#WhoIamWhatIdoHappyStuff

It's not all doom and gloom!

After my initial posting of this, I thought there was a little too march 'darkness' in it, probably something to do with that old 'black dog' still luring around the periphery of my consciousness. SO, I just wanted to do a list of things I loved experiencing and/or that I am proud of.

1. I loved Brownie & Guide camps (my mum was an ace Brown Owl) and took part in the Girl Guides 75th Anniversary International Camp with the great acronym of 'PANIC'. I loved playing ladders and broom hockey!
2. Doing a sponsored abseil down Angle Church tower - I forget what we were raising money for - whilst in the Guides. I think I was the youngest to do it on the day - around 11 or 12 and loved it so kept going up the tower to do it again.
3. Being a member of County Orchestra whilst at school (2nd violins) and going on a trip to The Black Forest with them.
4. Completing my Music GCSE in my lunch breaks. Along with several others, I was quite determined to do it so the school enabled us to. We achieved 10 GCSEs while most achieved 9.
5. Thanks to what is best described as a ruthless female drill sergeant in the ATC, I can still remember how to march and do left, right & about turns correctly. Plus I got to go up in a glider - the ones that are catapulted from a vehicle on the ground. Magic.
6. A waterfall walk in the Breacon Beacons with The Prince's Trust where we saw the waterfall that Blue Peter used as some kind of initiation for presenters. We got to walk behind a waterfall - a girlhood dream since reading Rupert the Bear annuals. Amazing.
7. Winning two weeks aboard The Brig Astrid, (a tall ship) aged 16, to compete in the first leg of the Cutty Sark Tall Ships race from Milford Haven to Cork. We had a training week from Weymouth to Milford Haven, we left Weymoth harbour on a hot humid day to sale straight into the most spectacular thunderstorm. We could see the pink hued lightning cleve the sky open.
8. My first experience of live music was also at 16 - going to the Reading Festival with school mates, camping, getting covered in mud and.....and......the headliners were NIRVANA. I came back looking like a mud monster. It was exhausting and brilliant all at once.
9. A 6th form trip to the Pelena Mountain Centre in the Black Mountains, Wales, in which I spent ALL weekend laughing and formed close friendships with Mia and Fiona that are still going strong today.
10. in the 2nd year of Uni queueing up in the BAKING heat outside Milton Keynes bowl to make sure we were near the front of the REM 'Automatic for the People' gig. Support acts were Sleeper, The Cranberries, and Radiohead. Watching 'Everybody Hurts' at dusk, lighters flickering in the breeze, was magical.
11. Climbing Ben Nevis and the Aonach Eagach ridge, and The Three Sisters in Glencoe wth the Uni mountaineering club. We saw a stag, a sentinal guard of The Three Sisters, whilst we clambered up, meanwhile, I could hear Clannad as the soundtrack in my head.
12. Starting to run regularly in my lunchbreaks at Abbey National, going from zero to running 10k comfortably in 50 mins whithin a few months.
13. Getting my mum up the Rhyd Ddu route of Snowden when she had just turned 62. She was SO chuffed to have made it she rang her dad from the peak. Incerdibly, the Welsh sky was clear, we could see for miles and miles.
14. Completing the London Marathon in 2005 - the same year as my first ever Ofsted inspection (I mistyped that as 'infection' initially, analyse that English teachers), and just 7 months before dad died. He came to watch me run it and we met at the finish. We both looked awful - him through chemo' - me through exhaustion. I was chuffed to bits he saw me do it before he died.
15. Caring for my dad in the last two weeks of his life, being with him as he took his last breath (then farted, true story). I did not cower or run away from it. There is nothing that could be more difficult than that - the exception being going through the same again with my mum heaven forbid.
16. Twice entering and completing the 'Tough Guy Nettle Warrior' assault course in the July of 2010 and 2011. It is by FAR the most exhuasting thing I have EVER done. The only part of my body that did not hurt (the hurt lasting for 10 days at least) afterwards was my face. I looked and felt like I'd been in a car crash but LOVED it.
17. Getting an 'Outstanding' observation the first time I had ever taught a) the A-Level Lang/Lit course and b) Hamlet. I know the label, like 'Required Improvement' does not define me entirely as a teacher, but it felt blooody GREAT! The class were just wonderful.
18. My first ever tutor group who had tutored from my NQT year and their Year 7 up to Year 11 and when I left my first school. They are either happy in jobs they wanted to do or are about to graduate from Uni. Even better, they left school as great young people, warm, kind, mature, likeable. Lovely young adults.
19. I've paid a mortage on my own for the last 11 years without a defaulted payment. I've struggled, I've lived out of my overdraft for most of the time, run up some debts but also cleared them. I now have some form of equity in my property.
20. My Twitter Summer holiday of love last year - lots of lovely day trips and visits with just wonderful people.
21. I had an interview today and did not let my anxiety jeopardise it - no self-sabotage this time Alex Quigley. I was calm, my 'micro-teach' went well because I adapted things as I went and I think I answered the interview questions well. Whatever the outcome, I can hold my head high. I did my best.
22. I only gone and GOT THE JOB! *beams*

#WhoIamWhatIDo

I offered to write this AGESSSSS ago, and have been pondering what on earth to write ever since. So here goes, a potted biography of me and my journey to 'teacher'.

Home is where the heart is #clicheklaxon

The majority of my growing up, or at least the bits I can remember most clearly, was done in Pembrokeshire.  If you're not familiar with this particular 'shire' then it's the peninsular at the VERY South West of Wales. You cannot get any more South West in Wales then Pembrokeshire. Fact. It is a rural community whose industries are farming and tourism, and not really a great deal else.  It is however, exceptionally beautiful. In my memory, I think of it as very much like "Hobbiton":

Lush emerald green, quaint, a little bit peculiar, perhaps rather romanticised since I have been living in the Midlands these past *gasp* 20 years (that does go to explain my Midlands twang, which I am less than fond of).

I grew up just 4 miles from this beach:
Picture from 'empireonline'.

 

Freshwater West Beach, which as you can see, is the location for Shell Cottage from "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Parts 1 & 2".  Pre-driving days, I used to cycle to it often.  I drove to it recently, and was rather astonished at the hilliness of the route, so became confounded as to how my teenage legs ever coped with it. I remember, as I drove up to the beach after over 10 years of not visitiing it, tears pricked my eyes due to a mix of its sheer beauty and fond but painful memories of home.

 

 

I grew up in this pub, The Speculation Inn:

 

 

 

"Ahhhh, growing up in a pub, how thrilling!" you say.  Well, no, not quite.  Mum and dad worked like pit donkeys to keep the place going, very rarely made anything resembling a profit and money was always tight, to the extent that dad took on a second job, doing his original profession of "Chemical Engineer" (Big plumbing, with nasty chemicals as far as I understand it) at the local oil refinery - which on at least two memorable occasions - blew up; more accurately, bits of it did. The first occasion was a massive round tanker of oil; the second was the 'Cracker'. Each time what seemed like the ENTIRE Welsh fire service 'Ne naaaaaed' past our pub in order to put it out. On each occasion I think it took about 3 - 4 days.  When the Cracker exploded, it shattered numerous house windows in Milford Haven, the opposite side of the estuary.

