and announcing, "Everyone listening to me." He preferred, "Mouths closed, eyes on me.")

But here's my point: it was nice to have the company round in my lonely corner of the staffroom.

One day, after teaching his Year 8s, he staggered to his desk looking somewhat shell shocked. How bad can Year 8s be??

"Tough class?" I asked.

He shook his head. Not quite. While he was pretty sure the little kiddiewinks hadn't picked up on it, he'd got his instructions confused in the middle of the lesson and, trying to quell the noise, announced to twenty-five 12-year-olds: "Okay everyone: eyes closed, mouths on me."

Even over my braying I could hear the rustle of caftans and some pretty groovy music starting up on a crackly old stereo somewhere.

Slowly wipes sweat from brow....

My supervisor from uni came out for her second (and last! woohoo!) visit today. She decided she'd check out my feral Year 10s, last period. I didn't have high hopes for this particular class; they're on the cusp of a riot most days.

But I could have kissed every last one of them as they waltzed out the door. Except, oddly enough, the two who intermittently blew me kisses during the lesson. I came into the class, got the little blighters as settled as they were ever going to be, and introduced my supervisor.

"Is she your teacher, miss?"

"Is she here to mark you, miss?"

"Does she get to say whether you get to be a teacher or not, miss?"

"Everybody, be quiet. We have to be good so Miss hb gets to be a teacher!"

It didn't really make a skerrick of difference. They were still more or less revolting. But they'd intermittently remember their mission and for a few seconds peace would reign.

After the last bell I staggered over to my supervisor, who slowly put down her pen, rubbed her tired and bloodshot eyes and said, "I have no idea what I could possibly tell you to help you with this lot."

The little horrors had been not quite bad enough to make me look bad but just bad enough to make my efforts with them look valiant. May they all enjoy an untroubled sleep tonight.

Rum and the rest.

Days on prac completed: 2 weeks, 4 days

Days on prac to go: 2 weeks, 1 day.

The irony has not escaped me that all we teaching students are just dying for the teaching bit to be over. Well, it's quite tough you know.

But I can't help but think that teaching is a little like parenting in that the minute you're responsible for all these tender young minds, all the proverbial hoary old c's come drifting up from dank little corners of the mind.

"The bell is a signal for me, not for you."

"Eyes to the front."

"You're only wasting your own time."

"Keep crying and I'll give you something to cry about." No, wait....

Hold Your Position

Thanks to New Girl for that delightful interjection into my blog. Isn't she a marvel?

I am, as they say in the classics, blog-fodder rich and time poor. I'm up to my ears in full-time prac, preparing lesson plans and getting those tricky classroom management techniques under control. Though, if you ask me, it's not the classroom that's the problem; it's the 30 14-year-olds sitting inside it that need all the attention.

Wise Up

I had my first day in a classroom on Wednesday - no teaching yet, just observing. One boy told me that he'd made the last prac teacher cry. Another asked, "Are you here to learn how to be a teacher?" When I told him I was he said, "Get out while you can."

These kids have been watching way too many sitcoms.

Any Questions?

Tomorrow is my first day in the classroom. Terrifying. But I thought as a little "getting to know you" session I could play this clip from Pulp Fiction. I think Honey Bunny's form of crowd control could quite nicely set the scene for the little bleeders.