Moderately Irritated Teacher

The dyspeptic ramblings of a education warrior in the wildlands of South Wales.

[moderatelyirritated]

Raising Children: Theory and Practice (excerpt from 'How to be a Parent: the nigerian way'

In the war that is parenthood, outside advisors can be recruited to either side of the battlefield.  Be wary of who's advice you take.  More importantly, be wary of who you introduce your child too.  Remember, in your household you are the ultimate authority, the person that the is the last port of call when it comes to decision-making.  You are the final arbiter of justice.

An outside advisor can create difficulties, even if what they are saying backs your ideas up.  Until they are more mature, your children should be blissfully unaware that there are certain things in this world that you do not know.

There are any number of job-descriptions that cover child-specialists: nannies; educational or child psychologists, 

Let us begin with the worst-case scenario; an outside advisor enters the household and directly contradicts your instructions or point-of-view.  

If this happens in front of your child, you have two options.

1) direct confrontation.  Blast the incomer verbally. Give them a tongue-lashing the likes of which they have never received in their existence.  Question their parentage, mention the possibility of goats or camels in their ancestry.  Threaten them with physical and spiritual violence.  

This should be a good, long screaming session, so it would be a good idea to have some ammunition prepared in advance, just in case.  Find out about their relationship status, the employment of their spouse, the intellect of their children and any other pertinent information that would be useful to insult them with.

[moderatelyirritated]

How to be a parent: the Nigerian Way (excerpt)

To be a Nigerian parent is to be at war.  The pregnancy is merely a short space of time, nine months (or less, if the child decides to open hostilities early) during which you can gather your wits, resources and prepare for the next 25 years of warfare.

You must have the correct mindset to deal with your children.  Of course you will love and cherish them. However, you must also understand that they are your greatest enemy.  As the saying goes: 'keep your friends close, and your enemies even closer.'  The wise man who uttered these words must have been thinking about Nigerian children.

The mindset of a parent should be similar to that of a general.  You must understand your various battlefields: the home, school, the park, birthdays, weddings and especially christmas.  You must prepare a range of strategies to deal with  your enemies in these different arenas.

In this chapter we will apply some teachings of the Chinese military strategist, Sun Tzu, to the problem of raising children.

[moderatelyirritated]

Intervention for Failing Students: What Matters Most?

A recent survey found that a good number of teachers are concerned about resources -- or a lack of -- for struggling students and those with diverse learning needs. The survey got me thinking about a

How to fix failure?

[moderatelyirritated]

Would be nice if colleagues were always this supportive...

[moderatelyirritated]

Collegiate Chaos

What is Professionalism?

What is a professional relationship? How is it defined?  What are the limits? Where does ‘professional’ end and ‘personal’ begin?

Personally, I think the personal/professional divide is artificial. It’s there so that bosses have an excuse to fire someone who isn’t obviously incompetent.

Think about it. How much of your conversation at work is actually about the work? There’s the gossip, the meaningless chit chat and the never-ending weather update (if you’re british).  On work itself, the details, the process, the demands, the outcome; statistically much less of your time is spent on that stuff than you might think.

Blending the two

Friday lunch time meetings.  I confess that this was my bright idea; and it quickly backfired.  While it started as a way to blend, chat and communicate informally over donuts and coffee; it was quickly hijacked by the little Boss and turned from a meeting, into a Meeting with a big ‘M’.

I liked to think of them as a way of avoiding after work meetings.  A lunch time meeting was great because you wouldn’t be expected to stay much longer after the bell rang.

Oh for those distant days.

Now, lunchtime meetings are matter of contention. Their use and relevance is argued about, taking up a significant portion of the meeting itself. You are expected to attend because, if you don’t, you are not showing true team spirit.  And as we know, its team spirit that brings up the achievement levels of pupils.

Now comes the simmering resentment. What was to be a social gathering is now official, with official business being discussed and sorted.

That’s the problem. While it's informal with some degree of messing around permitted; everyone is actually quite productive.  Make it official; something that we now have to do; the anger begins to fester.  We don’t want to be there anymore.

Crash & Burn

Now the team have turned on each other, blaming colleagues for low productivity, and the morale has dropped even further. Now the department pass each other in the corridor with eyes cast down, sheepish glances and pursed lips.

