My turgid tales of teaching

Part 1: Forensics Department.

[I taught at a large Church of England comprehensive school as a science teacher for twenty five odd years from 1993 onwards. This was not my chosen career, I fell into it in order to put bread on the table. I won’t go into the usual guff about teaching being a rewarding profession, but it was certainly eventful and interesting (remember the ancient Chinese curse, “may you live in interesting times” ?). There are plenty of colourful memories of my life there, and being me, I intend to randomly do a mental dump of as many as I can remember in a completely unsystematic fashion ( I have a Random Access Memory). Of course my memory is imperfect, and events and locations and names will inevitably, inexorably, be mangled beyond any recognition…]

At the end of a lesson one day, a member of staff walked through the door of my laboratory. 

“Simon. I have come to ask for your help”. The member of staff was Enid Coggins. She was part of the fixture and fittings at Bishop. Much feared by the pupils and yet much loved by the whole student body as well. She had a tough, punishing persona, yet everyone knew that she had a heart of gold. Head of year ten, teacher of history, writer in purple ink, she made up an essential part of the school. Immovable, undauntable, yet very human indeed.

“What can I do for you Enid?” I enquired, that age old fear of a telling-off from the teacher manifesting itself in my stomach.

“I wonder if you know of a test for alcohol in the breath? I believe that Jonny Macarum has been drinking, causing him to misbehave. He has a bottle half full of what he describes as lemonade.” explained Enid.

I knew of a test for alcohol, of course. Acidified potassium dichromate (VI) changes colour from yellow to green as it reacts with alcohol. Solid crystals of potassium dichromate (VI) could be mixed with a crystalline acid, say citric acid, in a tube and the suspect breaths down the tube to provide the sample. The police used it as a roadside test - the ‘breathalyser’. I was sure I could throw a breathalyser together, and yet, there was doubt in my mind. I didn’t know how sensitive the reaction would be, and a result was required within half an hour or so. I hadn’t the time to test it out.

Suddenly I had an idea.

“Of course, Enid, I can administer a test” I uttered. I wasn’t in any way specific about which test, so I felt that my slight omission was okay.

Having taught Jonny, I was pretty sure that he would have no memory of the test that I came up with, although he really should have. I grabbed a large beaker, strode to the wet prep room and half filled it with lime water. 

(lime water, calcium hydroxide solution, is used as a test for carbon dioxide gas- bubble a gas through the solution, and the solution will go from clear to milky fairly instantly if carbon dioxide’s present. This is because the carbon dioxide reacts with the solution to give an insoluble white solid.). Picking up a few drinking straws I returned to the lab. Enid reappeared soon later with Jonny in tow. 

“Jonny. I have the test here.” Pause. 

“Please breathe through the straw into the test solution until I say stop”. He breathed through the straw for a few seconds, et voilà, the solution went characteristically milky.

I took the beaker and held it up to the light.

“Ah. Jonny. The test is clearly positive.” I said in a slightly accusatory tone.

“It’s a fair cop Mr Dobbs, I have vodka in my bottle.”

Enid led him away, head down, convicted by forensic science. Except that I had proven that he was breathing out carbon dioxide, not alcohol. I had proven, quite conclusively, that Jonny Macarum was alive.

I don’t know to this day whether Enid was in on the joke. Somehow I suspect that she knew all along.

Part 2: Practice does not make perfect

My first short flight through the sacred halls of Bishop was as a (rather mature) PGCE student. After one term at Leicester University, wasting time with sugar paper flip charts and learning how to use a ‘Banda Machine’ ( a spirit duplicator, used for making copies of text on paper, with that familiar smell of methylated spirits, something for which I could see no future, even in the world of secondary education, since the Apple Macintosh had already revolutionised desktop publishing- this was 1992 for goodness sake.)

The following term we were assigned to our first teaching practice, and so I drove to Bishop from my home in Carpet Marlborough in the ancient Nissan we had inherited from my mother in law. We were assigned to faculties in pairs, and I was paired with a single mother called Sharon. We met our co-tutor, a physics teacher called Anne Ibbs. My first thought about Anne after meeting her were “Simon, be afraid, be very afraid.” She was divorced and hated men, or so she said. Whenever a remotely male figure appeared she had a habit of swooning provocatively, if that is possible. She did insist that we had our regular meetings to discuss progress etc at her house just down the road from Bishop. I was terrified.

Initially we had to glean information about the school and its community- I learnt about the huge impact the construction of the A14 was having on the school, since it skirted round Kettering close to the school site. Eventually I ended up twice a day driving along that cursed bit of tarmac, through sun, rain or snow. There was plenty of snow.

For some inexplicable reason I had to write to the Headmaster’s wife to arrange an interview with her. We duly walked down to the headlands to their old victorian pile, and had a pleasant chat over tea and cakes. She was very friendly, but didn’t really help with our insight into the adolescent psyche.

