Mrs Smith and the time before the register.

Two sets of marked books, half a dozen take away containers (with lids) and a tin of decent instant coffee sit by the front door ready to go. Mrs Smith buys her own coffee because by mainlining caffeine Mrs Smith can avoid resorting to declaiming audible swear words in an educational establishment. Of course, Mrs Smith still retains the ability to mutter expletives under her breath whenever and wherever the need arises. Mrs Smith cannot afford to let the coffee tin empty, and besides they make the best pencil pots.

Mrs Smith runs through her mental checklist as she puts on her coat. Mrs Smith has had breakfast, she has had a coffee and she got her lunch out of the fridge. She puts her hand in her pocket to feel for her lanyard. Having worn it on a night out once (not a single fucker told her!) Mrs Smith isn’t willing to look like a complete prat again, so now she works Operation Lanyard Removal into her actions as she leaves school at night. Mrs Smith glances at the side table to check she has picked up the small branch of W H Smiths that constitutes an SLT approved pencil case in her school. She has. Mrs Smith notes the day of the week and knows she is on playground duty. The children WILL go out. Mrs Smith wraps up well. Hat, scarf, gloves, and an illicit sweetie or two in her pocket. She has a satsuma also, to cover the traces of the toffee éclair. Mrs Smith is all for Healthy schools but when it comes to her own personal “self-care” and “wellbeing” she is happy to argue, vociferously if needs be, that there are times when only chocolate will do.

Carrying the bags to the car, Mrs Smith remembers something vital. She hasn’t had her precautionary, before school, wee. Mrs Smith looks down at all the layers she is wearing and decides to go once she gets to school. She has plenty of time. Mrs Smith uses the drive to school to run through her plan of action for the day. She works through the lessons, the actions on her list, the actions on the minutes of SLT that apply to her (all of them, every single bloody agenda item requires time to be wasted by Mrs Smith). Mrs Smith also remembers she needs a wee and puts that at the top of her list.

Mrs Smith parks the car. Every day she reverses into a different space. Mrs Smith is nothing if not a pain in the arse. Mrs Smith prefers to get to school early. Mrs Smith makes a mental note of those who don’t.

Dragging her marking into her classroom, Mrs Smith walks past the loo. Right! Must go in a minute, she notes. Mrs Smith busies herself putting down chairs, moving tables that seem to walk on their own and piling up school diaries on her desk. Later, after registration, Mrs Smith will ask her class who recorded their reading last night. Every hand will rise into the air. Mrs Smith will burst a few bubbles as she then silently hands out the forgotten diaries. She will say nothing, simply lift an eyebrow, and watch the guilty parties hang their heads a little. Fewer diaries should remain at school tomorrow thinks Mrs Smith.

Mrs Smith is feeling particularly smug this morning. She got her photocopying done last night. As Mrs Smith walks along the corridor to find who has kidnapped the guillotine, she has pictures to trim and extracts to organise, she realises she has made the right decision. Several members of staff are in the corner by the photocopier. Three of them look like they have just “got the call” and the fourth is up to their elbow inside the photocopier, doing a very passable impression of a vet undertaking some sort of bovine gynaecological examination. Mrs Smith resists the temptation to smile and wave as she passes by, but only just.

Mrs Smith recovers the guillotine, returns to her room and is about to pop to the loo when she is door stepped by a member of the office staff. They are looking apologetic. Mrs Smith knows this is not going to end well.

Mrs Smith has a space in her class?

Yes.

Mrs Smith knows a child came on the school tour yesterday?

Yes.

Well, the Head said they could start in your class.

Ok.

They said the child could start today.

What!!!!! I bet they fucking did! Bugger and bollocks. It isn’t the poor child’s fault but shit a brick, nothing like giving a person a little notice.

Mrs Smith checks the school diary, surprisingly the Head is out all day. Mrs Smith will have to curb her irritation. Never mind. Mrs Smith will stash this episode away, ready to bring up at a future date. When a favour is needed in return, Mrs Smith will exact her retribution.

Mrs Smith uses her remaining minutes before the whistle is blown running around like a blue arsed fly putting together all the essentials for a new starter in the class. The whistle sounds, the children tumble in and Mrs Smith is pleased to see them.

She turns to take the register rather abruptly and she swears she could hear the waves breaking in her bladder. Mrs Smith still needs to take a piss. It’s not going to happen until lunchtime as duty calls.

Mrs Smith sends up a prayer to Our Lady of Tena, hoping above hope that she will send strength in return. As long as she doesn’t cough, sneeze or laugh she should be fine.

 

Mrs Smith and the classroom crazes.

Looking out across the vast expanse of tarmac, Mrs Smith is worried. Something is not quite right, she can’t put her finger on it yet, but mischief is afoot. The playground is too still, too quiet, too well behaved. Anyone not in education would marvel at the peace, quiet and general lack of screaming and racing around happening right now. Teachers will be scared shitless. Unless an OFSTED inspector is monitoring behaviour around school, self-imposed silence from children usually means they are up to something. It could be anything from sharing of contraband sweeties to a full-scale military style coup within the ranks of the Year 6 cliques.