They know this situation is uncomfortable. They know it is holding them from improving performance, jobwise.  And yet they can’t help it.  Years of anger and frustration have boiled up into the emotional aether, and these people need to get stuff off their collective chests.

Handle it like a boss.

The big boss has called a meeting in a month’s time.  Nothing like putting it off, eh?  The boss wants us to think about our expectations of the job, and of each other, and to blurt it all out in a massive orgy of honesty in this meeting.

As the only neutral party here, but the one who had the idea that caused the rift; I should probably think of something conducive to healing the collegiate wounds that have bubbled under the surface for such a long time.

But if I have learned anything from my years of teaching, it is this: Unless it’s worth losing your job over; keep your head down.

[moderatelyirritated]

It's unfair to brand all kids like this...

Unless you are a teacher, and you have a class like this, on a friday, last lesson.

[moderatelyirritated]

Up With Parents

Parents are misunderstood, maligned and (I imagine) fed up of being mortified by sub-standard offspring.

That’s right, I said it. Sometimes the parents have done pretty much everything and anything that they could and should have done, and it still hasn’t paid off. The kid still acts like an ass, getting in trouble and causing the school to harass the poor parents at home.

So it was with absolute joy and a little bit of schadenfreude that I observe the sheepish Imp (not his real name) wander into the classroom for an after school revision session with a look of misery on his face.

‘My mum’s had it sir. She’s taking it all. No more IPad, no more games, no more T.V.   Look sir...’ Imp shows me a message from his mum.

Text spelling and grammar faux pas aside, it was one of the most wonderful texts that I have ever had the fortune to read.  This woman has had enough of her spoiled brat of a son, and at the age of fifteen he’s shocked to realise that he can’t have his way anymore.  Mama’s gotten over the guilt of the divorce, and is kicking little baby’s backside until he improves his results and his behaviour.

And I say: good for her.

Attention all parents: it is never too late for some serious but necessary ass-kicking.  My grandma once launched her five-foot nothing frame into the air to deliver a stinging palm to my uncle’s face.  His forty-something year old backside had dared to be rude.

You are never to old for an ass-kicking.

[moderatelyirritated]

[deathcabforchomsky-deactivated2]

Politicians and educators often say “our schools will help every student succeed” Teachers seem to generally believe this.

However, what do you guys think? Is this just a myth? Is it really statistically possible to help EVERY kid? Is it truly plausible, or mostly a...

[moderatelyirritated]

Let me weigh in... on both sides of the argument.

Both girlwithalessonplan and tiptoetiff make valid and persuasive points.  It almost feels like the proverbial devil and angel on the shoulder.  

girlwithalessonplan (no offence) is playing for the dark side, telling the truth as it is; a statistical fact that not every child can be helped.

It is true; not every child can be helped, at least, not in the way that we as educators might want. We want them to have a future, an addiction, prison and violence free future.  What if the truth is you could only succeed in fixing one problem?  How would you choose?

That is the tricky nature of our dilemma. We have so little power over the eventual fates of these children that pass through our classrooms, it is hard not to become cynical and pessimistic about the prospects.

Therein lies the danger, when realism sloughs its skin, metamorphoses into pessimism, and we give up before we've even started.  This is what tiptoetiff is trying to fight against; not the very real probability that a section of the kids she teaches will fall into society's cracks.

She is fighting to make sure that we, as educators, do not give up before we've even tried.  Yes, some of these kids will fail. We need to take the victories where we can.  As pathetic as that might sound, it is true.

Last year I had two teaching experiences that still pull me between the extremes of fatalistic pessimism and dogged optimism.

The first is recounted in my previous blog 'Trifecta of Human Excreta'.  The second was the slow and steady development of a young lady in the same class.   She had resigned herself to being the stereotypical blonde bimbo. Assumed that violence against women was par for the course, and that the best she could hope for was marrying someone too physically weak to beat on her.

  By the end she had blossomed into a mature, intelligent girl who was able to stand up for herself. When the boys made the comments about her brain, she replied with insightful comments about characters in the books we were reading.

  All I had to do was tell her that I believed in her.  That was all it took to turn her around.

  For every waste of space, there's a potential princess in the making.

  Emotionally, and for our own sanity, I appreciate that we need a little pessimism to deal with the pain of losing this educational battle.

