Don’t tell me you didn’t experience a frisson of excitement when that clip from Dragon’s Den showed up on your social media newsfeed a couple of weeks ago.
An earnest young teacher confidently dictates a series of post-Gove feedback into a machine - praising a large range of adjectives and advising a subordinate conjunction.
At his command of “print label” an immaculate morsel of sticky-backed feedback slides smoothly from a thermal printer. Peel off the label, stick it in the exercise book and - hey presto - crisp, clear personalised feedback for the neglectful subordinate conjunction user in your life. No red pen, no repetitive strain injury, no plaintive wail of “Miss…I can’t read your handwriting…” - from the back of the class.
But wait a minute. This glorious, revolutionary device comes with a hefty price tag. At a time in education when we’re having to make savings on paper clips, shelling out 15 quid a month to get our marking done seems a bit crackers. It only takes a second to glance up at the dusty dangling Smart Board connector to remember that money in flashy edtech has not always been invested wisely.
With that in mind and my arthritic joints twingeing I made it my mission to cobble together my own homemade dictation feedback system from the technology available to me, a couple of cocoa tins and a very long piece of string.
To be honest, that’s not entirely true (particularly the bit about the cocoa tins - although I am working on a minor side project to rig up a communication system between the detention room and the Year 10 common room to remind Jordan and Caleb they should be with me at lunchtime). One of my colleagues ordered the Dragon’s Den gizmo and we clustered round him as he unpacked it in the staff room, marvelling at the scope of human invention. I noted the printer used was a standard model available from all decent stationers at 10 quid cheaper than the Dragon’s Den asking price.
I ordered one. While I waited for it to be delivered, I set about getting to grips with the software. I had to speak nicely to the chaps in the network office who allowed me to download Google Chrome, although they warned me that storing students’ full names on docs risks a GDPR breach. But hang on, who writes students full names on feedback? And who records feedback in more than one place? The horrible thought that already, someone, somewhere, is drafting a new draconian assessment policy dawns on me. “Feedback, target grades and PP status will be delivered on a label and a digital copy will be uploaded into the Q Drive. See Scrutiny Calendar for Q-Drive schedule…”
The printer arrived. With the minimum of fuss, I pieced it together in my living room. Hesitantly, I spoke into my laptop…“Sarah Ledger”…Like magic, before my eyes, the words “Barry Leisure” appeared. Undeterred, I scrabbled about in the cupboard under the stairs and unearthed an old gaming headset. Now, surrounded by an array of electronic equipment that wouldn’t look out of place in the cockpit of a fighter jet, I checked the fuel gauge, requested clearance from ground control and tried again. “Well done! Your writing is much clearer and you have explained in more depth how the writer create effects.” Not bad…not bad at all…But somehow (and I think the chaos started when I sneezed violently into the microphone) it all went tits up.
“The bells are its opening and torsion I’ll grab her in and do instinct,” (that was the sneeze). It went on…“I know what people like Plymouth pulling my hair Mr Tickle 7.15 Pingu Calais to Paris microdose magic.” To be fair, it’s not the most meaningless feedback I’ve ever written on a child’s work, but it’s not the effect I was going for.
Windows VR is even more gormless than Google Dictation although it has the advantage of not alerting my Google Home device and dragging her patronising: “Hola - that’s Portuguese for ‘hello’ - how can I help you Sarah?” into the conversation. I’ve embarked on the painful procedure of teaching Windows to recognise my voice. Anyone who’s trained a lively puppy will appreciate this will be a long drawn-out process. Meanwhile, the irony that in the time it’s taken to get six lines of writing printed on a label, I could have whizzed through five sets of books with nothing more than a red pen, a gallon of coffee and the soundtrack to Les Mis has not escaped me.
I’m still at it. The dream of strutting round barking out constructive criticism into a BlueTooth headset like Alan Partridge pitching to the BBC has not faded. Not to mention the smiles on the faces of the little children as the penny about Dickens’ use of lists in A Christmas Carol finally drops and they all go on to lead happy and successful lives. Because feedback matters…doesn’t it?
Sarah Ledger is director of learning for Year 10 at William Howard School in Brampton, Cumbria and has been teaching English for 30 years