Her eyes narrow and her brain begins to tick over. Mrs Smith has a nagging suspicion she knows what is going on, For Fucks Sake, she really hopes she is wrong.

Mrs Smith casts a wary eye over the clusters of children dotted around the playground. She has been at this game for a long time, she knows trouble when she’s sees it. This looks like trouble with a capital T.
Mrs Smith has that sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that usually only an unscheduled staff meeting brings.

Oh bugger! A new craze is starting.

Mrs Smith knows that the next few weeks will be a right pain in the arse as she tries to settle custody disputes, investigates allegations of swapping, and generally glares at her class when they mention anything about it.

What is going on?

Nothing is new, she has seen it before. Mrs Smith waits and watches. Mrs Smith could go and ask the class Know It All. He will happily explain the craze to Mrs Smith with an air of superiority and smugness that will seriously get on Mrs Smith’s tits. No, she is happy to wait, she will know soon enough. Mrs Smith has a nagging suspicion that very soon teaching websites will be producing science or maths activities incorporating the craze. That should hopefully sign its death warrant.

Mrs Smith thinks back over the year. PokemonGo, hmm, that was only popular with the children until their middle-class parents started to download the app. It was suddenly no fun when your parents could catch more of the sodding things than you whilst sitting outside Costa on a Sunday morning. Mrs Smith smiles at the memory.

Mrs Smith listens out. She can’t hear the relentless thud, thud, thud as bottles are flipped. So simple, so accessible to all, so bloody annoying. If Mrs Smith ever, ever gets her hands on any of the YouTubers who sent the craze viral she will be putting a bottle where flipping it will be virtually impossible.

No. Arms are definitely being held firmly down by the sides of the children leaning in. Dabbing doesn’t appear to be happening. No children flinging themselves into various shapes in a poor imitation of Usain Bolt. Some younger members of staff incorporated them into lessons. Mrs Smith wasn’t a fan of using the dab to teach angles in maths. She did find it a help with PSHE mind you. Frequent dabbing put certain children’s noses near their own, somewhat fragrant, armpits. If it made some realise a daily dose of deodorant after their shower was in order then Mrs Smith was grateful for the dab occurring when it did.

Mrs Smith looks again at the groups, heads down and certainly all in awe of whatever has just landed. Mrs Smith can’t see anything being balanced on noses, being spun wildly, or flicked suddenly at one side. Whisper this quietly, but Mrs Smith quite likes fidget spinners. If they keep little hands busy and out of bother then there is a purpose to them. However, should you decide to upgrade to some fancy arsed spinner that lights up and plays a tune as you spin it then beware. Twirling it under the table during a maths lesson, so it lights up the room with your very own version of the Illuminations is a bad, bad idea. So bad in fact, it is very likely to get you into trouble and the fidget spinner, with you attached sent to the heads office for a moment of reflection and half an hour of uncomfortable silence.

Mrs Smith decides that whatever this craze is, she has seen it’s like before. She knows what she must do. She is prepared. Mrs Smith walks to her cupboard, reaches in, and selects a large lidded plastic box from the topmost shelf. The bell rings. Mrs Smith walks to her door. There she stands and waits, smiling, welcoming, and holding out the box to accept any and all of the objects that so fascinated her class in the playground. The children play the game, depositing their treasure into the box.
The children are all seated. The box however, remains unlidded. Mrs Smith pauses, pauses just long enough for one or two traffickers of this illicit contraband to get nervous. “Any more?” ask Mrs Smith. Several more are “remembered”, two are “found” and one child is snitched on by half the class determined to take betrayal to a new level. Mrs Smith clicks the lid shut and walks towards her cupboard to return the box to the deepest recess she can find.

Turning on her heels, Mrs Smith walks back to her desk. Crossing the room Mrs Smith adjusts several Tolsby frames on the tables as she passes, straightens up the reading corner sign posts and admires her display of 100 books to read before the end of Year 6. With great enthusiasm she prepares to give out the knowledge organiser for this half term’s topic.

Children and their crazes, it’s a good job they grow out of them eventually, thinks Mrs Smith.

Mrs Smith and the computers.

Mrs Smith crosses her fingers and flicks the switch. A light comes on, which is promising. But as Mrs Smith is only too well aware, this being an educational establishment, just because the light is on it doesn’t mean that anyone is at home. Then there is whiring, again this being a school, Mrs Smith is constantly reminded that not all noise is productive. Finally, eventually, about fucking time, up pops the log on screen.

Ice cold fear courses through Mrs Smith veins, although it could be the effects of the two large coffees she needed to get out of the house at sunrise on the first day of term. Mrs Smith has only been on holiday for two weeks, but all passwords have vanished from her brain quicker than new glue sticks from an unlocked and unsupervised stationary cupboard.