   Nearby was Castlemartin Barracks, so afternoons were often punctuated by the sound of tankers practising on the firing range.  Not as peaceful as the pictures might lead you to believe.

  The coastline is just spectacular, Stack Rocks and the chapel of St. Govan were favourite places to go on a stormy day. There's nothing quite like the sight and sound of ginormous waves crashing against an ancient cliff-face.

Picture from: marlaine.com

 

 

 

Junior School

 

 

I joined Orielton School at the age of 7, after we moved there from Chepstow.  Joining a small, close knit rural school is no easy task for a chubby, hamster-cheeked, bespectacled, ENGLISH SOUNDING outsider who is VERY keen to learn. Oh no siree.  Making friends there was very difficult indeed as everyone already knew everyone else and were quite happily settled into their friendship groups, thank you very much.  I think I made some eventually...

    The main building was an old Victorian school house, with the main teaching room, the Head Teacher's room was large, dark and intimidating.  We sat at those old fashioned wooden desks, with hinged tops where we kept our school books and stationery.  They were arranged in rows and the teacher taught from the front. We were drilled in times-tables and we read often.  I'm sure I was forced to learn the recorder at some point and HAD to perform in a Christmas concert. Oh the joys.

  The canteen and the 2nd classroom were pre-fabricated buildings, the playground was hard tarmac with a sand pit, a rather cool climbing frame, and we had the luxury of a field at the back of the playground to roam around in on breezy Summer days.  Summer being the time when the compulsory red gingham dress had to be worn, a painful occurence for an out and out Tom Boy. 

   Boys out-numbered girls quite considerably, so I was 'forced' to play football with the lads at break time. I LOVED it! I was a mean tackler on the pitch - no one's shins were safe, NO ONE''S.  Perhaps it is here my competitive edge, that I don't often acknowledge, was developed.

 

 

Secondary School

 

I am a product of Britain's Comprehensive School system.  In rural communities, the notion of parental choice for your child's school is laughable.  You go to the school that is geographically nearest with a school bus, regardless of what kind of school it might be and what kind of results it may achieve.  I began at the this school pre-National Curriculum days - THAT LONG AGO!  Hard to believe that was ever the case these days isn't it?

   The intake was geographically and numerically large with something like 1400 pupils, and I ground to a halt writing this section for about a week.  Much of my early years at secondary school were a blur of unhappiness. I was bullied, fairly relentlessly and mostly by girls, on the bus, in the playground, lessons, everywhere. One memorably unpleasant incident was in a CDT room, in Year 7 or 8. I was sat on the benches on the outside edge, on my own, wishing for invisibility. The lesson got underway and the teacher popped out of the room, giving an ample time window for the bullies to come over to kick and punch me in the kidneys.  I just sat there, not reacting, not giving any indication that they had hurt me.  Of course, inside was rather different. A mix of misery and anger, steely determination not to show my feelings, helplessness. 

  At the same time, my home life was distinctly unpleasant, due to complex family politics.  My parents argued constantly, displaying not just verbal aggression to each other, but very occasionally physical.  One night I sat bolt-up right in bed and screamed at them to stop fighting. My sister had shut herself off from us, so we didn't speak really for over a year. I was often in the position of referee for my parent's argument, which on reflection, was my 'normal' but put me in a terrible position of choosing sides.  I remember a painful but matter of fact request to my mum asking them to get divorced.  No one in our family history had ever been divorced, so it wasn't going to happen. Years later, when dad died of liver cancer, I was proud of them for fulfilling their 'When death do us part' wedding vow. 

  As for lessons and teaching? French lessons with a young NQT were a blur of chaos, as was Maths.  With my wonky eye, I dreaded any PE lesson that involved the use of a ball - and as girls had to do netball, hockey and tennis, I detested much of it.  I was much better in athletics and in the pool where I could at least co-ordinate my limbs well enough.  I had a mean sprint at the end of a Cross country run and won the Shot Put on Year 7 Sports Day.

  Educational solace came in the busier lessons of Science where I enjoyed the practical and investigative nature of it, whilst English and Art lessons were an oasis of calm.  The teachers were more competent, kind and inspiring, my class mates were less vicious and I felt safer.

  I did end up forming good friendships (re-ingnited via Facebook as a grown-up) and achieved 10 GCSEs 5 As, 3bs and 2cs in Year 11. I think I jumped 4 foot in the air when I read my results.

  Unfortunately, (or fortunately) I discovered that thing called 'a social life' and had a late rebellion. I hadn't chosen my A-Levels terribly wisely - I've always regretted taking Geography instead of History especially in my later career as a teacher.  History would have been far more useful. Geography A-Level became tedious for we did far too much on Urban Geography whilst we were surrounded by the beauty and drama of the Pembrokeshire coastline, I grew bored of it very quickly. As a result I left Year 13 with decidedly average results of C, C, D in English Literature, Art and Design and Geography.  I was disappointed in myself, and my mother was visibly disappointed on results day.  I've never forgotten that moment and how it felt.

 

A Year Out

 

I'd had enough of education for a bit, and very unwisely, in the August of 1993, on my Mum's birthday I told her I didn't want to go on the foundation Art course I'd applied to. I wanted a year out. This did not go down well and there was a sense of panic that I would not go on to University. I re-assured them I would and set about finding something else to do instead.

  I enroled in our local Prince's Trust scheme which involved team building via Outdoor Pursuits, or in the case of Pot-holing - indoor pursuits, the most memorable moment was going pot-holing on my 19th birthday. We got through the infamous 'letter-box' passage in the Breacon Beacons cave, switched off our headlamps to experience true pitch black (or as Thomas would say, 'bible-black') and my team sung 'Happy Birthday' to me in the dark.  We exited bruised, exhausted, and covered in clay. I think I was nicknamed 'Mrs. Hedge-backwards' afterwards.  My team contained members in my school group, lads who I didn't really know at school but had a real giggle with here. There was 12 boys and 2 girls, the other girl having the most chromic verbal diarrhea, ergo, I got on much better with the lads than she did.

  I applied for a 3 month extension on the scheme so I could continue working in a local stables. I received very basic pay and got a grant to buy riding equipment. Working with horses was lovely, physically draining and my god did I build some muscles. Learning to ride was fabulous. Nothing beats a gallop at full pelt across an empty beach, even if the 5 hour total ride rendered me incapable of walking for at least 2 days afterwards.

