Some teachers achieve competence with information technology while others have it thrust upon them. By virtue of working in a modern, fully networked school, I have been forced to come to terms, at least at a basic level, with the world of computers.
The experts tell us that computers and their works are particularly attractive to the male of the species. There are all sorts of psychological reasons for this, apparently, but the plain truth, obviously, is that it’s just another area of expertise that can be acquired for the purpose of boring the rest of the human race. Men never seem to learn that lists of statistics about obscure football clubs, or instant memory of the cast lists of 1960s’ TV shows carry no weight whatsoever in our attempts to impress the distaff side.
Nevertheless, more closely connected with hubris than hubs, our ability to access the Internet is yet another opportunity to give ourselves airs and graces.
Thus pumped up with false pride, particularly given my rudimentary knowledge of computer systems, I took advantage of the Computers for Teachers offer from the Scottish Executive and splashed out on a replacement for my ageing Powermac.
I was predictably and pathetically excited as I unpacked all the boxes, squeezed all the bubble wrap, threw away the instructions, and prepared to set up my new toy.
Then it struck me that there was no surface upon which to place it. In a short space of time in our house, computers have become like overcoats were pre-war. Once they become tatty and outdated they are handed down, and with two computers already in place, there was nowhere to put this new arrival.
This meant a trip to a certain Scandinavian flat-pack furniture store on the outskirts of Edinburgh, where we purchased a suitably sleek-looking computer desk.
In only three hours I had it screwed together and most of the sliding bits seemed to work. I was, I thought, justifiably proud of myself. I was hunter-gatherer and constructor: it was a male moment!
Then I moved the new desk next to the telephone access point.
There was a ripping sound as every screw ripped itself out of the chipboard. With a kind of groan that reflected my feelings perfectly, the desk subsided to its original flat state. I shouldn’t have been surprised, given it took me the whole of third year to construct a single-shelf book case. But I did feel enormously deflated.
Somewhere out in cyberspace, I thought I detected a noise. It was female, and it was laughing. Happy Christmas!