  Still, I want to be more like tiptotiff.  I want that dogged optimism, that refusal to give up, even in the face of this miserable social reality that we live on.

 Much respect to the views of both these bloggers.

[moderatelyirritated]

My Punk-Ass Form

Pastoral duties should be a pleasure. You’re not worried about academic performance, you are looking after the child’s emotional and social well-being.

At least, it used to be this way.

Back in the days when you had time to get to know the kids. Meet with them one-to-one. Get a sense of their personalities and their likes and dislikes.

Good Old Days

In my old school, before the toxic combination of neurotic headship, nepotistic management and psychotic leadership drove me away, I used to set aside two weeks at the start of term to meet my form in groups of three.  We’d sit during break times, with snacks and juice, and chat about the summer, the last year, and where they think the following year might lead.

I called it... Nothing. It had no name. I just did it.

....Different shovel

These days, it is called good practice, or mentoring, or partnership mentoring, or pastoral observation, or some other piece of semiotic management-speak designed to bend the concept of English Language into circus-like contortions of meaningless babble.

Another difference between my current form and my group of so many years ago is the simple fact that the previous group were likeable. They were cheeky, but charming. Naughty, but ever so nice.

Every morning I look at my current group and observe the barely restrained feral impulses of world-weary brats unused to love, integrity and being told ‘no’.

I am told by those in loftier positions that this one, particular kid simply needs affirmation. He has a psychological need to be loved and appreciated.

I understand this. I really do. To a certain extent I even sympathise with the little douche-bag.  However, there is a flip side to this.  He is an attention-seeking, extremely needy and barely literate thug; and I am feeding into his neediness. His fantasy of being important, being central to everything that happens in the school, is only reinforced by the behaviours that I am obliged to engage in so as to ‘manage’ his behaviour.

There are twenty-five other kids who are equally, if not more needy and desperate for attention.  Since they have a little more common sense, or fear, they don’t kick up the same level of pointlessly disruptive fuss that this kid does.  As a result, they lose out.

So what to do?

There’s very little teachers can do. We don’t control which kids come into the class. We don’t control whether or not their behaviour merits being kicked out; something that is increasingly dictated by centralised educational policy.

The Nightmare Scenario

A local education authority feels that too many kids are being permanently excluded (expelled).  They then decide that schools in the area will be graded by how many kids are expelled in a year.  Of course, the schools then reduce the number of exclusions so as not to fail the grade.

At no point has any one asked what these kids are being expelled for, and why their behaviour is so bad. As if somehow we solve the social problems that stem from expulsion by allowing them to remain in school; even after their behaviour has breached acceptable levels of propriety and even safety.

I can tell you why the behaviour is so bad.

They closed a special school nearby.

It was designed for kids with serious behavioural and emotional problems. It also acted as a deterrent for those borderline kids in the local ‘normal’ schools. If they didn’t behave, they would end up with the ‘specials.’

While I disagree with the stigma attached to educational needs, it kept the merely twat-ish kids from descending into lunacy.

There are no more deterrents to bad behaviour. Instead of bemoaning the lack of discipline in schools, we should be amazed that any kids bother to behave at all.  There are no serious sanctions. There is little or no ambition from parents for their kids to do well.

All’s well...

At the end of the day, I don’t mind my form that much.  Except for that one kid. And the one who keeps turning up late because she needs a smoke before school starts.    Or the one who won’t shut the hell up.

Apart from them.

[moderatelyirritated]

Levelling Up

If you are a parent, and your kid is in primary school, or in the first part of secondary school, then you have probably come face to face with the confused and confusing world of Levels-as-grades.

The Numbers Game

Picture this scene: little Jane skips off the bus and into your waiting arms, her braids covered in bubblegum and toffee, clutching piece of paper that purports to be her report.  You open it, and find your eyes glazing over as a series of numbers from two to seven drift off the paper and across your itchy vision.

‘Jenny has achieved a level 2 in the application of her cognitive comprehension skills’, reads the report.  

Having googled the terms ‘cognitive’ and ‘comprehension’ you find that you are still frowning, and unsure of what it is your daughter did to deserve the high (or low?) score of 2.

‘I Dunno’

‘Jane,’ you call your braided offspring away from her doll house/Wii game/plotting against the cat.  ‘Do you remember taking a test in.... (you quickly scan the paper) cognitive comprehension?’