  Meanwhile, I thought about what to study at University more carefully, and applied for English courses as far afield as Belfast University, Glamorgan University and Northampton.  I plumped for Northampton as the campus was green, leafy and village like, whilst the course was a Combined Studies where I chose to major in English, with Drama, (Equine Studies as a subsiduary - turned out to be dreadfully boring with no horse-riding) and Media Studies.

 

Higher Ed - Northampton.

 

Ok, so I wasn't studying anywhere fancy, my A-Level results did limit me here, but vowed to learn from my mistakes in Year 13.   Having said that, beginning the course with James Joyce's "The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" , T. S. Eliot's "The Wasteland" and modernism felt like an unachievable leap after my A-Level English Literature.  The English course was heavily bound up with theories: Maxism, Psychoanalysis, Feminism, Post-Stucturalism, Linguistics (a massive struggle having never been taught grammar in my own schooling), Post-Colonialism, Post-Modernism, Renaissance Self-Fashioning, Allegory and The Faerie Queen (thoughts of which just makes me shudder). Our Post-Modernism lecturer was Professor Peter Brooker - who is Charlie Brooker's dad.  He was a fabulous Prof' - cool, witty, charming, knew his subject inside out, warm and friendly. Later on he was my dissertation tutor, who helped me change it from a near car-crash of a dissertation to something workable and interesting.

  Drama was, well, full of drama queens and I felt very uncomfortable through most of the course. But I saw some fab produtions: Lysistrata, The Alchemist, The Three Sisters (actually, that one was baffling and I think I may have fallen asleep) and did a damn fine job of playing a corpse in one of our group productions. The study of Greek drama and comedy has been very useful in the teaching of Shakespeare. 

  After dropping Equine Studies - I picked up Media Studies in my final year and was taught the sociological theories by Prof. David Wragg, a big hairy man who was hugely confident in his own intellect, whilst at the same time showing a distinctive disdain for his students.

  The first year was a struggle and I only just passed, I got better and in my final year achieved a strong 2:1 being only 4 marks away from a 1:1.

 

Some Wilderness Years.

 

I graduated during the last major recession, so getting a graduate job was so very difficult. I had so many rejections from graduate positions I nearly lost the will to live.  However, being instilled with a stong work ethic, I knew I wanted to work rather than claim benefits so moved back to Northampton and took a job in JJB Sports Plc.  It wasn't without its challenges, especially in the Summer months, in a non-air conditioned shop serving people with the most ATROCIOUS foot odour who wanted to come in and try on trainers. I stuck it out for a year, if only to prove to others that I could hold down a job for a decent period of time.

  Due meeting a chap (it all went horribly wrong much later on) - I ended up moving to Milton Keynes, and decided to get work as an office temp' which begun 4 1/2  years working at Abbey National HQ's Visa Dispute centre.  Whilst there I decided to study for my MA Modern English Literature, part-time, back in Northampton.  It was largely self-funded from my meagre £12k wages, with the exception of a small scholarship in my 2nd and final year of study. I used up all my flexi-time and holidays for essays and my dissertation. My dissertation topic was a tad morbid - I focused on Autobiographical narratives of the terminally ill, combined with 'taking on' Barthes Post-Structuralist theory of the metaphorical 'Death of the Author'.  My head hurts to even think of it now.

  Two and a half-years later, I passed my MA with Merit, I remain quite chuffed at that.

 

Becoming a teacher

 

I remember very distinctly, after finding out I had been awarded with my MA, sitting down at my desk in Abbey National and sobbing, Big, heaving, over-powering sobs. I was lost, hated my job and realised all too well that my MA in Modern English Literature had no real value in my rather numerical place of work. I needed to make a decision about what to do with my life and I was rather over-whelmed by it.

   I could do a Phd - but could not afford to. I thought back to my time at Sealyham Activity Centre in my year out, working with teenagers (and horses) and remembered how much I enjoyed it. So began the investigation into teacher training courses near Milton Keynes. 

  I eventually found Northampton School for Boys' SCITT course via a friend who was doing it at the time, applied and got in so began in September 2002.  The course was only 3 years old at the time, was good in places and poor in others, somehow, despite constant self-doubt and a general lack of confidence I passed with at least a 'Good' rating, found myself a job in the February of the course (at the same school my sister taught at) and so my life changed completely. d

 

It's not ALL doom and gloom

 

After my initial posting of this, I thought there was a little too march 'darkness' in it, probably something to do with that old 'black dog' still luring around the periphery of my consciousness.  SO, I just wanted to do a list of things I loved experiencing and/or that I am proud of. This got a bit epic, so if you WANT to read more chirpy stuff, click on the link here, if not, by all means stop here, put the kettle on and open a Kit Kat and take a break. Thanks for reading this far.

 

What now?

 

I have been a classroom teacher of English for most of my 12 years at the chalk-face.  A short experience of middle management in a tough inner city school in the Midlands, nearly broke me. The last 18 months at my current school, for differing reasons, has nearly done the same. (Some of which was my own errors, some of which down to the behavour of others at work which I can't and shouldn't explicitly comment on here).

  Starting with the death of my father in 2005, thus followed for the following 9 years a constant barrage of difficulty: including an abusive relationship with a man who was definitely psychopathic, to a burglary by my neighbours and a stalker.  Do click on the links of you'd like to read more about these things, but don't feel obliged.

  Not only that, the economic crisis increased my financial worries whilst I continue to pay for a mortgage on my own, my house and mortgage began to feel more and more like a noose. This, combined with pressures at work increasing to levels I was just unable to cope with, left me on the verge of a total breakdown in December.  I had to go to my doctor for help and I needed out. I wasn't perpared to be sectioned (which I think I was only a small step away from) due to work.

  I was very honest with my Headteacher - the analogy I used was this: A succesful Formula 1 driver has a team of people behind him - to build the car, test it, fuel it, change the tyres and so on, which enables him to win races.  Being a teacher requires the same level of support.  All the time I have been teaching I have lived on my own - no back up team within my household. Financial pressures and responsbilties are mine, no one to off load to after a good or bad day, no one to help with cooking or cleaning. I am also my support team - so I am going to burn out far quicker than people who are not on their own.

  Sadly, I came to realise that teaching  English full-time under current outside pressures AND maintaining my health and well being has become an impossibility. It's not as if I haven't tried my best to do so after the past 12 years.

  So, I have been off work for some time, visiting the Nurse Practitioner once a month for a check up, receiving counselling through Occupational Health and healing physically and mentally. 

  I am also seeking work for September - I know that I want something very different from Secondary School teaching, but still working within the educational field. I worry very much how my length time off of work is going to affect my employability. I don't want all those 12 years of teaching English to go to waste. I have been looking at and applying for FE posts, I am also looking at Independent Schools (whilst wondering if my 'non-posh' education may go against me) and keeping a steely eye on the 'Other Workplaces' in the TES for roles that are in education but a totally different experience to my last 12 years in Secondary Education.

