Half-Term Report
Six weeks done at the chalkface, and now a week to draw breath. There are those who continually pitch a fit over the fact that teachers have "long holidays". As soon as you mention that you work in education the cascade of snide remarks starts to flow. Jealousy is an ugly thing, especially in other people.
Not for us the standard ways of whiling away the working day. No slipping in a few minutes late because when you're meant to be on you'd bloody well better be on. No goofing around on the internet sending flirty emails to the girls in the typing pool. No long lunches, no early getaways, and pulling a sickie creates more work that avoids.
Most people, unless they really do have a McJob at the bottom end of the universe (e.g. burger flippers, bog cleaners, political staffers), will once in a while have a dreaded Big Meeting. The Big Meeting is the one that you must attend, that one that you must prepare for in order not to look like a complete knobwit, and the one where you are expected to say something at the risk of getting gunned down by some loathsome little irk who is too young to realise that he has a brain the size of a marble and balls the size of pinheads. He probably has a good degree.
Teaching is day after day of Big Meetings, usually about 30 per week. They are called "lessons" and if you don't want to be the one looking like a prat then you'd better do your homework. You can't end them early, you can't call them off to play golf, and you can't rely on your smarter colleague to cover your back. He's busy covering his own down the corridor. You are not only the organiser but also, like a damn fool, you are the guest of honour as well. If you slip the kids will notice and even the most tender-hearted sprig of youthful hope will bite your ass when not properly fed. You are the perpetual Lion in the den of Daniels, and there's nowhere to run to. It is great fun, but you'd better deliver every single time else you're out.
And that, my whining little desk-jockeys, is why I get seventeen weeks off in every year and you get four. Well, that and the fact that I made a slightly less dumb career move than you did. Or at least I loaded the dice before I rolled them.
And so, this holiday time, it is time to take stock. And no, I don't mean Fernet Stock, even though their "kissing lesbians" billboard advert is very convincing. I think they're twins. I'm not sure what the meaning of this is. Our booze tastes better than lesbian twins? Drink our liquor and it will give you this dream? It is just nice to know that advertising executives sometimes do something to earn their vast salaries, and then produce damn fine posters. I would put a copy of this on my blog, but I refuse to have something on here that some women readers may find degrading and distasteful. Plus I can't find it on the internet anywhere.
Back to taking stock… blimey that went quickly. A lot done, but a lot more left to do. The examinations are fast approaching and I have to make sure that each syllabus is covered and plenty of past-paper questions are completed. The schemes of work are being rejigged as I go along, and setting these in stone (or at least in ink) will be one of my many summer jobs. Going full tilt for six weeks, and sharing three of them with a stinking cold, is draining. Starting in January with no time to settle in is draining. Teaching to a different syllabus and preparing new lessons is draining. Meeting a completely new set of staff and a completely new colony of kids is draining. Learning new procedures, new protocols, and new limits before the smoke alarm goes off is draining. I screwed the pooch on the last one. Five millilitres of burning toluene will set the smoke alarm off. Live and learn. And be drained.
Tired and drained then. I wouldn't change a thing. I felt like Hell during the last week but this move is still one of the best things that I have ever done. Something may come along to change my mind but until then it is "no regrets" in the biggest possible way. Before I left London I was carrying a ten ton boulder in my stomach, knowing that I was about to do something really stupid or something really clever. The jury must still be out after such a short time, but the whisper in the gallery is that the latter verdict will be returned.
As I have said before, this is a beautiful city with great people and lots of stuff that works better than it does in the UK. So time to take a deep breath, get my balance back, and keep on pushing.
Approaching half way. Of three score and ten perchance? With a simple flick of the finger the fates pinged over another bead on the abacus. Slide another counter onto the debit side and hope the tallyman loses my address. If he comes a knockin' I'll try to bribe him with beer. Happy Birthday to Me!
I don't do birthdays or funerals. Sadly when they're your own you just have to turn up. This one ended with a 0 so it looks interesting on paper. Just as the Year 2000 was celebrated as the Millennium simply because it was a nicer looking number than 2001, so the day the clock hits 0 again becomes more important than all the other days you that manage to survive. Even the most rational mind can be suckered by aesthetics and a round figure. Insert your own fat bird joke if you like.
Gina, through contacts that she has made in some sort of social club for women with too much time on their hands, organised a trip to the Pilsner Urqell brewery in Plzeň. It is an easy bus ride away but even easier to get to when driven by a company driver. Should any of the high-up big cheeses read this I won't name you - public association with blogs seldom leads to much good - but many thanks for your gracious hospitality at home and for organising the transport.
And so, hitting 30, I have not only made Head of Science but also partaken in (although not organised) a piss-up in a brewery. If any of my former critics would like to eat their words now I have only one thing to say: dobrou chuť!