‘Dunno,’ she burbles absently, chewing on the biggest chunk of toffee in her hair.

‘Have you had any tests?’ You ask patiently.

‘I dunno,’ she replies, before oohing and aahing at a stray butterfly that has wandered in through the open window.

You are left scratching your head in increasing confusion while the fruit of your loins dances around the kitchen, about to engage in accidental infantile insecticide.

What does it mean?

Depends on who you are.

If you are secondary school teacher, then the levels of the child in front of you; fresh from their primary school prom (now that is a concept so unbelievably wrong that it deserves its own post); the levels mean nothing.

Zero.

Zilch.

Zip.

Nada.

How come?

It is a complete mystery.  At primary school a level 5 is an average of the class ability.  And the kid only ever has to achieve the level once.  So if a kid gets a level 5 (which apparently equals a C by the time they get to GCSE) just once, that score is entered on their records.

So if a kid did a good piece of work once, and by fluke, the secondary school is saddled with the wholly unrealistic task of pulling his sorry ass from the ontological state of blissful ignorance, to the epistemological state of getting a C at GCSE.

In other words, the systems and standards of grading between primary and secondary are massively at odds.  

The introduction of performance-related pay may prove to worsen the problem. 

Fishy Fishy Fisher

An un-named trust gathers this data and other data, puts it into a highly sophisticated program, and craps out predictive figures that children should aspire to.  When (and I say when, not if) the child fails to reach that target, then the school’s work ethic is questioned.  The dedication of the teacher is questioned.  The policy of the government is questioned.

Then you have the inevitable PR rows where some weasel-faced government flunky bad-mouths the teaching profession, and some union pariah (who left the classroom as soon he could manage) argue about how great/awful and disastrous/successful the school system is.

All based on a predictive system that, for all its complexity, always misses out the single most fundamental factor in the progress of british school children.

Whether or not the little bastards want to succeed.

Simples

It really is that simple. Some kid fresh off the boat with barely a word of English rocks up in an inner city school and proceeds to outperform every one of the local kids two years later in the exam results.

Why?  Because he gives a crap. If he doesn’t, his parents certainly do, and they will happily, and quite literally beat the importance of education into his backside.

Government policies and top down interventions can only do so much.  Real change, positive change will come when individual children are held accountable for their own attitude and effort towards their education.

Watch how quickly the educational landscape would then change.

[moderatelyirritated]

This spoken word performance by a Canadian artist Shane Koyczan touched me. Not because I was bullied, far from it. I learned quickly that intellect and sensitivity were not prized in boys, in men. By age fifteen I was closed off, walled inside, and focused on not being hurt.

This touched me because I am filled with admiration for the boy who refused to change himself, lived through the pain and became something beautiful and inspirational to others.

I will share this video with my pupils, and hope that they start to see the beauty in themselves, and in each other.

[girlwithalessonplan]

Did anyone else see a blip in their attendance when Grand Theft Auto came out?

[moderatelyirritated]

That Girl (You know the one)

You know the one. Even if you’re not a teacher, you’ve noticed her. Unkempt hair, thick make-up that could might be badly applied; or be covering up an unwashed face, or even hiding a bruised.

You know the saying; there’s one in every family.  Well, there’s more than one in every school.  Those teachers of a more bitter and cynical disposition take bets on when (not if) she’s going to get pregnant.  They also place side bets on which one of the more aggressive, abusive and mentally deficient of the young men in the year group above might end up being the father.

The head of year comes looking for her in lessons just after break or lunch; as she has a tendency to wander off the school premises in the split second when a teacher takes their eyes off her orange-fake-tan features.  The teacher calls her name hopefully, and looks unsurprised when I say tell him I haven’t seen her.

She is That Girl: a foil on which all of our social prejudices and stereotypes can be placed. Her attitude stinks. She won’t wear correct uniform. There are ladies of the night that would tut at how flimsy her excuse for a skirt is.

I figuratively have belts that are less revealing.

With my awareness of the increasing noise of misogyny in the background hum of british society, I try my best to react in a more positive way to That Girl.  I try to be part of a solution, and not exacerbate the problem.  

I’m just not sure how successful I am.

I smile when she talks over my explanations. I ask her, politely, to put her mobile phone away.  I try not to wrinkle my nose as her heady perfume that barely covers her rank, unwashed smell washes over me when she raises an armpit to ask a question - not about the work, but if she can go to the toilet.

