Throwing Chalk: diary of a trainee teacher

So there we are. A first meeting with the head of department. A man that looked as louche and laid back as it is possible to be. And still be a functioning, stand-up (and standing up) member of the teaching profession.

Unlike one of the other English teachers, Mr North, who I had worked with last year doing some creative writing sessions. Mr North is very smart and formally dressed in tie, jacket and sensible haircut. He is more accountant/Kraftwork.

The H.O.D. (is that the right acryonym for head of dept? - it looks good - so I'm sticking with it: The HOD) looks like a retired rock star. Or a crumpled playwright. Which is nice. Informal. Non-threatening... Although you sense a rage exists within him if needed. I'll try not to bring that out though, of course.

And with The HOD in charge it means that I get to dress somewhere inbetween the two poles - accountant/rock star - without feeling too self-conscious about slightly creased trousers or the fact that I can't be bothered wearing a tie.

I queued and waited and signed in at reception at Porringo College. Behind the many young people getting paranoid about their lack of EMI record contracts. EMI? Have I got that right? REM? ERM? One of those. They want money and they want it now.

The HOD came to meet me and gave me a brusque handshake. You get the feeling that handshakes are a little beneath him. *He really can't be bothered.*

We go and sit and chat in an empty classroom. He apologises for the smell.
"I keep opening windows..."

It smells like a 1000 years of school changing rooms compressed into one little classroom. Fuggy. Muggy. Dingy. Grimy.

But once you've sat there for a few minutes you forget about it.

He asks me how many hours I want to do. Gives me an overview of what happens in the college: it's results orientated, has a varied social mix; they're good kids really etc.

But they can be a bit boisterous... And a bit smelly too, it seems. Or else that's the staff...

It's not a subject I really want to get into.

I smile, say yes whenever appropriate and we're both quite anxious to just get the chat done and move on to other things. I want to go & take my library books back. See if I can find the mythical text book that might tell me all I need to know about *How To Teach*.

The HOD wants to have his dinner or sleep or cry or whatever it is that HODs do during their lunch break.

I get home & 30 minutes later The HOD is on the phone. I can start Tuesdays. All day Tuesdays. GCSE in the morn; A2 apres matin. I will be working with another member of the English dept. A teacher - tutor? lecturer? - at F.E. level - everyone's still called a teacher, right? A teacher called Bev. So, they could be male, they could be female. It doesn't seem polite to ask.

I say how delighted I am. I am delighted. Except as I only - *only* - need to do 75 hours teaching at the coalface, I don't want to end up doing 1200 - if only cos I'm not getting paid. And the not getting paid to work thing does still stick in my craw a little.

*On the job training.*

That's the positive way to look at it. It's just a pity that all my part-time PGCE student *buddies* are getting paid while they learn. Hey ho...

Hurrah!!! It's all *almost* happening. It's almost scary. But only almost. Not actually...

Posted by Stipey Sullivan at 19:16 Comments