Mrs Smith decides to take a wander, to see if that will jog her memory. Mrs Smith notices a handwritten notice BluTaked to the ICT suite door. Mrs Smith squints at the scrawled note. “Suite not available 4 at least 2 days at the start of term – computers are being upgraded, Soz.” She shudders at both the handwriting and the composition of the message. Soz? Soz!!!  Fucking hell, she puts her hand to her head and turns to walk away. A thought suddenly strikes her. She stops, spins back around and takes her phone from her pocket. Mrs Smith quickly adds another image to her grammar collection that her class can tut over and rewrite in Early morning work. She pops it up on Instagram too, might get a few likes and caustic comments thinks Mrs Smith. How did Mrs Smith know the writer wasn’t a regular visitor to her school? The miscreant left some tell-tale clues. Mrs Smith leaves the note on the door. She has been doing this job long enough to know what will happen.  It won’t remain there for long. Using BluTak is a basic error. The large lump of it (teachers only use the minimum possible dot) currently protruding above the top edge of note will draw children to it with the speed of colleagues heading towards the staffroom when cake is mentioned. When the coast is clear, it will be removed, placed in a pocket and fiddled with until it turns a uniquely peculiar shade of grey. No one will know anything about it, but everyone will miraculously be in possession of some. All of which, they swear, honestly, they brought from home this very morning.

Secretly Mrs Smith is relieved the suite is being upgraded. There are only so many times you can ask a child to sort out a technical issue before your credibility takes a nose dive.  So finally, thinks Mrs Smith. Moving from the current coal powered machines to something more up to date. Steam driven perhaps? However, Mrs Smith is at a loss to understand why today and tomorrow has to be completely buggered up by shutting the suite. The whole of the holidays, they had the whole of the sodding holidays. Like Network Rail cancelling trains on a Bank holiday, this is the most inconvenient time to be without this vital technology. Mrs Smith knows the first week back after the holidays is a time when teachers value the suite as a place to research topics, use technology hooks and most importantly, deliver lessons that require no formal marking.

Mrs Smith knows she will have to resort to the Rail Replacement Bus Service equivalent of the ICT suite, the school set of iPads, so keen is she to avoid some marking today. Mrs Smith checks her watch, by being quick she may get to them first. She may be able to snaffle them for the morning session, whilst the batteries are fully charged and before the screens have been smeared with EYFS/KS1 snot and bogies. Too late, fuck it! Mrs Smith sees them being wheeled towards the shallow end of school. All is not lost. Racing after them Mrs Smith negotiates having them for the afternoon session. Lunchtime will give her the chance to plug them in at least and go over the screen with a damp cloth. Mrs Smith hopes there are no colds going around in EYFS/KS1 so she doesn’t have to break out the Scotchbrite. Mrs Smith isn’t sure the screen protectors will cope.

Bollocks, Mrs Smith still hasn’t managed to log in to the system. All her lessons are trapped in Cyberspace awaiting their release. The forgotten password must be remembered. She can’t risk asking the ICT coordinator to retrieve it as she is certain it will contain an expletive or be libellous at the very least.  Her nostalgic longing for chalkboards, a Banda machine and an OHP reaches an all time high.

Mrs Smith sits back down at her computer screen waiting for password enlightenment. The problem is she followed the rules. She created a strong password. Mrs Smith knows it contains a number, a symbol and a word or group of letters that are important to her. Digging deep, she thinks hard. Suddenly the peace is shattered. A voice of authority, THE voice of authority calls along the corridor. “I know you are busy (No shit Sherlock!) Quick meeting, in the staffroom before school. It should only take five minutes.” Mrs Smith highly doubts that but gets up and trudges towards the classroom door, muttering under her breath in a manner she wouldn’t countenance from her class. “For Fucks sake,” she mouths.

A lightbulb switches on in her brain. That’s it, she rushes back to the PC and types 4FSSLT!

The computer blinks and the screen changes.

Mrs Smith turns on her heals and with a now much jauntier spring in her step, heads to the unscheduled meeting with a smile on her face.

Mrs Smith and the INSET day

Found it! Thank fuck for that, thinks Mrs Smith.

Mrs Smith has spent the past 30 minutes fishing around down the back of the sofa, rifling through the bags in the boot of her car and rummaging around in pockets of jackets she only wears for school only to see the strap of her lanyard dangling out from the front of her laptop bag. Without it she cannot access any school building, use the photocopier or provide small children with the opportunity to know her “real name”. For a moment, Mrs Smith contemplates returning the lanyard to its former place of hiding. She is torn, torn as she loves her job dearly. However, before she can collect those “I’ve missed you, Miss” hugs and tell every Year 6 child how grown up they look, she has one hurdle to overcome.

Back to school in September INSET.

Mrs Smith is not looking forward to occupying one of those fold out chairs in the hall for the day. Mrs Smith knows the headteacher bought them to enable Parent’s evenings to run to time, so uncomfortable are they to sit on. After 3 minutes most parents have lost the ability to concentrate due to the pain, so after thirty minutes Mrs Smith knows her backside will be screaming in agony. By the time lunch crawls into view, Mrs Smith may well have lost sensation in her lower body, and as she hasn’t quite fully retrained her bladder yet to term time mode, that could be somewhat embarrassing.

