A day in the life of...Helen Boobis
At 6.10am my alarm wrenches me out of a dream. I immediately check Facebook and see that a friend has posted a plea to Michael Gove to recognise what teaching actually is. I breathe a sigh of relief that my career is 10,000 miles from that mess and drag myself out of bed.
Avoiding the kitchen because last night my oven exploded, I neatly justify having a chocolate muffin for breakfast.
I enter the English department's office at 7am and realise that I've forgotten to print and copy my resources. The wi-fiwon't connect and the printer is telling me to load an envelope in the paper tray even though I want to print on A4. After a lengthy battle with the hardware, I complete my copies - only to discover a spelling mistake.
My global awareness class is discussing what education is. They begin with words like "knowledge" and "understanding" but, by the end, claim that education involves "skills", "personal preferences" and "real-world application". Amazing how 14-year-olds can understand in an hour what government ministers take years to acknowledge - if they ever do.
Lunch today is a panicked grab of whatever comes in greaseproof paper and an isotonic drink because I've forgotten to stay hydrated. Again. By 12.40pm, I'm arguing with a depleted class 13G (where are the boys?) about the value of watching the BBC's One-minute World News. "But it's so depressing," they complain. "Haven't we got enough to be stressed about?"
To be fair to them, our sixth-formers are amazing; they have considerably more on their plates than I do. As a compromise, we decide to watch a YouTube video of a baby sloth in pyjamas afterwards to cheer us up. Ten minutes later, the boys walk in. "Where have you been?" I ask. "There was a queue at McDonald's," is their reply. Jamie Oliver hasn't made it to Malaysia yet.
Another class of 14- and 15-year-olds is studying the novel I'm the King of the Castle by Susan Hill, which tells the story of a boy tormented by his stepbrother. Because my students live quite sheltered lives (they don't even make fun of my surname), I need them to understand that childhood potential can be used for ill as well as for good.
We talk about Jon Venables (a UK schoolboy who was convicted of the murder of two-year-old James Bulger in 1993) as a case study. The mood in the room is sombre; they feel pity and revulsion for Venables in equal measure and I can't give them any easy answers. I set an optional writing task as an outlet for their emotions and, as they file out, I show a video of a five-year-old virtuoso pianist; a positive end to the lesson. Some of them smile gratefully, as if I have somehow made it OK again.
When I fall into bed at 10pm, it is after teaching a full day, helping students to teach Burmese refugees English, collaborating on a provisional new middle years curriculum, getting caught in a monsoon without an umbrella and tricking myself into thinking that marking is fun by doing it in the pub.
I consider posting a sincere Facebook status update (I secretly love my job), but opt for a cynical moan about my oven instead; I may be in Malaysia but I'm still British.
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