Actually, I think I’ve done a pretty good job of covering my atavistic disgust and treating her like a decent human being.  The theory is, if I treat her like a human being, she will eventually act like one.

There is definitely some progress. That Girl no longer gives me that strange stare that is partly vacant and partly promises a painful death to all who dare challenge her.  Now it's mostly just vacant. Like some horrifically mascared doll that was painted with wood oil and left in the sun.

Progress needs to be made on my part too. I have to overcome my dislike of her and her attitude.  Not just pretend to tolerate her, but actually move myself to an emotionally positive place where I don’t felt the need to scrub my bare skin with steel wool pads after spending more than thirty seconds in her immediate vicinity.

Maybe, just maybe, on some distant day in the future, this girl and other girls like her will cease to be That Girl (make expressive gross face) and become simply A Girl.

[moderatelyirritated]

Trifecta of Human Excreta

‘Don’t want to read the book. Its shit. And boring,’ Dozy (not his real name, though it is a markedly accurate description) muttered.

‘Watch the language,’ I responded in the same, tired way that all teachers respond to this particular boy.

There is no point in getting angry with him. He loves that. He smiles at the rest of the class when you raise your voice. He says ‘Happy Days’ whenever he is kicked out of a class for rude behaviour, swearing, bullying or damaging a piece of furniture or equipment, which is at least once a day.

This ‘shit’ book was Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go.  The book is many things: multi-faceted; thought-provoking and immensely sad.  ‘Shit’, is not the adjective that I would use.

But what do I know.  I’m only the English Teacher.

‘Dozy,’ I said in my most conciliatory tone.  ‘You have an exam on this book. You have to at least read it. Maybe even make notes and discuss it with your classmates.’

Stupid

‘Don’t care. It’s shit, and I don’t care.’  He folded his arms and put his head on the desk.

I was tempted to try and tease a more positive response to the book from him, but I had already wasted ten minutes of the lesson trying to get him to shut up. A sleeping Dozy was better than a disruptive Dozy.  And this class needed all the help they could get.

The lesson continued for a blissful fifteen minutes, during which the rest of this class of so-called ‘disaffected kids’ engaged in a healthy discussion about the morality of organ donation and cloning.

Clearly things were going too well, and Dozy always seemed to be allergic to a positive and happy atmosphere.

He began muttering something under his breath to girl next to him. Let’s call her Pepper. It’s just a plausible and slightly less ridiculous than her real name.

Sexist

I was fortunate in this class to have the support of two Learning Assistants. Wonderful women who had to endure the obnoxious company of three of the boys for most of the day.

The look of disgust on the face of LSA no1 brought me up short; and I tuned out the surprisingly lucid and insightful commentary from the three ambitious girls at the front; I listened to the constant murmur coming from the corner of Dozy’s sneering mouth.

What he was saying was so foul that I will not repeat it here.

It was so disgusting that my normal forbearance towards Dozy’s very trying attitude vanished.

I laughed.

It was so sudden that the rest of the class stopped.

‘What’s so funny sir?’ One of the girls asked.  I shook my head, and walked towards Dozy’s desk.

‘Did you... actually just say what I think you said?’  I said, with a disbelieving smile on my face.  Dozy shrugged.

‘And what?’ Was his response.  He looked into my eyes, daring me to comment on the filth that came from his lips.

‘I genuinely am sorry, Dozy. I apologise,’ I said, maintaing eye contact.  ‘I am sorry if I ever gave you the impression that it was ok for you, or any other boy, or man, in this classroom, in this school, to talk like that to a woman.’

Dozy looked at me, confused. By now I could feel myself channeling my father’s disappointed face and mannerisms; the look that cut so deep because it made you feel guilt and shame.

‘I would not talk like that to my worst enemy, much less someone who was supposed to be my friend,’ I gestured at Pepper, the girl he was saying foul things to.

‘Sir, it’s okay,’ Pepper rose to the defence of her classmate.  ‘I don’t mind him speaking to me like that. Its just banter.’

‘Then I owe you an apology too, Pepper.  If you haven’t yet understood that you are worth more than that. If you don't know that you deserve to be treated with respect... I mean, a real friend would not speak to you like that.  Not even as a joke.  You need to understand that Pepper,’ I focused on her, while watching Dozy’s increasingly uncomfortable face from the corner of my eye.

