If you are familiar with “Macbeth,” you might remember Shakespeare’s tragic hero claim to be perturbed by nighttime voices that cry, “Sleep no more!”
Now, as challenging as it must be to have royal blood on your hands, I find it hard to evoke much sympathy.Despite his lack of sleep, Macbeth didn’t have to deal with 9D on a Monday morning.
Yes, 9D: the class of which nightmares are made.
Many a teacher who began his day with these teenage terrors, ended it flat out and motionless on the sofa, save the periodic swig from a bottle of red.
As a bright eyed and bushy tailed NQT, I graduated with a PGCE and a glass half-full of optimism. My childrenwere going to have the time of their lives exploring the glorious English language and its many, many forms.
So when I first arrived on the steps of that inner city comprehensive, poised and prepared, briefcase in hand and tie in check, I thought I was ready to change the world. Little did I know my glass was about to topple over.
When I arrived, 9D were waiting. Not for my infectious love of literature but for my blood. And it was feeding time.
The first day, week, month, has involved me dodging spit bombs and swear words from behind my desk, where I half expected to find the bones of a predecessor who never quite made it out.
So until that glorious moment, when I stroll out of those graffiti adorned gates at the peal of the final bell, many anight will no doubt be spent bolt upright in bed, not quitebright-eyed but certainly wide-eyed, reading “Behaviour Management for Dummies” by flashlight.