 

Twitter, blogging and hope

 

Firstly, this is rather epic I had not intended it to be, so well done if you have got this far! You hero! Twitter has offered me HUGE help and support while I've not been at work thanks to my #BDAmigos  - you know who you are.  I have attended Teach Meets, Pedagoo London and Research Ed events in order to keep my eye on the educational ball. I've been to the Edu-Bloggers curry in London, the #Starkyfest Tweet up in Leeds and met some brilliant, warm and funny people. I've made new, fruitful and supportive friendships and maintained them, whilst also trying to repair more established friendships that have been damaged during my mental health difficulties.

  Thanks to @rlj1981 I am soon to be published in her collaborative book "Don't Change the LightBulbs" (Crownhouse Publishing, available to pre-order on Amazon here) - you can find me in the 'English' section  - this really is quite a thrill. Ironically, the copy editor really had her work cut out in my section, *blushes*. 

  With good luck and a following wind, I maybe working with @ThinkingReading training teachers how to deliver her Phonics reading programme to schools in the Midlands or further afield; and I am hugely flattered to be thought of as so capable - thank you Dianne and James.

  I AM NO LONGER SINGLE!!!! It takes some getting used to after most of my adult life being single, however, I quite like it now and he is largely tolerable. ;-)

  I'll be going to Wellington Education Festival FREE thanks to my Other Half, and in September I'll be a Helper Elf at Research Ed National Conference in September 2014.

 

I have a mild sense of panic about finding work for September - but at least that motivates me to DO SOMETHING about it, but Twitter, if you know of any 'non-standard' eduactional jobs I maybe suitable for DO let me know - seriously, please do let me know. (My email is: gwen.nelson@virgin.net).

 

Fin - at last.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pedagoo London 2014

Last year at Pedagoo London 2013, I pitched up with Daniel Harvey more than a little nervous at being amongst so many people I didn't know, and to be meeting people I had tweeted with for many months, nor was I sure what to expect.  It was also the first time - and I'm grateful it wasn't the last - I'd met Jon Curley (@MrPalomar1) who really did embody the term 'gentleman'.

I have to confess that my motivations for attending this year were more social than professional, oddly I think I enjoyed it more as a result.

This year was to be much different in that respect alone - for during the course of the last 12 months I had met an ever growing number of Twitter teachers, and many becoming great friends and people I am genuinely fond of: Kev Bartle, Helene, Rachel Jones, @oldandrewuk, @Chocotzar, @betsysalt, Daniel Harvey, @cazzypot, @KDWScience, Chris Curtis, Lisa Farrell, @85teachergirl and Lucie Golton to name just a few.  Each, either through funny Tweets, DMs, texts, phone-calls, Costa meet ups, cinema trips, curry nights, and even having me as a guest in their home have prevented me slipping to the very deep and dark murky depths of my issues with stress, anxiety and depression, being off-work and the feelings of epic failure that inevitably ensues. More dramatically, several of the above named quite literally saved me from myself one night when I was having a quite frightening panic attack.

Anyway, on with the day! It was lovely to travel down from Welwyn Garden City with Iesha Small, arriving at King's Cross in good spirits and enjoying the walk down to Russell Square in the warm Spring sun.  Here I met @KDWScience and @aknill for a coffee, croissant and a chat, later on meeting @englishlulu, @Xris32, @agwilliams, @FranNantongwe and @oldandrewuk. After making sure our caffeine levels were suitably high, we pottered off to the IOE to arrive at 12pm.

Of all the buildings I have been into in London, I think the IOE is best suited to that of surviving a Nuclear attack, a shrine to concrete sturdiness. That aside, it was lovely to see some graduates floating around in their gowns and mortar boards whilst proud family members took numerous photos. Cue lots of conversations about our own graduation ceremonies and the inevitable feeling of being old.

Even better, they had a Costa on-site. 

Before things truly started  @Debsgf was sat behind me and proceeded to give me a heartfelt pep-talk about how my blog (a small wee clown-fish amongst a shole of bigger, tuna-fish sized bloggers) had helped her teach her students and within, showed evidence of a good teacher (I'm welling up a bit writing about this). Thank you Debs, thank you.

Key-Note by Rachel Stephens

This was a great start to the day. Rachel's most astute moment was to remind of us - Twitter teachers and bloggers - of our rather unique place within the larger population of teachers in Britain. A small needle amongst haystack of teachers who go through their days and weeks knowing little of what seems to consume us on Twitter. Perspective is always a useful thing to grasp hold of, as it is too easy to lose in the current climate.  Other highlights included a quote that is 'probably by Hallmark rather than Einstein,' the video clip of the Grange Hill cast singing (to various degress of success) 'Just Say No' - reminding us we can and should do so with graded lesson observations - and a classic track from Pulp - the name of which escapes me (help me Twitter) which made me feel both nostalgic and old all at the same time.
  A real highlight, garnering visible murmers of support was the mention of @cazzypot's blog, detailing her battles against an absurdly rigid and detrimental observation system at her school. I only wished she was there to see that herself.
  I was sat with Andrew, whose nerves for his own talk grew a little more visible before Rachel had finished. Oh how I could empathise, as public speaking quite literally makes me vibrate with nerves. All I could do was whish him good luck before I was off to my first session.

Jo Facer - Cultural Literacy

I have met Jo a couple of times before more in a pub & curry related circumstance rather than a professional one, and on both occasions had found her bright, enthusiastic and charming, therefore I was very much looking forward to see her speak. Once I'd got past the, "My God you are so young to be a Head of Faculty" thing in my head, I settled down for her session.
   What I particularly enjoyed here was the way Jo had selected apt sections about Cultural Literacy from the 2007 and 2013 National Curriculum documents, enabling us to notice and discuss the shift in emphasis about cultural literacy from one to the other. Such a useful exercise to gain a better understanding of the new curriculum, I wondered why I'd not come across this before in previous INSET session as the various schools I have taught at. 
I was chuffed to be sat with @rlj1981 where we really entered into the spirit of the discussions together, and I was once again reminded how damn clever our Rachel is. 
    Later on Jo presented us with two 'case studies' of pupils - one whose cultural literacy was profoundly better than the other, asking us what we could do to improve matters for both pupils. Here ensued lots of useful discussions about the school's responsibilities to both pupils, and which kind of strategies would enable better success for each.  I remember being quite talkative here, I think I even called myself, 'gobby' or similar but I relished the opportunity to express my opinions with regards to teaching.

Harry Fletcher-Wood. (Sorry Harry, I can't remember the title of your session).