‘In fact,’ I continued.  ‘I apologise to every girl in this classroom.  If you honestly think that it is ok for a boy or man to talk to you in the way that Dozy does, I am sorry,’ I warmed to my theme, basking in the heat from Dozy’s increasingly red face.

‘A real man has no need to put women down. He won’t make comments about their mother’s private parts, and he won’t call women sluts, whores, or whatever sexually explicit word that he can think of.

A man who speaks like this is afraid that he is not worth the attention of women. The only way he can get a girl, or at least feel better about himself is to make the women around him feel like dirt.

You can tell this type of guy a mile away. He lacks intelligence. Picks on people weaker than him. Ruins everything he can. He knows he won’t pass, or get a decent grade, and he is determined to take everyone else down with him.’

I paused, and looked around the room, at everyone except Dozy.  ‘I believe that you can do well. But you have to meet me halfway. Believe that you are worth my effort, and you will achieve something that you can be proud of.  Don’t let one pointless individual drag the rest of you down.’

Dozy finally snapped. He stood up and squared up. ‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying that what you said, and what you did, is wrong.  You were wrong.’

‘Fuck off,’ was his response.

‘Swearing at me doesn’t change the fact that you are wrong. If no one else can be bothered to tell you; please allow me to say it again: you are wrong.’

‘Bollocks, I’m off,’ he grabbed his bag and pushed his chair over.

‘I know you don’t like being challenged; but too bad. You went too far.  You were wrong. Feel free to walk off; but next time I hope you will be man enough to accept the truth.’  I turned my back on him, and walked back to the front of the class.

Racist

He walked to the door, and spat out a last comment before disappearing into the corridor.

Silence in the room.

The girls and the other boys looked a little shocked, and waited for my reaction.  I continued teaching.  

The lesson ended.

I wrote down a report.  It detailed the miserable and consistently aggressive misogyny that Dozy displayed in all of our interactions.

Pointedly, I also mentioned my worry about the general attitude of boys towards girls in the school.

Prejudicial Top Trumps

Dozy made a single racist comment; and was permanently excluded. (Expelled).

Apparently years of aggressive sexually explicit commentary wasn’t enough of a reason to discipline; much less get rid of the kid.

So Dozy never returned to the classroom.

And his pinched, ratty features are slowly fading from memory.  And I keep a close eye on all the boys now.  The second a sexually aggressive comment slips out; they receive a verbal tongue-lashing that is not easily forgotten.

Such is the legacy of Dozy.

Dozy was an unremarkable person except in two respects. Firstly: he was unable to communicate without aggression. The kid sounded like he wanted a fight when buying milk.  Secondly: he was singularly without a single redeeming feature.

Not one.

The perfect trifecta of human social excreta: stupid, sexist and racist.

[moderatelyirritated]

Miss Communication

It all started so well

‘Any questions,’ I asked. I had three minutes till the bell, and needed something that would keep them mildly occupied for a few minutes. ‘Did everyone understand the lesson?’

There was silence.

Someone coughed.

Then, in the corner of my eye, I spotted a small hand shyly raised up. The skinny elbow beneath locked and I spotted a tiny kid hidden behind the blonde lump that called itself John.

‘Yes?’ I smiled in the kid’s direction. John, confused by both the smile and my gaze in his direction, panicked and trotted out – parrot fashion – his most devastating piece of witty repartee, guaranteed to befuddle teachers and kids alike.

‘What’re you looking at me for? I didn’t do it,’ he muttered.

‘Do what John?’ I replied.

‘Whatever you think I did. Cos I didn’t. Do it I mean,’ he grunted. He stared at me for a few seconds, his mind obviously burning its last two brain cells for fuel. Then, clearly tired from the cerebral effort involved in trying to comprehend why I would be looking in his direction, he slumped into his chair and deflated into a uniformed, red-faced blancmange. 

As he sunk, the scrubbed features of the kid with his… I quickly corrected by first impressions… her hands up finally came into view.

The Million Dollar Question

'What is irony?' She asked. 

I smiled.

I smiled because it was an intelligent question.

I resisted the urge to caper, dance, and give her thirty-eight merits for asking a relevant question.