Mrs Smith has been sent an agenda. Mrs Smith runs an experienced eye down the page. Mrs Smith has mixed feelings. Mrs Smith loves to discover new things, she is a fan of anything that will enhance the learning of others, the only trouble is she also possesses an incredibly sensitive bullshit meter. One too many references to Knowledge organisers, lead learners or colleagues and the only band wagon Mrs Smith will be jumping on is the one straight into wine aisle at Tesco.

Ah, that perennial favourite, the Welcome back session. Mrs Smith has Facebook, Mrs Smith has WhatsApp, Mrs Smith has Instagram. Mrs Smith has stalked every new member of staff on social media already. She doesn’t need to sit in a circle, listen to people say their names and share one thing they did in their holidays. She knows already.

Mrs Smith plays bladder roulette and drinks a large coffee. What with the welcome session, three power points from the core curriculum learning leaders, a reiteration of the school’s mission statement from SLT and the school diary being read out, in full, from September until July, all before lunch, Mrs Smith dare not fall asleep. Mrs Smith is well aware of the need to share information, get everyone on board and generally scare people shitless about the prospect of OFSTED rocking up to spoil the party. If Mrs Smith were asked, (she wasn’t, she won’t be, she wishes she had been) the welcome session could be sorted with a cup of tea, several packs of chocolate covered hobnobs and a look at everyone’s holiday photos on their phones without the need for half an hour of arse ache on those chairs.

Mrs Smith has many talents, reading being one of them. She has been doing it regularly since the age of four. In fact, Mrs Smith is so good at it she is able to teach others to become skilled at reading too. Why, oh why  then does the person sharing their PowerPoint presentation have to read every fucking word off the screen for her? Mrs Smith tries her death stare, as do many others in the room. It has little effect, but it makes Mrs Smith feel better.

Not for her this time but Mrs Smith knows in school halls up and down the land, members of staff are sitting, row on row, waiting. Waiting for a visiting speaker to connect their laptop to the school wireless network successfully. This is very unusual they say. No, it bloody well isn’t, thinks Mrs Smith. Every sodding time someone expensive comes to speak, the computer system immediately decides to take one for the team and give up the ghost.

Looking around the hall Mrs Smith can see familiar faces in familiar places. Keen beans to the front, clusters of friends to the centre and one or two towards the back needing to make a quick exit. Mrs Smith has placed herself on the end of the row near the door. Mrs Smith is wily and Mrs Smith is cunning. Mrs Smith knows there is cake in the staffroom and she wants to get there before the queue for the kettle becomes longer than the updated list of the school’s non-negotiables. Before the phrase ‘comfort break’ has a chance to leave the Head teacher’s lips, Mrs Smith is up out of that chair and down the corridor to get a coffee.

Mrs Smith is pleased to be back, Mrs Smith is looking forward to the challenges the new year brings, No one should dare suggest that Mrs Smith might be working out how many days until half term…

 

Mrs Smith and the journey to school.

Mrs Smith has carefully selected her clothing the previous evening so can rise in a leisurely manner and waft gently towards school. Ha, thinks Mrs Smith, bollocks if you think that has ever happened……..

Mrs Smith turns off her alarm, she dares not press the snooze button, so tight is her morning schedule. Mrs Smith doesn’t trust herself not to roll over and think Fuck it! As usual Mrs Smith’s sleep has been disturbed. Once she woke worrying that she didn’t have enough plastic milk bottles to turn into Greek urns for her children to wave above their heads in the class assembly looming on the horizon. Later her dream about an unannounced book scan carried out by Michael Gove dressed as Miss Trunchbull left her in a cold sweat. Finally, just as she dropped back to sleep, a message on the Key Stage WhatsApp group filled her with dread. According to her fellow insomniac, a stealth learning walk is on the way. Mrs Smith, and her fellow WhatsApp group members are sworn to secrecy, so within 10 minutes of this message arriving Mrs Smith is pretty confident everyone will be expecting their classroom doors to open and the Head to sweep majestically in, clipboard in hand.

Mrs Smith is adept at dressing in the dark. Given the learning walk on the horizon, Mrs Smith decides to put on her good underwear. Forget motivational speakers. Nothing empowers a teacher more than a really good pair of knickers and a matching bra. In Mrs Smith’s opinion, don’t bother with all that supremely expensive CPD with a visiting speaker and a slick PowerPoint presentation. Give every member of staff money to buy some luxury pants and Bingo! Outstanding in all areas, guaranteed.

She does check in the mirror as she leaves the room. Mrs Smith doesn’t want a repeat of the black bra under a white shirt episode. Spending the day wearing a netball bib isn’t the best way to garner respect from students or peers.

Mrs Smith would love to make herself a hearty bowl of porridge, garnished with fresh fruits and a scattered artfully with a few power-boosting seeds. More often than not, she makes do with a slightly too strong coffee, a glance at the news on the TV and one of those biscuits with all the nutrition and flavour of a carpet tile. Today she also washes out four milk cartons that she has rescued from her neighbour’s recycling bin. What she doesn’t know about their eating (and other) habits isn’t worth knowing, muses Mrs Smith.

