A hand of bananas, a *kindle of kittens, a siege of herons - what’s the collective noun for a group of moderating English teachers? A fault-finding? A grumble? No, in the moderation season it is a killing of English teachers. I’ve just attended my annual exam board moderation meeting, a gathering guaranteed to whet the appetites of English teachers everywhere for their favourite prey - the other teacher’s folder.

I have a lot of admiration for English teachers. They are creative, caring and committed people who are overworked and under mountains of marking. I know - I work with them; I am inspired by them; I am one of them. So what is it about this meeting that makes it such a bloodthirsty experience? Meeting with teachers from other establishments is like your first few days at university and the “where do you come from?” syndrome. My problem is that I’m hopeless at remembering names and faces, so I keep a safe distance and concentrate on the issues.

The proceedings are led by a rather tall and imposing chap whose white hair gives away that he’s retired. He looks relaxed too, another give-away. He jovially informs us that his moderating sessions pay for his holidays. And what does he do to earn his holidays? He spends the first half-hour reading the examiner’s report, which we’d received in school some weeks before. I had already circulated this within the department, drawing attention to important parts, but it was nice to have it read to us.

Then it’s coffee and a little unavoidable “Where do you come from?” patter. I tell the young second-in-department next to me the name of my school. Recognition flares in her pale face. “I went there,” she reveals. “I hated it. Really hated it. I left in 1988. I couldn’t wait to get away.”

We get down to the meaty business of the day; the ritual dissecting and rejecting of the work of unsuspecting students and teachers. This is what we are here for - to hide our hesitancies and to prove our prowess by ravaging the efforts of others. A pack of 16 assorted English teachers, we forget our usual enlightened, encouraging and inspiring ten-dencies and tear into the assignments. And as for our assessment of the underlying teacher pains that went into the work, we pound it with a ferociousness which would bring a proud, tender tear to the eye of Chris Woodhead. The familiar cries of “what I would have doneI” and “I wouldn’t accept thatI” are bandied about.

Our moderator is the alpha male. He leads the hunt. How could anyone set such a blatantly unsuitable assignment for this particular candidate? He raises his head to check that the present morsel (yes, it’s an F grade folder) isn’t the responsibility of anyone in the room. The room goes quiet as we eye each other for signs of recognition or guilt. None. Heads down and we resume the attack.

Lunch saves us from too much self-doubt. I find myself on a table that includes the moderator and a woman with Ann Widdecombe’s sense of what’s proper and Barbara Woodhouse’s liking for animals - “I won’t live with anything with fewer than four legs.” This is enough to make a mildly-spoken male head of English quietly slip away. The moderator is encouraged. To an innocent query about where he lives, he launches a tirade on the local town, which is “full of travellers and hippies I filthy and stealing”. I, too, fade away.

Lunch sates our killer instinct; our afternoon onslaught on fellow professionals and their young charges is without teeth. The kill is over, until next year. But then again, there’s always the “speaking and listening” moderation tape. Now there’s something to really get your professional teeth into.

*Yes, you can have a kindle of kittens* find out at www.vigay.comnounsmammals.html

Judith Kneen is a part-time English teacher at Dene Magna school at Mitcheldean in Gloucestershire