Then came lesson observations. I observed lessons throughout the school. On the whole I was impressed by the science faculty. I have no problem with died-in-the-wool traditional teaching, nor more modern experimental methods, and I never witnessed overly glaring errors during my teaching practice (although I have witnessed many over the years as a qualified teacher). It did dawn on me, however, that the teachers I had had myself at SMGS were all superb.

The head of faculty was fairly new. I observed him teaching a lesson on pressure to a bottom set year ten on the maths floor. It turned out to be a thoroughly satisfactory lesson, with all of the (fifteen or so) class fully engaged. It followed a fairly standard pattern, some discussion of semantics, what pressure means in everyday life compared to in science, followed by a practical demonstration by the teacher, then a worksheet to be completed by the pupils. The demo was an experiment I had not seen actually demonstrated, but there was a diagram of it in my old O level textbook, Abbot. It was the ‘pissing can experiment’ and would remain so on my weekly requisition sheets for the next twenty five years, detailing each lesson’s practical work for our three lab technicians. They provided practical support to about twelve science teachers, so that’s around 10 lessons five times a day. Quite a tall order, for only three people, preparing 50 practicals per day.

The experiment is simplicity itself. A plastic cylinder has three exit tubes at three different heights. When the cylinder is filled with water, and teacher’s fingers removed from the three exit tubes, the angle of each stream of water depends on the water pressure in the cylinder at that particular height. The stream is almost horizontal at the bottom, showing high pressure there, whereas the stream from the top tube is at about 45° indicating much lower pressure: the water pressure increases with depth. Eureka.

I witnessed a wide variety of lesson types. from full blown class practicals, to exciting demonstrations, from dissection to dictation of notes, and from class drama about the plague at Eyam to watching prerecorded videos using the faculty TV which was wheeled about the place on a tower.

The main part of the first teaching practice involved being thrown in at the deep end. ‘Here’s your timetable, sonny. Teach these lessons, and we will watch from the sidelines to see whether you sink or swim’…

Part 3: The Offsted Rap

(My winning performance on stage for children in need, with apologies to eminem)

Just lose it.

Down down down, down down down.

Guess who’s back, back again, Dobbsy’s back, tell a friend.

Now everyone report to the old hall, to the dance floor, to the old hall,

Now everyone report to the old hall- right stop! Ofsted time.

Come here teachers why such a flap? Guess who’s back with a brand new rap.

And I don’t mean rap as in science investigation. AAAAGH

No words, Ofsted’s got a new bag of toys, why else do teachers make so much noise.

New laptops are their favourite toys.

That’s not a stab at Garvey, just a metaphor, I get a bit outa control wit my rhymes.

Good God Mick do a little slide, don’t fidget, pick your nose, just glide up to the

dance floor. Forget ofsted, just dance.

Wait for chorus

Now I'm goin to make you dance get your chance.. Yea shake that glass. You know

this is my world.

Alright just lose it ahh ahh ahh just lose it ahh ahh ahh go crazy ahh ahh ahh o baby

baby.

high

Now its Friday and it’s my day, to party all the way to Sunday, every single Monday I

don’t know what day, every day’s just a holiday, cruising on the freeway, feelin

kinda breezy, get the top down, let my hair blow, I don't know where I’m goin, but

when I get there someones goin to say Ofsted.

Excuse me miss I don’t mean to sound like a jerk, but I'm feeling a little stressed out

from work, could you punch me in the stomach and pull my hair, spit on me, maybe

gouge my eyes out yeah.

Wait for chorus

Now I'm goin to make you dance get your chance. Yea shake that glass. You know

this is my world.

Alright just lose it ahh ahh ahh just lose it ahh ahh ahh go crazy ahh ahh ahh o baby

baby.

Now it's Tuesday and I'm locked up, I'm in jail and I don't know what happened, each

day I was running butt naked down the street screaming Ofsted. Mother I’m sorry, I

don’t need your number, all I need is this much I’m not guilty, but they have me on

tape telling an old lady to do her homework.

Now is the part where the rap breaks down, it’s real intense and no-one makes a sound,

everything looks like its 8 mile now, the beat comes back and everyone just lose

themselves, snap back to reality. Do you watch Teletubbies?

Black girls, white girls, skinny girls, fat girls, tall girls, small girls, I'm calling all

girls, everyone report to the dance floor, it’s a chance for a little romance more, butt

squeezing is the season, just go ahaha ah.

chorus

Part 4: Not Angel Delight.

It had to happen. Bishop became an alcohol -free building. No more glass of sherry in the staff room provided by the head at the end of the autumn term. No more staff Christmas ‘bring and share’ with boxes of wine at lunchtime. What was my solution? I brought and shared freshly prepared London Syllabub made by my own fair hand just before setting off to work. I think the faculty enjoyed it. Here’s the recipe…

LONDON SYLLABUB

Serves 8-10

½ pint (300 ml) port

6 oz (175 g) caster sugar

 a little grated nutmeg

1½ pints (900 ml) double cream

Mix the port, caster sugar and nutmeg together Add the cream and whip to soft peaks. Pour into glasses and chill before serving.