Similarly to Jo, pub and curry venues have been my main interactions with Harry - who I liked immensely each time I had met him. I think this is due to the mix of clear intelligence, combined with wit and humility - which was exactly how Harry presented his session.
  Harry presented us with various ideas and questions that could enable the classroom teacher select a strategy to implement in our classrooms. If you attend Teach Meets, you are often presented with a range of ideas about classroom practice you may have not come across before, you may even have some wacky ideas of your own.  It is therefore moot to be very selective in what you choose to try out. I liked Harry's emphasis on always returning to what the positive impact on the students might and should be, the tricky question that remained was how that should be measured. A pretty colour coded spreadsheet is not always the answer, neither are pupil questionnaires or feedback, such is the nature of teaching.

A quick note about Teach-Firsters:
 Both Harry and Jo are products of the Teach First programme.  Sometimes the very mention of 'Teach First' on Twitter or in a blog post can provoke a 'Helm's Deep' style battle on Twitter - pitching the PGCE-ers and BEds against them, whilst insecurities about the quality of your own education are brought to the surface. I went to a Comprehensive school in Pembrokeshire - there was no real choice in the matter, geographially, it was the only school I could attend, so I could be guilty of the latter.  However, Harry & Jo are clearly good teachers and leaders in their school, displaying: expert subject knowledge, the ability to question the validity of their own practice and others, enthusiasm, a keen interest for providing the best for their pupils, humility and a sense of humour.  Why wouldn't you want them as your colleague, or in the classroom? I urge any Teach First doubters to engage with these two people, for they might well set your mind at rest and you may learn a great deal from both of them.

Break: This involved a dash to the cafe for sustenance, loo break, and a brief check to see how Andrew's talk had gone. I was pleased to find out that a) he was still standing b) it had gone well and c) he was quite chirpy as a result.  Relieved on his behalf, I set off for my next two sessions.

Dashing between sessions it was also lovely to meet @JoBaker9 for the first time - the work her students produce is simply stunning,  and @mrlockyer who aided the increase in my hug tally.

Debbie and Mel @TeacherTweeks - Taking the Temperature of Your Classroom.

I'd been looking forward to seeing and meeting these two for some time as they are Teaching & Learning Assistant Heads doing wonders for teaching and learning in a school in similar circumstances to mine. 
  A lovely moment before the session began was starting a conversation with a young lady who sat next to me, upon introducing myself and my Twitter handle, @AnnaPalmer74 introduced herself for me and promptly gave me a packet of luxury Walnut Whips - how lovely was that?? They survived the journey home Anna, and I have yet to open them, maybe tonight after Boxercise class.
  The session started with a post-it note exercise to jot down how we knew if pupils were panicking about the work or working in their comfort zones. I think after years in the classroom we all came up with similar ideas - fidgiting, requests to go to the toilet, spit balls, off talk chatter etc. As left to put up my post-it note, a chap (don't know who you are) asked me to take his for him. Cue a few, "What's wrong with your legs?" and "What did your last slave die of?" comments (classic teacher cliches) in response.
  Debbie and Mel showed us examples of how we could set differentiated tasks using a sort of 'chilli' scale of: medium, hot and scorching with the proviso that students are encouraged to choose a task that will stretch them. Mel (was it Mel?) showed is a beautifully simple spreadsheet that colour coded pupil's choice of task for each lesson, enabling you to keep track of and asses pupil's choices of task and levels of confidence in what they are doing.
  Later on we were asked to discuss - or as I said to my 'Put up my post-it note for me' pal - get someone to discuss it for you - questions we could ask, or things we could do to either get a coasting student to push themselves, or remove panic from the student who is stuggling. Here reference was made to 'C3B4ME' strategies, thus provking @katiesarahlou to ask, "Why shouldn't pupils be able to ask the teacher, the expert in the room?" 
  The point I failed to make on the day, but was lurking in my head was  - beware the possibility of encouraging learned helplessness. Much like a new stream that has formed after a downpour, some pupils will always choose the path of least resistance, enabling that is not necessarily good for you or them. I don't think that this is what Katie was referring to at all, but it is something to be mindful of. To some extent, we must encourage pupil's indepedence from us - but as ever, when that is approriate. As a classroom teacher, that is entirely your call.

Chris Curtis - #50ShadesofProgress (My title - not yours Chris!)

Here is another friend and speaker who I know is a great teacher, full of good ideas, is modest and humble and clearly knows his English onions. 
  Chris's main theme or question was: does marking for effort, or indeed paying too much attention to it, mask observable pupil progress?  It is a great question to ask as most school or department marking policies will make reference to effort, and have a grading system for it. Marking for effort is common practice, but is it actually useful? What do the pupils gain from it? Chris, by focusing more explicitly on the pupil's progress on a given skill, observed noticable and consistent improvements in his pupils' work.
  Here Chris also made a useful point about target setting for pupils - our teacher error being setting too many of the damn things meaning that neither the pupil or the teacher can remember them, so what use are they?  Instead, Chris limits the number of targets he sets, or allows the pupils to choose from, allowing him to make much more precise comments to pupils in his marking and giving them a better means to self and peer assess. It is laser like and so full of common sense you can't help but think, "Oh of course!". 

Plenary - Kev Bartle

Ever one for writing in extended metaphor - Keven did not disappoint us here at all. The theme of his Plenary tied in nicely with Rachel's Key Note - focusing on the what the journey of a year actually meant - focusing our attention on the distaance we travel through space, not just time marching away from us. Referring back to his wonderful Key Note of last year's Pedagoo - the Trojan Mice - he encouraged us to take away a sense of empowerment from the day - to act upon advice proferred and new skills learned, to claim back autonomy so that the journey of the next 12 months is a fruitful one. 
  Keven finished off by reminding us that Jon Curley was unable to make the full journey of the past 12 months, dying suddenly and brutally from a heart attack in early September last year. Jon was a truly lovely man, cultured to the eyeballs, and overloaded with modesty.  Thank you so much for reminding us of him in such a wonderful and poignant way. He is still very much missed.

Evening TeachMeet

This post is far more epic than I intended so I will rattle through memorable highlights, some in relation to the presentations, some from the people I met or spoke with or just through the joy of people watching.