Having performed one of the feats of Hercules by loading her boot with bags of marking Mrs Smith sets off. Bugger. She stands on the brakes, does a U turn and returns home for the milk bottles. Shit! Now she is late. Mrs Smith drives with a purpose. She drives with a broad vocabulary. She drives with an almost permanently active set of hand signals. Mrs Smith does now check before she lets rip. It certainly wouldn’t do to query the parentage of the Chair of Governors, simply because they wouldn’t let you out at the crossroads.

Mrs Smith arrives at school and parks. Mrs Smith makes it her mission to choose a different space in the car park every day. She is the only person to do this. There is no particular reason for her parking space choice. Mrs Smith is simply being a pain in the arse.

Mrs Smith slips her lanyard over her neck and lugs her marking towards the school door. Ah, thinks Mrs Smith, so starts another day in Paradise. As she walks past the office door, she sees the Head’s desk, replete with clipboard in situ. The rumours were true!

Hmm, thinks Mrs Smith, perhaps I should have worn my good knickers over the top of my trousers this morning? Then she glances at her reflection in the window, just to make sure she hasn’t!

Mrs Smith and the nativity.

Tea towel, tie, tinsel. Tea towel, tie, tinsel. Mrs Smith is making a final check of the contents of the costume bags (named), hanging on the pegs in the classroom. Mrs Smith is leaving nothing to chance. She won’t be allowing anyone on stage wearing something still smeared with traces of spaghetti hoops and as for the tea towel bearing the legend “Piss off, I did it yesterday”, it may well reflect the way Mrs Smith feels about the Nativity but still …

Nativity practise has been underway since September, not officially of course. Mrs Smith hid the singing in plain sight by putting “music”, “drama” and at a push “PSHE” on the timetable, only breaking cover after half term to demand the hall timetable is rewritten to allow the stage to be set up. How then, thinks Mrs Smith could the choir of angels still forget the fucking words to their two-line song at the dress rehearsal to the whole school earlier today? Mrs Smith is beginning to rue some of her casting choices. Mrs Smith is nothing if not subversive. The aforementioned angels are the current crop of KS1 miscreants and ne’er-do-wells, all of whom could give Crabbe and Goyle, The Krays and the great train robbers a run for their money. Ah well, keeping them all in one place and dressing them alike makes keeping track of them easier for everyone Mrs Smith notes.

Fortunately for all, the Star in the East is indeed bright. The Wise men however are not. The Star takes her role very seriously, and has had to be asked not to blaspheme when the Wise Men forget their cue and don’t follow her towards the stable as the story dictates. Mrs Smith feels her pain.

Mrs Smith has had to deal with the cascade of emails from parents saddened that their child has been overlooked for the plum roles of Mary and Joseph. Three already have a costume apparently! Yes, thinks Mrs Smith, I’d really want my child to have the opportunity to sit on a chair for 30 minutes doing nothing but smiling at sheep.

Mrs Smith takes the register on the day of the performance to find half her cast have been taken ill with the sickness bug currently running riot in KS1. So far Mary, Gabriel and two narrators have succumbed, and the Innkeeper is beginning to look decidedly green around the gills. Mrs Smith raises her eyes heavenwards. Mrs Smith is not religious, but “God help us all” she mutters.

Doors to the hall will open at 2 pm for a 2.15 pm start, consequently the queue began at 12.45 for the front seats. One parent has bought a chair, a flask, and a blanket in preparation. Mrs Smith is always amused that the best seats in the house are taken up by parents who then watch the whole show through the screens on their mobiles or iPads. There will be grandparents the world over who think this Nativity is simply 30 minutes of a snowflake singing songs about Be-flea-yem. Mrs Smith has reserved the middle ten seats for no one in particular, she just enjoys pissing off the professional queuers. Mrs Smith will remove the paper from the seats just before the opening number and will wait to see who moves first.

Mrs Smith takes her seat, high on a slightly unsteady piece of PE equipment at the back of the hall. Mrs Smith has been doing this for years and is well practiced in Teacher production sign language. She can command the assembled cast to begin, to stop, to be louder and to sit down. She can stop a sheep from hitting a donkey and get an angel to take their hands out from down the front of their pants. She has no control over bladders or gag reflexes.

This is unfortunate.

Mrs Smith catches sight of another member of staff suddenly move towards the stage bearing a roll of blue paper tissues as another helps the Innkeeper towards the hall door. It seems that one gift left for the baby Jesus this year is assorted bodily fluids. Ah, thinks Mrs Smith, nothing says Christmas more than a projectile vomiting innkeeper and a shepherd who leaves the stage trailing his dressing gown through a puddle of his own wee!

Mrs Smith hopes the spillages are mopped up quickly. The finale to the show involves eight barefoot snowflakes dancing to a snippet of the Nutcracker. She really doesn’t need anyone slipping in sick, although the 250 pounds from You’ve Been Framed would be a bonus, especially as her book corner seriously needs updating.

Thank fuck for that. The baby is born, the Kings have arrived, they remembered their presents, and no one has found out about Herod yet. Mrs Smith will be wetting the baby’s head with several large glasses of something cold this evening.

