Those who can, do; those who can't, teach

There's been a fair bit of stress this week!

For a start, we had the dreaded Ofsted inspection at college. Reduced to a state of blind panic and floods of tears last time this loomed, I had a totally different approach this time. For a start, being one of hundreds of teaching staff (as opposed to one of four) rather takes away the sense of accountability. Furthermore, I was beginning to get a little complacent at work, and actually needed a bit of a kick up the proverbial backside.

 

As expected, I didn't sleep well (mainly, actually, because I was overcome with a compelling urge to arrange doo-wop songs into four-part harmonies in my head, fantasising about forming some kind of a cappella group). On the way to work, my car started juddering again after splashing through a particularly deep puddle; I knew it was the coil, as it had been the previous time ("put a condom on it, that's what we do" a colleague helpfully suggested).

 

The morning during which I was told to expect a surprise visitor (whose job it is to waltz in, try to find as many things we're doing wrong as possible and waltz back out, judgement formed) was a nightmare. I had a class of 16-18 year old puerile motor vehicle students who quite frankly didn't give a toss about my maths lesson on comparing the relative merits of dole allowance vs. various weekly wage amounts (I was tailoring it to their ambition - to live off the state!), nor the English lesson in which, like it or not, they had to give an assessed presentation to their peers on a topic of choice. I was very grateful that no inspector walked in to see one student's PowerPoint slide stating 'Some people are good at motocross, some people are shit' (profound, Connor!). The unusual absence of classroom window through which to peep (not to mention the 'Quiet - examinations in progress' sign I put on the door, heh heh) may have just proved off-putting enough, for no visit was forthcoming. Not that it made any difference to the stress levels that day; the difference was, I never got to breathe a sigh of relief upon showing an inspector out. It must have rubbed off on the students, for Lewis was having none of it and refused point-blank to do anything I asked.

 
"Come on Lewis, come and sit over with the others so we can watch the presentations together," I cajoled, putting my hand on his arm.

"That's sexual assault!" he proclaimed, backing away.

"Yeah, and you like it," I muttered, which at least generated a laugh out of his mates if nothing more.

It was disclosed by another student that I reminded them of 'that French woman in the car in Mr Bean's Holiday' (note to self - Google this, and if complimentary, award merit points accordingly), which reminded me of the time that, on my very first university teaching practice, one little girl told me to my delight that I looked like Halle Berry from James Bond. Me! A Bond girl!

 
"But doesn't she have brown eyes?" I queried of my then-boyfriend.

"Yeah...and she's black!"

I have no idea what the kid was thinking.

To add to my stressful week, young Ali was not in a great mood for his private tuition. Driving him home from school, listening to Led Zeppelin as has become our custom (I get him to tell me the track titles from the CD case; he doesn't realise I'm just getting him to read), he informed me that I have visible hair on my upper lip (is this what it's like having kids?). There was then a stand-off during our session in which I refused to let him go to the toilet (familiar work-avoidance tactic) unless he at least attempted to work out 7 subtract 3. He threatened to tell his father on me.

"Ok then, let's go and tell him," I bluff-called, knowing I'd have the father's full support; which, thankfully I did. The answer of 4 was derived with almost magical rapidity, and Ali's bladder duly relieved.