• @JoBaker9 finding me to hand me a mini Salted Caramel Costa Coffee syrup- my Costa addiction is so very well known on Twitter.
• @aknill battling the atrocious PA system to try and teach us a simple Mindfulness technique
• @joeybagstock letting us English teachers know it's OK to use Multiple Choice questions in lessons, and to not feel bad if they are not, y'know typically esoteric. Plus showing us how to use Google forms to take the toil out of assessing the pupil's understanding.
• Oliver Quinlan telling us about IT type tools to aid teachers develop their pedagogy, the biggest murmers, gasps and even looks of horror were about the tool that could somehow do subtitles of your lesson.
• Athena Pistillis' talk about using 'The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas' as a transition tool for new Year 7s starting at Canon's high involving a real cross curricular approach.
• @StuartLock - probably at least 5 pints into the evening, telling us what was 'sh*t' and great about the things he has observed as a school leader - telling us that opportunity cost must be considered. I loved it when he said, "It's OK to use an interactive whiteboard as a glorified OHP." (pretty much how I've used them). A particularly funny moment was watching Andrew do a small punch in the air and grin when Stuart mentioned using margins in Maths exercise books, followed by an, "I LOVE margins!"
• @JillBerry - being as supportive and inspirational in person as she is on-line. A real joy to meet and watch in action.
• Sitting with @englishlulu, downing Diet Cokes like they were going out of fashion and chowing down on a range of crisps whilst waiting for the buffet to come out, people watching, chatting and giggling. We had the bestest of hugs when Louisa, high on Diet Coke, crisps, buffet food, support and mutual affection, left to catch the nightbus home.
• The buffet - it was lovely and I apologise for loading my plate up into a small hillock - I really was quite peckish. Request for next year - puddings. :-))
• Joe Kirby swooping into the pub, like X-Men's Xavier checking in on his fellow Teach Firsters. Now that doesn't mean I think you are all mutants by the way, more that Joe Kirby has a 'Xavier-ness' about him.
• Apologies for yet another mention Andrew - but this was lovely. When I asked Andrew how he felt about the day, he responded with, "It's been brilliant!" with the enthusiasm of a Year 11 being reminded of that there's an INSET day and no, they don't need to come to school tomorrow. Total respect to you for confronting your abject fear of public speaking, not only that, but thoroughly enjoying the experience. A hit, a palpable hit.

Finally, thanks to Helene for organising such a wonderful day, it really was a joy to be present. More thanks are needed to Kev and Helene for giving me a bed for the night and Karen W for providing the late night laughs telling us all about the Condom Olympics lessons she teaches at her school. Karen, please blog about it as there were so many brilliant anecdotes!

I started the day keeping a hug tally - but lost count within a few moments of arriving at Pedagoo London.  I confess to feeling a bit of a fraud attending as I've not been at school for some months now, the hugs were lovely and full of warmth and support, not one of you making me feel self-conscious about my situation.

Finally, finally - there were far more people I met, talked to, hugged, and laughed with than I have mentioned here. To all of you - it was great to either a) meet you once again, or b) meet you for the first time. I'm a rubbish mingler within large groups of people - which is shyness, not rudeness. All of you made the day for me as lovely as it was.

Die Fledermaus

This caricature was devised during a similar wine fuelled conversation with @rlj1981 and LONG before I had met the real person.  In fact, I never thought I'd meet the real person behind this post, but I have and publishing this is potentially a BIG gamble.  As with 'The Velvet-Smoking Jacket' it was written with affection (not malice, never malice) and I hope, pray and beg that this doesn't back-fire.
  This is also important to note - this is a caricature of what little I knew of this person via Twitter from about 8 months ago.

With not a hair out of place, Oberon surveyed his class, all of whom stood like the finest of the Queen's regiments behind their desks. Chatter was fading so that the silence could overtake the room. Inching at the same methodical pace it always does, the minute hand travelled to 3.30pm. Seconds before it reached it's destination, the silence won. The room was still. Oberon fixed his pupils with a gaze that would make an aggressive cobra stop swaying, and, like Pavolov's dogs, the class stood up straight, returned his gaze for a brief second, and uniformly and subtely bowed their heads in deference to their master.

A subtle nod of the head was all the signal the class needed to file out (for they had been trained using Pavlovian theory) beginning with the first row, whilst the next flowed immediately after, snaking out in serene silence. Oberon surveyed the rows looking for any kink in the straight edges of the desk. Typically, Jacob's desk was the cause of the kink in the third row. Oberon withdrew his notebook, resembling that of a police officer's, and wrote down the culprit's name purposefully, jotting down, 'litter picking' next to it. He smiled.

All that was left for him to do was to cleanse the room of the day's work, so that he could begin again at the crack of dawn tomorrow. The blackboard was freed from the scars of chalk, and the over head projector was carefully dusted; whilst the day's acetates were neatly filed into a leaver arch folder entitled 'GCSE Maths, Higher Tier'.

Weary footsteps echoed as Oberon marched out of the school with purpose. He arrived at his sleek black Daimler convertable, (second hand, of course), greeting it with a barely percabtable smile. it wouldn't do his reputation any good if his smile was noticed. Should you take the time to look carefully enough, in an even darker shade of matt black, 'Die Fledermaus' was visible in a Gothic font along the boot of the car, just above the bumper. Neither pupils, nor colleages had ever noticed this.

Mercifully, the traffic flowed fairly fluidily, so Oberon did not have to engage any of his traffic avoidance hardware. This had been specially installed some months ago, and yet again, casual obervers, pupils and colleagues were blissfully unaware. That is exactly how he was told it should be.

The Daimler was coaxed carefully on the drive of his isolated, imposing house, the garage door, also subtely emblazoned with 'Die Fledermaus' opened gracefully so that Oberon could ease his car into what evetually turned out to be a vast, Cathedral like cavern.

As soon as the engine stopped, the bank of LCD flatscreen televeisions and Apple computers came alive. Cold, blue light flooded the cave, to only just make visible the dagger like stalactites that clung on the damp ceiling overhead. Unusually, the constant drip of the cavern's water was a comfort to Oberon when he had returned from his day job.

An automated voice began a conversation, "How was your day, master Oberon?" The voice had a subtely masculine tone, whilst the delivery resembled that of the Star Trek Enterprise years William Shatner. It had taken some years for Oberon to become accustomed to the odd pauses, and a good six months before he stopped interjecting between them.

Before he could work out whether he should reply or not, the voice asked another question, "How did the lessons I planned go? Did the Year 13s finally grasp the Fermat's Thoerum?" This time there was a sense of anticipation lurking behind the unnerving pauses.

Oberon stood squarely in front of his car, and replied, "As you predicted, Robin," Oberon's voice was flat and resigned, "the pupils did not put a foot out of line. I think we've finally cracked snake wrangling, I mean classroom management. As for that Thoerum, well, thank ye gods and little fishes that you taught me 'ninja' algebra the night before, or I'd have remained clueless in that Year 11 lessson"

"Well done Fledermaus," for this is who Oberon had become, come nightfall, "now, I've written this week's blogpost. Ofsted have issued yet another report about another area that teachers are failing in, this time it is dress sense, which is hardly news is it? As usual it's been thoroughly deconstructed. Time to do your homework and read it, you'll be live tweeting this later."

Whilst in his specially allocated changing room, Oberon, also as well trained as Pavolov's dogs, quickly removed his tired tweed jacket, crumpled Marks and Spencer shirt, his greying suit trousers that had originally been the deepest of blacks, his favourite colour, and what he hated most of all, his pale grey, tasselled loafers. He opened the wardrobe to find his freshly cleaned, and tumble dried 'Die Fledermaus' uniform.