Mrs Smith is off to search Amazon. She has a serial washing up dodger as her school secret Santa. That tea towel from earlier? Perfect, just perfect.

Mrs Smith and the New Year resolutions.

1. Mrs Smith resolves to be significantly less sarcastic and far more positive.

Bollocks, Mrs Smith doubts very much that she can manage that for more than a few moments at a time. If any given day happens to involve a meeting, an observation or peer to peer coaching Mrs Smith is going to have to find some way to bypass her face showing exactly what her brain is thinking. This same resolution will come into play when an “expert” at an INSET workshop explains, by way of a PowerPoint, how their two years of classroom experience will transform Mrs Smith’s teaching.

 

2. Mrs Smith resolves to resist the temptation to poke her fingers towards her mouth and make fake retching sounds every single time she hears the words or phrases non-negotiables, pace, deepening understanding or mastery.

 

3. Mrs Smith resolves not to refer to KS2 as the deep end and EYFS as the shallow end. She knows this is overly simplistic and more than a little patronising.

 

4. Mrs Smith resolves not to mutter obscenities within earshot of the photocopier. To transgress this resolution could well lead to breakdowns, both of staff and the belligerent fucking machine.

 

5. Mrs Smith resolves to try mindfulness techniques rather than resort to threats of physical violence when an utter knob who has never been into a classroom decides they know how a curriculum should be organised or a classroom managed.

 

 

6. Mrs Smith resolves to use her PPA time to actually plan rather than look at pictures of the planning of others on Pinterest, Facebook or Twitter. All this ever does is piss Mrs Smith off anyway. Who the fuck has time to build an igloo out of plastic milk bottles?

 

7. Mrs Smith resolves to only have a countdown of days until the next break in her school diary rather than on the board next to the date and above every learning objective.

 

8. Mrs Smith resolves to only buy stationery that will fit into her pencil case. Mrs Smith will NOT buy an additional pencil case. Mrs Smith will not darken the doors of Paperchase, Smiths or even the school supplies aisle in Sainsburys. Mrs Smith’s recently purchased a box of witty Christmas pencils, ready for next year. Mrs Smith’s personal favourite is one emblazoned with the legend, “When I think of Santa, I touch my elf”. Mrs Smith needs help!

 

 

9. Mrs Smith resolves not pray for bad weather and then cheer when Tomaz Schafernacker forecasts snow for her home town during term time. Mrs Smith can’t promise that she will keep this resolution past the first day of term the way the weather is at the moment.

 

10. Mrs Smith resolves to only resort to gin at the weekends, she can make do with wine on a school night, or a sherry or perhaps a Baileys on cold evenings. This resolution is null and void on Mondays, the days either side of a full moon, evenings after an observation, any day when there has been a wet play, windy days and especially following parent’s evening.

 

Happy New Year everyone. Let’s just keep on keeping on, doing our best and may your supply of Haribo never run out. See you all in 2018.

Mrs Smith and the Parent’s evening

Mrs Smith has it all planned out. She has planned her coffee break, she has planned her wee break, she has planned when she may need her year group partner to rescue her from the parent who can’t take the hint.

Don’t misunderstand her, Mrs Smith rather likes a Parent’s evening. She especially enjoys the part when she meets a child’s family for the first time and it suddenly all makes sense.

Mrs Smith looks down the appointments list again. She notes which parents have signed up and who haven’t. School has sent 3 emails; the date has been on the online diary since September and Mrs Smith has reminded her class that there will be full disclosure on all aspects of school life at least once a day this week. Still, on the morning of Parent’s evening she knows one flustered face will appear at the classroom window hoping for an appointment. Of course, Mrs Smith does have spaces on her list. Of course, Mrs Smith makes sure all children and parents can meet with her. Of course, Mrs Smith is going to make this parent work for it. Mrs Smith channels her inner doctor’s receptionist, sucking air over her teeth as she does so. Mrs Smith has the power and she is going to milk it for all it is worth. Mrs Smith watches as the parent tries hard to glance at the list. Mrs Smith squeezes the clipboard close to her chest. Mrs Smith knows this parent has been demanding in the past, wanting this, needing that, expecting the other.

Mrs Smith offers a time. The parent thinks and then asks if the last appointment is still available. Mrs Smith manages, just, to hold her guffaws in. The last appointment?!? You rock up, at the death and want the FINAL appointment? The prized time, where an unscrupulous parent knowing there will be no one following, can wring a good 20 minutes from their five-minute time slot. Mrs Smith is wise to this. She has already filled the slot with a fellow member of staff whose child she teaches. Mrs Smith raises a metaphorical middle finger to all who try to cheat the system. Could Mrs Smith perhaps add another later appointment. Mrs Smith looks up from the clipboard. Mrs Smith sets her face to stun, turning her smile on full beam at the same time. Mrs Smith uses the look she reserves for the child who asks the most fucking ridiculous question during an observation. The parent gets the message. That’s a big, fat no then. Mrs Smith knows the parent will turn up, at the original time offered and all will be well.

