It's like this y'see...

It's Friday evening. I have a pimple on my tongue. I feel physically shattered. My left tonsil is still rumbling, although I am now able to swallow without pain which is good news given how fond I am of cheese on toast and the like. I should have had a couple of days at home, recovering. But I didn't. I couldn't. I have to soldier on, as I've only been back at work for four weeks.

And also, I've just been given a Year 11 class whose regular teacher spends several months an academic year off sick. So they've had a succession of supply teachers, and that's not on, not with their GCSE's looming large. They need someone reliable and constant. And that'd be me.

This morning, they weren't playing the learning game. They were playing the chat-over-the-new-teacher-who-can't-raise-her-voice-because-she's-got-tonsillitis game.

When I finally got their attention by constantly tapping a board marker on the desk (oh for the days when you could scrape your nails down a blackboard), I said, 'You are being unfair. I am here to teach you. (Or to help you learn, if we are to use the correct Government terminology whereby teachers are not teachers but 'learning facilitators'). I have been trying to manage my facilitating battling with tonsillitis all week. You know I can't raise my voice to get your attention.'
'That ain't our fault, you being ill,' said one of the thicker, less sympathetic examples of humanity.
'No,' I said. 'But I could've had time off sick and then you'd have had more supply teachers.'

There was a brief silence whilst the rabble considered this notion. Then one of the lads said, 'You're a lovely lady, ma'am.'
'You have no idea,' I said.

And I have attracted a follower, a scruffy year 8 girl, whom I shall call Grace. Because that's her name. She seeks me out at lunchtimes for philosophical discussions. She is like a cross between Del Boy Trotter and the Kray Twins. Today, she informs me she wants to be a human rights lawyer when she grows up. If she grows up, I think.

Now Grace clearly comes from a deprived background, so I try to give her some of my time as it doesn't seem like she gets much attention at home. She is always very keen to write my learning objective on the board for the lesson after lunch, or underline the date. Or staple displays to the wall. Sometimes I feel inclined to give her some of my marking as I have to mark over 80 exercise books on a fortnightly rotation.

And Grace always starts her conversations in the same way. 'It's like this y'see, ma'am,' she says. But sadly, I often never do see. Not fully anyhow. I do try as she rattles on in her own Kentish Cockney Vicki Pollard way, nineteen to the dozen, filling me in on her love life, her many siblings, her plans for the weekend, with occasional requests for a time check. She can't tell the time, Grace. I have a hugh clock in my room. I have to point out hands to Grace, and we tell the time in measures of how many more full rotations the red hand has to make before she sets off for her first afternoon lesson.

'Where are you off to now, Grace?' I say, as she hoikes her massive bag onto her shoulder.
'Dunno, ma'am,' she shrugs. 'I lost me timetable. And me planner. But I've got a tracker,' she finishes, waving a green level behaviour sheet at me.
'Why are you on a behaviour tracker?' I ask.
'Swore at a teacher, didn't I?' she says, sighing, but not really bovvered.
'Oh Grace,' I say.
'Don't worry ma'am,' says she, heading for the door. 'I'm not going to swear at you.'
'That's okay then,' I say, because I am getting a tad annoyed at all the ones who do.
'Nah,' says Grace, 'coz I reckon you'd swear right back.'

And with a cackle of a laugh, off she goes.

I've been wondering this week if I've made the right decision, going back to teaching.

But kids like Grace make you put off such decisions.

For one more day at least.