It has been fashioned from the highest quality neoprene, he really had drawn the line at rubber. This has been the only time he'd ever answered back to Robin who he knew, although he had never acknowedged it, was the real master. He had never, and would never, do it again.

Years of training in the dojo had paid off, for he was far more muscular than his school costume ever alluded to and the neoprene Die Fledermaus completed the transformation. He was ready to complete the night's mission. He waited patiently for his companion, for tonight, Fledermaus and Robin were to meet in the flesh for the first time.

A door far above him opened and closed. He awaited the sound of footsteps for sometime. Only when he? It? They? seemed to be near the bottom of the steps that had been carved into the cave by hand (whose? He had been to afraid to ask) did there seem to be the sound of movement.

Robin padded calmly down the staircase and spoke, "Time for us to finally meet Fledermaus, are you truly ready?"
Oberon's stomach clenched briefly, he stepped out of the changing room, standing at ease as Die Fledermaus. He looked around the cavern, which seemed to be oddly empty.

"Good evening, Fledermaus." Robin's greating was firm, but not yet said with any warmth, despite their proximity.

Die Fledermaus again, glanced around the cavern confused.

This time, the instruction from Robin was quite abrupt, "Down here, by your feet."

Against his better judgement, for occasionaly he did have some of his own, Die Fledermaus did as instructed. At his feet was a dog, a dachshund, whose coat was a glossy bright red, whilst he had a natuaral it seems, (although neither Oberon or Die Fledermaus were experts on hair dye) yellow 'belt' around what would be his, erm, waistline.

Fledermaus studied the dachsund's coat and markings carefully, thinking to himself, 'At least the name makes some kind of sense.'

Robin's collar flashed as he barked, but a bark did not emerge, these words did, "So, shall we crack on with the homework or are you going to stand there open mouthed all night? Log into Wordpress and Twitter, check the blog for anything that maybe perceived as a little canine biased, I know that's caught you out before, and tweet it as soon as possible."

Die Fledermaus eventually formed some words of his own, "No explanation? You are a dachshund with an intellect to rival Einstein, the pedagogical knowledge that I can but dream to aspire to, and you CAN TALK!"

Robin sat on his haunches, and looked him squarely in the eye, dog to man, and said, or was it barked? "You're not the brightest bulb in the box are you? You think we have time for lengthy explanations about meta-cognition and nano-robotics using lego, as usual, when Ofsted are up to their old tricks?"

"Point taken," Die Fledermaus replied, still with some confusion in his voice.

He sat down, logged into Wordpress and began proof reading Robin's blogpost. Annoyingly, apart from the odd reference to four legs, rather than two, the blog was almost faultless. The night's work had just begun, explanations would just have to wait. Twitter was about to go into melt-down.

The Velvet Smoking-Jacket

This was originally written under a pseudonym in the summer holidays of 2013 whilst I was staying with @rlj1981. We had consumed a fair bit of wine m'lud.  It is about two of my favourite people on Twitter, and now in real life and is a caricature but written with lots of affection for them both.  So, can you work out who they are?

Adopt Morgan Freeman voice*

Pupils imagine that, within school, lies a basement full of coffins in which teachers are placed at the end of the day, after all the marking, planning and preparation is completed of course.
At night they believe we are plugged into the teacher Matrix, downloading new knowledge to fox them with the following day. Knowledge IS nutrition, what need do they have for mastication?
What if, this were not what happened at the end of the educational day? What if, teachers led double lives, like much loved superheroes, or, indeed, a lot less loved politicians and footballers? What DO teachers do after dark?
The key turned in the lock and he entered his enclave, his sanctuary, his domain. All was peaceful, for now. Children's voices, questions and interrogations briefly echoed around his head until it was swiftly drowned out by the noise of the football match on his 42", flat screen, smart television, the metro-sexual's true symbol of domestic masculinity.

It's Newcastle's last match of the season, this was serious 'man points' time. It was even scheduled into his school diary, iPad and iPhone. It was THAT important. His man friends were waiting at the local, Newcastle shirts on, Newcastle Brown Ale in hand, tabs tucked behind ears, builders bum cleavage on show. This particular transformation was almost complete.

'Ace of Spades' blasted from his iPhone, his best boozing mate rang telling him to, "Get your hairy arse down the pub for the rest of the match." Seconds later the door slammed, he moseyed on down to the Cathedral of testosterone.

All that was left for him to complete this part of the transformation, was for the referee to make an appalling decision close to the dying embers of injury time. As soon as this occured the Southern twang would ebb away, and the North Eastern beast took over in a torrent of spittle, phlegm, indignation, incomprehensible Geordie-ness rammed with expletives that would make Roy Chubby Brown blush and say more "Hail Marys" than he has done in the previous decade of his existence.

The match had finished. Injury time had played out like the greatest of Shakespearian tragedies, for they had lost, again. He, along with his burly, tattooed friends wept openly into the dregs of their Newcastle Brown Ale. Within seconds he had gone from a testosterone fuelled elation, to hiding under a cloud of desperate gloom.

There was only one thing for it, there was only one person who could pull him out from the dense, clagging grey of dejection, that would surely suffocate him unless he took action. Only Catarina, his raven haired Italian muse, the woman who taught him how to love, and lust again, could chase the oppressive cloud away.

Before he knew it, he withdrew his iPhone from his pocket, texted his muse with, "See you at mine in an hour." He did not wait for a reply, he did not need to.

He left the pub at the pace of a highly trained long distance Olympic walker, without the effeminate swagger, for his heart began to race and the butterflies were reawakened in his stomach. An hour was just enough time to complete the finishing touches to the latest poem inspired by his muse.

Before he knew it, he had arrived home. There was just enough time to check that his most loyal pet, Trojan the tortoise, was indeed still happily hibernating and that he had not expired altogether.

Within seconds the Newcastle football top was off and in the dirty laundry basket, so he could hop in he shower to cleanse away the stench of beer, tobacco and his team's crushing failure.

Towel dried and fully cleansed, Jean Paul Gaultier after shave was liberally applied, blood-red silk lounge trousers were pulled on followed by his most loved, lush, velvet smoking jacket. It was a deep, plum red, enriched with the aroma of long gone patchouli joss sticks which enhanced the overall effect of the North East's version of Noel Coward.

A new joss stick was lit, creating a purple fug resembling the Opium dens of old.

Glancing at the clock there was just enough time to review his latest poem, inspired by his unswerving love for Catarina, and their shared passion for the finest artisan Gelato. His latest work was entitled, 'Tiramisu You'.

A gentle tap at the door meant that Catarina was here.


One final check in the mirror, yes, he was fully colour co-ordinated, he smelt divine, his poem was ready. The butterflies beat faster within as he opened the door. Era arrivata.