Mrs Smith glances around the hall. Mrs Smith is one of the first here. Mrs Smith looks to see which table she has been allocated. Not bad, not bad at all. It is out of the draught from the constantly opening doors. It is away from the speakers, so Mrs Smith won’t be deafened when the buzzer is ignored by the parent in front of her. It is close enough to the loo that she can make an emergency dash if she needs to. She decides that a colleagues table, by the radiator, will suit her better. Mrs Smith swaps the labels, placing her clipboard down and walking away as nonchalantly as possible. Nothing to see here, nothing at all.

Mrs Smith returns to her room to collect all the information she needs for the evening. She packs her bag with enough material to fill a small skip. Good job we are an eco-friendly, paperless school she muses. Mrs Smith swipes a cushion too from the book corner as she passes.

Entering the hall, Mrs Smith quickly sets out her table and makes a dash for the loo. A precautionary wee before the evening’s shenanigans begin. The hall appears neat, tidy and ready for action.  The seats are filling up and parents are already discovering the real reason the Head teacher bought this particular set of fold up seats. Not for the simple storage solution, not for the school colour option on the seating and not for the quantity they came in. These were bought because they were fine to sit on for five minutes but after that they turn into the most fucking uncomfortable thing on the planet. Arses numb, legs become dead and backs scream in agony. The only cure is to get up and walk around, thus preventing the chatty parent from outstaying their welcome. Good call SLT. Mrs Smith’s cushion solves the pain and makes her appear far harder than she actually is.

Mrs Smith hears the first of many bells ring, looking up she sees the first family moving towards her. Oh yes, this should be interesting, very interesting.

Mrs Smith and the PE lessons.

It may surprise you to know but Mrs Smith has been teaching for a very long time.  Not quite back to the Victorian era as was once suggested by a class she was teaching, but not far off. As a result, Mrs Smith has learned a few tricks of the trade when it comes to PE lessons.

Trick 1.

Do not, under any circumstances, mention removal of clothing for PE. Those down at the younger end of the school tend to start undressing and then just keep going. In this day and age having any children standing stark bollock (or no bollock, let’s not be gender specific) naked in your class can lead to so many questions, quite rightly, being asked. Always suggest the children put on their PE kit instead.

Trick 2.

Never believe anyone who says they don’t have a PE kit in school. They may be adamant that their kit is at home, in the car or on the moon. No, they definitely didn’t bring the kit to school. Yes, they are certain Mum washed it and then the tumble drier broke. It almost always wasn’t and hasn’t. Mrs Smith usually finds it is hung on the child’s peg, slightly covered up by their coat or school jumper. Mrs Smith isn’t taken in by the complete look of astonishment on their faces when said kit, by some miracle, appears. Mrs Smith usually hands the bag over in silence, with her “you picked the wrong one to fuck with” look on her face.

Trick 3.

Everyone, no matter how much they protest, needs to use the toilet before a PE lesson. At the very least it helps to cut down the phantom farts that seem to slip out as soon as a group of children sit cross legged on a cold hard floor. The reduction of the number of puddles made on a polished surface will prevent the filling in of too many accident forms. No one wants to confess that when demonstrating a dance move they slipped in some wee and hurtled, at speed, towards the wall bars, ending up wedged under a bench. Mrs Smith still has twinges in her hamstring after that little exploit. In KS2 it prevents anyone who is skiving or just avoiding tidying up from using the toilet as an excuse to pop indoors for a rest.

Trick 4.

Ask the children to help each other on with socks after the lesson. There isn’t enough hand sanitiser in the world to remove the clammy feeling you get when replacing socks that are still damp, despite being not having been worn for 45 minutes. As for tights…… begin and enforce a no tights on PE days rule. The sweatiness starts at the feet and just gets worse as you get to the waistband. No, no, NO! Those children who wish to cover up in PE can do so with leggings, the most you will need to do is turn those right side out.

 

 

Trick 5.

EYFS and Key Stage 1 children may occasionally piss themselves, or worse. However, week in, week out, Upper Key Stage 2 children and their kits stink. Do not put them in an enclosed space (the kits not the children) for any length of time unless your sinuses need clearing. The hotter the weather, the more regularly the kit must go home. Leave it too long and there is a real possibility that the kits could walk themselves home.

Trick 6.

Any rules, to any game, are Mrs Smith’s rules. This has two main functions. Firstly, if Mrs Smith is teaching a game that she’s not too familiar with, or if she’s left the lesson plan indoors, she can appear to know what she is doing. One step ahead is all she needs to be, but she’d rather her class didn’t find out how shit her knowledge of the rules of Korfball actually are. Secondly, Mrs Smith is so competitive she would play Dominoes to the death so any advantage she can gain over her opponents the better. Do not contemplate “reminding” Mrs Smith of other teacher’s rules. Mrs Smith doesn’t care if they play by the book. Mrs Smith has her agenda and she is sticking to it. Why yes, thinks Mrs Smith, Netball is a contact sport and the sooner you all get to realise that the better. As ever, Mrs Smith’s decision is final. Want to discuss it in detention?