'Irony occurs when the normal expectations are circumvented and the unexpected takes place instead.'

She scratched her head and frowned. I found myself mirroring the expression.

Okay, let's try again. 'You see, irony is kind of like when you know something is supposed to happen, and then it doesn't,' I felt a swell of pride as her face lit up in comprehension.

‘So it’s like a surprise,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I grinned.

‘A rubbish surprise.’ She added.

‘Yes…’ the swell of pride that I had felt so briefly began to slowly circle the drain.  ‘No. Not at all. It doesn’t have to be rubbish.’

‘Sounds rubbish…’ She countered.

‘Okay, wait a second.’ I stepped back and bit a lip in both consternation and concentration. This was a simple concept. I understand it. Anyone could understand it. So why couldn’t I explain it?

‘Imagine a man falling off a building,’ I started, and then panicked at the look of concern and sadness on her face. ‘No, no, he survives.’

‘He survives?’  Her little voice was filled with hope and relief.

‘Yes,’ I continued.  He survives the fall. But then he gets run over by an ambulance.’

Her face crumpled, and I rushed to make my point before the flood of tears overcame her ability to understand. ‘That’s irony, you see. Because the ambulance is supposed to save people, and instead it hurts the man…’

‘It kills the man!’ She burst into tears.

‘Yes, yes, it kills the man. Which is sad. But it’s also ironic. Okay? That’s irony.’ I leaned back; both disgusted at myself and satisfied at the same time.

The bell rang. I dismissed the class and did my best to pretend that I couldn’t see the poor little girl crying her eyes out. The classroom emptied. I looked up and she was still there, crying.

‘There there,’ I said, from the comforting distance of ten feet, and then fled the classroom.

[moderatelyirritated]

10 Ways to Kill Mr. Smith

Me: Okay class, turn to the back of your books. We are going to be starting a journal. You can write anything you like in it, I won't be marking it in the typical way. I just want you to get some writing practice and to enjoy the process. Off you go. Fifteen minutes later. Me: Okay, would anyone like to volunteer to read from their journals? No? No one? It's okay, you don't have to, but I do think it would be nice if someone were brave enough to read just a few sentences that they've written so far. Yes? Okay, thank you Shaz. Shaz: I had a dream last night that I woz a princess and there was a well fit prince who wanted to marry me, but I wanted to go on big brother so he had to wait. While I woz in the house I accidentally snogged Chris, and the prince saw it on tele and when I came out of the house everyone booed and he never married me and I woz depressed. The end Me: ....... Well done Shaz. Vivid imagination. Classic story of a prince and a princess and the... er... public spectacle that is big brother. Right. Anyone else? Llwyn, are you twitching, or is your hand up? Okay, let's hear yours. Llwyn: I don't want to read it out loud sir. Me: Then why did you put your hand up? Llwyn: I want you to read it out sir, I'm too shy. Me: Okay then, hand it over. Llwyn: It's called 'ten ways to kill Mr. Smith. It's a story.  About you. Me: I see. I read. A few moments pass. The class is utterly silent, no doubt waiting for me to explode. Llwyn: Aren't you going to read it out loud sir? Me: I don't think so Llwyn. Llwyn: Why not sir? (masking a satisfied grin) Me: I don't want to embarrass you. Llwyn: I'm not embarrassed sir. Maybe you're the one that's embarrassed. Me: Maybe. It's a possibility. Llwyn: Go on sir, read it out. Me: Well, you see, it’s just that numbers 1, 5 and 6 could potentially work, if you had some grasp of conventional electronics and access to a high-powered laser. 

3 and 4 and physically impossible. 

Number 7 is charming, but you would have to be two feet taller and three stone lighter to have a chance of pulling it off. 

Number 9 has been ripped off from 'Lord of the Rings', and you are no Aragorn. 

Number 2 and number 8 make absolutely no sense; get the dictionary and check the how to spell 'entrails'. Llwyn: (silent for all of 10 seconds) What about number 10? Me: Number 10? I don't mean to be harsh, Llwyn, but number 10 requires a degree of physical flexibility and... erm... trimness that I don't think you possess at this particular moment in time. Llwyn: Uh? Me: You're too chubby. Llwyn What? Me: Nothing. Er... good work, Llwyn. Well done. Okay everybody, back to the reading exercise.

A generous impression of Llwyn.