I knew I’d become a teacher when I decided to invest in a khaki green trouser and jacket cords combo featuring leather elbow patches.
My school is an eclectic mix of ability, ethnicity and fraternity housed in a building that is an abomination of 1960s architectural modernity.
Staffroom politics is hilarious, we have a seating plan.
In five years’ time I’d like to be able to teach a lesson without anyone cussing each other’s mum.
One day, I’ll tell the head that although I whole-heartedly agree with the idea of a liberal school allowing every pupil an equal opportunity, shouldn’t we at least have the chance to have a vote on bringing back the cane? Come on, you know what I’m talking about... we are a union you know... My worst nightmare is a classroom full of quiet respectful children working really hard - how boring is that?
Senior management don’t know it but I’ve been stealing marker pens from the deputy head’s tray, slagging off grumpy teachers with Year 10 students, and possibly darkest of all, buying doughnuts at the staffroom cafe with money pupils have spent buying blank CDs from my department.
My favourite bit of the week is Year 9, period 6, Friday. The initial fear of total lesson collapse - the ensuing chaos - and the final release as the pips sound. Hard core.
I hate teachers who moan.
Weekends are for eating, drinking and sleeping - and being introduced at parties.
“So Nick, what do you do?”
“I’m a teacher.”
“Really? Wow you’re brave, it must be so fulfilling, and I bet you love your job... ”
“Oh f*** off.”
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