Trick 7.

Never tie a wet shoelace if it hasn’t been raining. Equally if you are asked to help someone put on a damp plimsole and the playground is dry, alarm bells ought to ring and hot water and soap should be sought.

Trick 8.

Balls. There is nothing you can do about the fact that for many PE lessons you will have to say the word balls. Mrs Smith dares everyone not to laugh. She sets her face to stun. She has a little fun. “Please class, hold your balls still.” “Anyone who has big balls out, please put them away first” “Did I ask you to play with your balls yet?” “Take you hands away from any balls please” and so on.

Mrs Smith loves being outside with her class, encouraging, enthusing, and engaging her class to be sporting and self-less. Who the fuck is Mrs Smith kidding? She spends her time speeding some people up, slowing others down and keeping a beady eye out for those who can’t share. When it’s a game of tag rugby you do have to pass the ball to others, even if you did get it out of the shed first and want to keep it to yourself.

Don’t forget that once the class have their PE kits on, have had their lesson and have returned to class they must take their PE Kit off . Like Groundhog Day it begins again. At home time Mrs Smith can guarantee there will be one child who can’t find their trousers, another who after much searching, you discover is wearing two pairs of trousers and a third who is still wearing only their boxers waiting for you to dress them.

FML thinks Mrs Smith as she shuts puts the lid on the PE kit box. Her nose wrinkles. Hmmm, time for the deodorant talk, again, thinks Mrs Smith.

Mrs Smith and the photocopier.

Mrs Smith is not a woman given to flights of fancy. Mrs Smith is rational and level headed. Mrs Smith is absolutely certain that the photocopier hates her, is out to get her and generally try to make her morning shitty. Mrs Smith has no idea why. She has made no unreasonable demands of it. She mostly just copies or prints, occasionally enlarges or shrinks and rarely makes use of the offset booklet facility. (This may be because other members of her team are better at this and who is she to steal their thunder?) She has never plugged in a pen drive, used irregular paper or asked the bloody thing to staple and fold. Why then, does the photocopier give Mrs Smith such a hard time?

Mrs Smith deals with truculent individuals often, the photocopier should be no different. Sadly, it is. Mrs Smith thinks deeply. There must be a solution to this.

As inevitable as nits in Reception, Mrs Smith knows there will be a queue for the photocopier every morning and evening. She wends her way into the staffroom, makes a large, strong coffee, collects what needs to be copied and stands in line. If she must be in one place waiting for her turn she might as well multitask and get a drink. Her only worry is that the wait in the queue will be so long she will need a wee too. Once again Mrs Smith plays bladder roulette and downs the coffee. Mrs Smith watches, hoping to pick up tips from those the photocopier adores. One person at the photocopier has labels to print. The queue knows what will happen next.  “Which way up do I put these in?” rings out a voice from the far end of the waiting throng. FFS thinks Mrs Smith, why is it teachers can unpick Curriculum 2014 but can’t work out which way up to put labels into a photocopier.  Those waiting collectively hold their breath…. And the labels come out, correctly orientated and printed on the label side. None are missing, none stuck to the internal workings of the machine, none lurking around to attach themselves later to Mrs Smith’s paperwork.

Mrs Smith watches in awe as others press buttons, change paper size and collect their work from the tray without incident. Slowly Mrs Smith moves closer and closer to her nemesis. The door swings open and a face appears. It glances up and down the queue. The headteacher. “Can I jump on? I only want one copy of this.” they say, pointing vaguely in the direction of a piece of paper. Those still waiting nod and smile through gritted teeth. When the one copy turns out to be a 28 page document the atmosphere in the room turns decidedly glacial. Mrs Smith tries her death stare at the Headteacher’s back, but the thick skin grown as a prerequisite for joining the leadership team seems to have given them some form of immunity.

Finally, eventually, at last, Mrs Smith gets to the head of the queue. Gingerly, Mrs Smith slides her master copy onto the glass and closes the lid. Mrs Smith has decided that the best way to deal with this behaviour issue is to not give the miscreant direct eye contact.

1, 2, 3 the numbers tick over as the pages shoot out. 25, 26, 27, three more to go thinks Mrs Smith. That was her mistake, she got cocky and now she must pay the price. Lights go off, buzzers sound and the group of people behind her groan loudly. Bugger and bollocks, thinks Mrs Smith.

Mrs Smith looks at the display. No paper. Mrs Smith fills every tray, both A4 and A3, just to placate the monster. Still no joy, on her hands and knees Mrs Smith delves into the nether regions of the beast to fish out the two sheets of paper being held captive there. She switches it off and on again and the photocopier vomits out her last three copies reluctantly. Mrs Smith heads to class. As she closes the door she swears she could hear an eerie chuckle in the distance. Later in the day Mrs Smith walks past the behemoth squatting menacingly in the hallway. On the top, there is a handwritten note which reads.

Out of Order, engineer on their way.

Engineer? Engineer?? thinks Mrs Smith. That photocopier doesn’t need an engineer, it needs a sodding exorcist.