Monday I open an email about tomorrow’s IT course expecting directions. Instead, it’s a questionnaire. Question 1. “Why did you enrol for this course?” I’m reluctant to record the truth - that my head expected me to, even though no tricks taught to this old dog will ever bring her IT proficiency close to that of a six-year-old. Decide not to respond. Instead, I phone the course trainer for directions. “It’s in the middle of nowhere,” he says. “But the facilities are tremendous. You’ll see.”
Tuesday I arrive very late. The venue is in the middle of nowhere. As for the “tremendous facilities”, it looks like a classroom which has seen better days and which contains computers. Probably because that’s exactly what it is. “You are not alone,” our trainer tells us. “You will quickly ‘buddy’ with each other and soon be emailing left, right and centre.” Buddy hell. We begin working on screen. Several computers, including mine, are working to rule. The trainer comes across, moves my mouse a lot. I am none the wiser.
Wednesday In my staffroom pigeonhole is a letter from a supply teacher who yesterday covered my timetable. She has written brief notes on the first five lessons. And a page-and-a-half on the sixth - my most difficult class. “As usual,” she begins, “it took them about 20 minutes to settle. Even then, a hardcore of four or five continued to ‘spread manure’ as we French say.” Back home, a personal email first: an incoming message accompanied by a red exclamation mark. “This message is high priority,” it proclaims. Attached isI the questionnaire. I ignore it. No emails from my buddies. I am clearly alone.
Thursday Forgo TV to begin my first on-line assignment.
Friday My second red exclamation mark email in three days. “To: Holly Budd. Cc: (a string of email addresses of my non-buddies). Please reply to the questionnaire prontissimo. So far, only one of you has.” I am not alone after all.
Holly Budd is a head of department in a northern comprehensive. She writes under a pseudonym