'Sexy Poetry' or 'ways in' to Marvell's To His Coy Mistress

I originally wrote this post by request of @ASTSupportAli - thanks, it was lovely to be asked - he wanted it short and pithy, and I produced this.  Ah well, excuse my prolixity, but I hope you find some of these ideas useful!

I love teaching poetry, but I can’t say I enjoyed learning about it as a pupil.  I remember sitting quietly and non-plussed while my English teacher discussed poems with the class, whilst my silence was a symptom of my bemusement. So don’t be overly surprised if your pupils feel the same, and therein lies the joy and the challenge of teaching poetry. They can assume it is, “Effort, man” so you must make them know that they CAN do it. 

If you have a middle to low ability group, it is not unusual for the class to be more boy heavy, who are often more confident at Maths than they are at English. So if they can confidently solve an equation through use of deductive thinking, they can apply that thought process to poetry. Tell them this. Whilst teaching an all girls class in Year 10 and 11, I found the girls were openly insecure about poetry, desperate not to get it ‘wrong’. The beauty of poetry is that there are several ways to skin this linguistic cat. You can teach the same poem over and over, but each class will read it differently with you. (Remember ‘Reader Response theories English scholars? Here it is, in action).

To give this post some focus, for poetry is a sea of wonderment, I am going to focus on one of my favourite poems to teach, Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress”.

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

        But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.

        Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

 

 I could go on for hours about this – so will just focus on ‘ways in’ to the poem that pique their interest and remove the sense of apprehension pupils can often feel about reading and analysing poems.  These ideas, I hope, are easily adaptable to all kinds of poetry.

 

 

 

 

·        Prior to teaching this I had ‘made’ my girls class watch “Dead Poet’s Society”, this was more by accident than design.  Keating’s introduction of his class to the true power of poetry – y’know, to seduce girls; as well as the Metaphysical Poet’s philosophy of ‘carpe diem’ to the heavily institutionalised boys in his class.  Not forgetting its unintended consequences, enabled the class to grasp the ‘seize the day’ concept well enough to find it in the poem without too much prompting.

·        A colleague’s ‘way in’ to this was by looking at chat-up lines, which were good, funny, downright lame, then she used a Word Cloud before looking at the poem as a whole. She did this for a lesson observation which I believe was ‘Good’ – I know, I know – shouldn’t be graded etc, but there you are.

·        As a short-cut the new Apple commercial lifts dialogue straight from “Dead Poet’s Society” – the part about, "sucking the marrow out of life" – you could show them the commercial, give pairs or groups phrases from the voice over, get them to mind map possible interpretations of the words.

·        We have the *clenches teeth* text speak version of carpe diem with YOLO – do they have example from own lives where the have followed the YOLO mantra?

·        The concept of a ‘Bucket List’ could also be useful here as a pre-reading activity. You could get pupils to generate their own, justifying choices which can make for a good group or individual Speaking and Listening activity. Take it a step further and question why we are only prompted to do such things if death is looming large – shouldn’t you live every day like it’s your last? How can we? Why don’t we? What stops us ‘seizing the day’ in the first place?

·        You could also place the poem’s title in John Sayer’s question grid and ask them to formulate a range of questions about the title, and after some analysis of the poem, return to them at the end of the lesson to find out which Qs have been answered, which have not and use the left over ones to inform you planning of subsequent lessons. This could work equally well if quotations selected by you were placed in the grid, given to pairs or small groups, and a series of questions are generated about the quotations, some of which the class maybe able to answer, some not yet.

·        Place the poem in ‘Wordle’ (this is SO stolen from @deadshelley) and make a beautiful Word Cloud, hand the word cloud out and without even mentioning the words ‘poem’ or ‘poetry’ – ask the pupils questions like: What might the original text be? What could it be about? When might this have been written? Gender of writer? What might the narrator be thinking about? Why do you think so? Or get them to group the words from the word cloud into categories of their choosing – and hey presto, the class are finding the semantic fields present in the poem – then use interrogative questioning to get them to justify choices.  You can also get the pupils to write poetry (or another form of creative writing) based on the words in the word cloud. After that, reveal the poem to them.

·        Get the old felt pens or colouring pencils out – get them to colour code the poem e.g. ‘vegetable love’ may be coloured in green – either you set criteria or they do – and again, choices must be justified. Then get them too look for patterns created by their choice of colours – what do they notice? This can bring out the themes in the text without too much effort on your part.

·        I often call poetry *cliché klaxon* a painting with words- so get yourself on Google images and find a painting, a photograph or a graffiti art that is a ‘best fit’ for the poem, or the stanzas of the poem,  ask pupils to interpret the image. You could give them some words or phrases from the poem and ask them to find connections between the words and the image.  Create a collage of images based on imagery from the poem, again get pupils to make links between them, construct a narrative, rank order them or give them Marvell’s structure of: thesis, antithesis and conclusion and get them to arrange images accordingly. You could then ‘gallery critique’ (Ron Berger) each other’s efforts then ask them what they need to keep, change, improve and why? The lovely @kerrypulleyn has an excellent post on use of images with Pre -1914 poetry on her blog.

·        Now, when it came to reading the poem with the girls, I didn’t actually read it at all to start, we just looked at its shape on the page. Here I was a tad on the risqué side and made a statement before reading it out:

 “The poem is written by a man, and it is in the shape of a column.  I put it to you that this is no coincidence.”

           Cue some gasps, some giggles, some, “Miss, are you well?”, some resigned groans and indecipherable mutterings.  Once that finished, I read them the poem. Here I think, just like Dead Poets’ Keating, the teacher should read this poem to them first of all, not just read, perform. You just can’t help but love reading this out!

When I had finished, I returned to my original statement and asked them whether I was right or wrong - as ever - opinions need to be justified and expanded upon.  It is easy enough to do this as a whole class, or in pairs or groups (not that I’ve ever been brilliant at teaching using group work). Always get them to justify decisions, choices, ideas to you – be it verbally, in books or mini-whiteboards.  This grows their confidence when writing about poetry for a controlled assessment.

 

Afterwards, our time on “To His Coy Mistress” was nicknamed ‘Sexy Poetry’ lessons  - with the level of suggestive imagery in the poem, and double-entendres a plenty –  "My vegetable love should grow" *gasp* - that was almost inevitable.
 

Now I have a confession, for a good few lessons, we were rather old fashioned and ‘chalked and talked’ the poem, using questioning – mine and theirs, to analyse and annotate the poem with the pupils.  That said, their knowledge of it was thorough, they preferred it to the subsequent poem, Gillian Clarke’s “My Box” and the majority of the class wrote essays that were B grade or above.  One of my girls wrote a comparison of "To His Coy Mistress" and "My Box" that was the best I have ever read in my 12 years of teaching; in fact, I think it went beyond the A* grade descriptors. She now has a conditional offer of a place at Cambridge. The end result clearly justified the means.