Reader,

I am an English teacher laid to waste in the first flutterings of the recession as even my profession came under threat. After a year of “time out” (much cheese was consumed, re-runs of 90s sit-comes watched and games of spider solitaire played) I decided to venture forth once again into the murky world of teaching…this time as a supply.

Let me paint the picture: I am good at my job, great in fact. The right combination of passion for the subject and ability to teach. The problems I had with teaching were never the fights that broke out in the corridor, the endless swearing and ringing mobile phones. Even having a table thrown at me didn’t really dampen my spirits (in fairness, the girl was actually aiming for another student…so no harm meant). What I couldn’t stomach, dear reader, were the teachers.

Teachers are an odd breed. We fall into three categories: there is the Newbe. Just qualified, full of energy and vim. Wants to make a difference, wants to change the world. Sees every bright little face in front of them as a pallet on which to paint a better future. Usually found in the photocopying room during lunch break, studiously preparing eye-catching graphics for the power-point displays whilst eating a home made sandwich.

There is the Worn-out Cynic. Hate and anger is this teacher’s fuel, the staff room is his turf, the same chair in the corner ever day at 1.15; his own private throne. He consumes cuppa-soup and the odd whithered peach. He lives to punish, to pick and push. He loves to see a child break if only for the greater glory of Meeting the Parents…who he quickly dispatches with his dribbling venom and that sardonic smile that never makes it to his eyes. This is a dangerous beast.

The third and final in our line-up and, in my opinion the very worst, is the Going on Fifteen. Found as male and female in equal measure, this odd creature is dangerous because, at first sighting, they look so harmless. They tend to smile allot and laugh and flirt and find everything ever so slightly saucy (”can you copy that in a larger font please” “oh er, I’ll give you a large font”…etc). They tend to wear clothes that are prone to popping open or shoes that the kids will salivate over. They are to be found mainly near the coffee making facilities (”You’ve got a big mug”, “Don’t I know it sweetheart”) and are always enthusiastically on time…if only so they can gossip over the water cooler. They only eat food that is en-vogue.

You see, what I didn’t realise when I first took up teaching is that teachers are those people that truly never left school. They are the geeky pleasers who so want to be loved. The keep-your-head-down victims who are out for revenge. And of course they are those who never wanted school to end; for who it really is a truth universally acknowledged that your childhood years are the best of your life.

I had expected a band of highly trained professionals. I got a year 11 disco.

I started off a Newbie and hope that is where I’ll be again. If I sound like a Worn-Out Cynic then it is because I have discovered what teaching is all about. Funding. Focus on targets and levels and five A-Cs. Climb the ladder, increase class sizes, get rid of class-support. Cut every corner you can so that teachers face up to their new roles of “deliverers of learning”.  Ignore the needy. Take the best teachers from the children who need them and set them on the top sets. Get that C. Get that C. Don’t push for anything higher. Don’t encourage those with less. A world of C class students, that is the government aim. If you want to be a teacher, have children. If you want to make a difference, become a street-sweeper. If you want to have your dreams knocked out of you before your turned on children and encouraged to do the same, become a teacher.

So, why on earth, after my year out, should I want to return to such a profession? Well, of course, money is a factor (in that I have none and this displeases my landlord somewhat). Perhaps if it weren’t I’d spend another year at home. I’d rather got attached to my life as a house-wife:

Kiss boyfriend off to work on Monday. Change sheets, do washing. Make bread. Tuesday trip to the library, find latest Mark Billingham or Jonathan Kellerman. Feel guilty to be utilising my English Degree to munch up murders so add a classic novel to my canvas bag, to be returned un-read next Tuesday. Make odd concoction for tonight’s dinner using my “What the Roman’s ate” cookbook. Wednesday involved writing my book and playing mindless pc games. Make Apple cake. Thursday started with eggs and soldiers and progressed to re-runs of Sex and the City, recorded from night before. More book writing and fruitless job searching. Friday would be a crazed house cleaning session that usually involved more than one type of cleaning product and, on one occasion, got so frantic, it ended with me stuck on the wardrobe.

I have loved this year. i have written a book and learned how to make puddings and bread. I have taken up painting and covered the house with odd canvases. I have worked out how to use ebay and have had my face booked. My plans were to begin making cheese. But they will have to wait.

Supply teaching beckons. In the UK, supply teachers are an odd bunch. They tend not to fit into any of the three categories of teachers. They are like teachers in that they teach but unlike them in that they Do Things Outside Of The Holidays. So, teachers with lives really. They are feared and scorned in equal measure by both staff and students alike. They are hated for their high earnings, mocked  for their lack of holiday pay, feared for their ability to end a school day that isn’t a Friday, with a smile.

After being initialised into this group of vagabonds, I understand why they smile. Oh, are the pickings rich. Every school needs you. You don’t have to plan. You don’t have to mark. You get good pay. You can go on holiday without making up an elaborate tail about your great aunt, her sudden illness and the funeral arranged for the south of France. You get, oh reader! you get treated like an adult! Fancy that!

Students, though they hate you at first sight, can be induced to warm to you (no magic tricks I’m afraid…children just like it if you teach them). You can be an exotic novelty or a frightening stranger but, after ten minutes, you usually find yourself being treated like any other teacher.

Having just entered this world of supply teaching I find the noose has been thrown over my head once again. I foolishly accepted a permanent position in a school in east London. Stats say OK grades, improved school (read between the lines on that one!), good behaviour (I stress, that’s good behaviour for an inner-city school. That is not the same as good behaviour anywhere else). My plan is to race through the rest of my NQT year. Put up with the in fighting, smile at the red tape, fill out the forms, in-put the levels, return the IPUs, mark the SATs, smile at the big-wigs….and get out as soon as I can! I have another book to write. I have mozzarella to make! I think, out there somewhere, I might just have a life to lead.

Think hard reader if a career in teaching is what you seek. Those who can, do. Those who can’t, don’t. Those who have no idea, might as well teach.