Our headteacher is like a cat who’s stolen the cream these days. And he has just about as much integrity as one of our feline friends, as well.

The reason for Richard Dick’s bonhomie is the rise in esteem accorded to Greenfield Academy after Sara McShane published a newspaper feature last month on our academic endeavours, which (in my view) owed considerably more to a few sherries in the rectorial study than any serious journalistic inquisition on her part. From being a “sink school plagued by chronic underachievement” we have been transformed into a “beacon school for underachievers, where continuing professional development is a sine qua non for a dedicated complement of staff, whose commitment extends far beyond the hours suggested by the McCrone committee”.

Mr Dick had clearly been very persuasive in his arguments with Ms McShane. I’m afraid that as far as I was concerned, she had disproved completely the old adage about silk purses and sows’ ears.

Tuesday

If only the representatives of our national press had been present in school this morning, they might have told a different story from the one that is being so loudly trumpeted abroad.

To explain, I had the dubious pleasure of a “please take” class on behalf of Miss Tarbet, whose stress-related illness is likely to cause an absence of several days at the least. When I reached her fourth year Standard grade class, I began to realise the fons et origo of her anxiety. I have to admit that it’s been a long time since I’ve supervised home economics, but I wasn’t prepared for the academic underclass that I encountered - and this in her examination stream.

Of course, I’ve heard Miss Tarbet complaining about the undue pressure placed on her subject when it comes to curricular selection (she calls her second year subject choice position the “column of death”), with the inevitable consequence that it is something of a last resort for the scholastically demotivated. But nothing could have prepared me for the desperately disappointing collection of students she has to deal with on a daily basis.

If I tell you that Joanna Grieves and Kylie Paterson represent the cr me de la cr me of her (eight!) Standard grade pupils, then you will begin to understand that, in entering room A14, I seemed to be crossing into the land of the dispossessed.

Yawning mouths, sullen eyes, Britney socks and disaffected posture all told me a tale of their own. And when I suggested that they begin some revision for their preliminary exam practice on Friday (as requested on the “please take” sheet), you’d have thought that I had made an improper suggestion.

“Whit?!!” proclaimed a girl with particularly dark and distant eyes. “Whit furr?”

“Well, because it might help you to I” “Ach, surr, whit’s ra point?” cried Selena Marr. “Why can’t we hiv a food fight?”

“A what?”

“A food fight. Miss Tarbet always let’s us hiv a food fight if wur guid. Two sides o’ four, an’ as many stale scoanes an’ manky donuts as we kin manage tae score direct hits with.”

I decided it was pointless advising her to avoid using a preposition to end a sentence and chose instead to quash her silly claim at once.

“Miss Tarbet would never allow such a ridiculous event to take place!” I assured her , before asking them to get down to some revision.

Mind you, as they began to bow their morose heads to their desks, I began to wonder whether she might. It could be a means to prove the existence of slight cerebral activity in her charges.

Wednesday

Our staff’s commitment to continuing professional development - so warmly celebrated in Sara McShane’s newspaper piece - is built on shaky foundations, I fear.

Frank O’Farrell claimed today (successfully) that his recent attendance at an educational resources exhibition should count as CPD. Yet I know full well that he only visited three publishers’ stands plus a Smartboard manufacturer to pick up some catalogues and then went shopping in a demob-happy demonstration of what can happen when a teacher is let loose for the day.

Even Gail seems immune to such sophistry. She told me today that her headteacher agreed to count her recent visit to a craft fair (complete with demonstrations of raffia constructions and greeting card creations) as a means of enhancing her professional capabilities.

I’ve been appalled at this blatant reworking of the noble principles behind CPD. But at least I’ve also got the sense to recognise that joining them, so to speak, would be better than fighting them. So, I’ve decided that if my weekly reading of the Times Educational Supplement Scotland doesn’t constitute continuing professional development, then what does? I’m going to get a chart ready so that I can fill in the time that I spend reading it. And Cathy Jamieson should be proud of me!

Alas, the Education Minister is less likely to be so enthused by the views propounded by our young teacher Malcolm Saunderson today. The boy is infuriated by the arrangements for probationer teachers which start next session.

“It’s ridiculous,” he declaimed over cheese sandwiches in the staffroom. “These new rules completely bypass an entire generation of ardent hopefuls like myself. To think that I’ve trained for all those years in the hope of a permanent post, only to be overtaken by some whippersnapper fresh out of college with chalk dust still behind his ears. Well, it makes me sick, frankly!”

Given Malcolm’s unfortunate record of sick leave, it was an unfortunate remark. Alas, he is now in his third year of probation, having achieved the virtually impossible task of failing to attain full General Teaching Council for Scotland registration within the hitherto normal two years. An attendance record of 56 per cent must have had something to do with it, I feel, although everyone in authority is at grievous pains to emphasise that his sickness record would in no way compromise his request for full certification. Of course not.

Thursday

“Coarse” Davie McManus, our principal teacher of biology, who will be conducting an outward bound expedition over the Easter break, called a meeting of all participants at period two. As members of my own third year class were notable by their absence on this last day of term, I decided to accompany the only two remaining ones to the event.

I wish I hadn’t. Their party leader started the meeting by announcing: “Any o’ youse whit gets intae trouble is oan thur own, specially if it invoalves drink ur drugs”, before making an apparently open invitation to all delegates to deposit any of the aforementioned substances with himself “tae ensure safe keeping”.

“Just a wee joak,” he chortled with complete lack of irony, before announcing sleeping arrangements in the tents. By the sound of things, alas, none of them expects to get much sleep.

I don’t think the man is fit to be in charge of a tea party, let alone a school excursion, but there you are: he remains irredeemably popular with the pupils.

Friday

This afternoon I had yet another “please take” for home economics, due to Miss Tarbet’s continued absence. My duties were largely invigilatory, being concerned with the Standard grade mock exam.

Now, you might think that it was a little late in the day for a preliminary exam, but you would be wrong. It has apparently taken Miss Tarbet this long to get her students through sufficient of the course to make any attempt at such a test, let alone the real thing.

Yet, if today’s experience is anything to go by, she really shouldn’t have bothered. For an examination of such importance, one would have thought that the necessity of absolute silence would have been absolutely appreciated by them. But no. I was frequently assailed with upraised hands requesting further elucidation of a question (the parallels between oven gas marks and centigrade temperatures was a common enquiry) until, frankly, I found it necessary to quell the disturbances by explaining that anyone else who spoke during the examination would have marks deducted.

“But, surr,” Selena Marr’s voice cracked with emotion. “Ah jist canny unnerstaun’ question three.”

I took one look at her quivering lip and decided to make a final, kindly exception.

“Calm down, Selena,” I urged as I leant over her desk. “What’s the matter?”

“Question three, surr. Whit’s caramac?”

“Caramac? Well, it’s a chocolate brand name,” I explained gently. “You know, like Picnic or Topic. Does that help you?”

“No really, surr,” she wrinkled her nose. “How wid ye cook oan wan?”

I skimmed the question and noted that it was about techniques on different cooker types. Then I came to the word in question. And sighed.

“The word is ceramic, not Caramac, Selena. It’s a hob for cooking on,” I explained.

“Aw, right!” the scales fell from her eyes before her face clouded once more. “So whit’s a ceramic hoab, then?” she asked helplessly.

I sighed again. I just hope she is not planning to attempt a Higher next year. But I suppose that might depend on whether the subject can support one for much longer.

Next month: the repercussions of “Coarse” Davie’s Easter trip