The Lavender Hill Mob

We are officially 'good with outstanding features'. Well, hurrah for that, is all I can say. Having spent most of this week in a state of either manic hyperactivity or overwhelming tiredness thanks to the presence of OFSTED Inspectors lurking hither and thither, jumping out of corners and asking awkward questions about community co-hesion and differentiation, and assessment for learning and assessment for pupil progress (YAAAAAAAAAAAAWN - sorry, don't know quite how that one slipped out), I struggled home from work through the heat of Friday, had a shower, and lay on the bed, motionless, unless I felt less frazzled and fried and more human, and then I went into the front garden with my little camera and took photos of the Malarkey bees playing on the Malarkey lavendar.
Oh, I know they were working, but they looked like they were having fun in their work.

'Beatrice! Beatrice! Look at this gorgeous spot of lavender! Isn't it just marvellous, darling? Do come and have a forage!'
'Oh, but the choice is soooooo great in this garden, Beelinda! I fancy a bit of penstemon myself. The colours are divine. This red one tastes just like a strawberry daquiri. Or what about those poppies? Or the hollyhocks?'
'I've heard tell there's iris in the back garden...'
'Who's she?
'Shut up, Beatrice...'
Bees, I have discovered, are tricky things to photograph. And my little digital camera, whilst good at taking photos in general, is a bit slow off the mark when it comes to shutter speed. At least, it is slower than a bee. There was I, spread-eagled on the driveway, crawling commando-style through the borders, framing bees beautifully in the view-finder, and thinking, now there's a lovely photo. And clicking the take-a-picture-button. But by the time the camera had taken its time to think about it, the bee had flown out of frame and I ended up with various shots of the back end of a bee's bum.
Working with my camera is a bit like working with a particularly 'special' child at school.
'So, Stacey, what is it called when we FREEZE a character in drama so we can find out what that character is thinking?'
'Er...stopping?'
'No...listen carefully. We've done this lots of times before. If we have a FRAME of action, and we FREEZE that action, so all the characters stop moving, what's it called?'
'Stop the moving?'
'Well, yes, that's what happens. But there's a special word for it in drama, isn't there?'
'Is there?'
'Yes...we FREEZE the FRAME, so it's called a....?'
'Er...well...er...I DON'T KNOW, DO I? GOD, YOU NEVER TELL US NUFFIN'. HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW THAT?'
'Please don't shout, Stacey. You're making my head hurt.'

Anyway, I have discovered the best way to photograph bees is to do away with any pretentions that involve setting up a frame, getting the lighting just right, waiting for the moment etc, and just click, click, click away in a truly random fashion because the law of averages and the God of Good Fortune both dictate you'll catch something worthwhile eventually.

And what I caught has, as you can see, been scattered liberally about this post, like the Malarkey bees amongst the Malarkey lavender on Friday evening.
(But the zooming and cropping was ALL my own work!! And a couple of bumbles got in on the act too - now that IS what I call community cohesion!)

Very Off -STED

Hark! Can you hear the sound of a chicken running around with it's head cut off? Hmmm??

That'll be the noise of the pre-Ofsted panic then.

Two weeks before the end of term and HM Inspectors have decided to pay a visit tomorrow and Thursday, just as everyone is going off the boil, but the weather is boiling up. Personally, I think they've missed the zeitgeist. But hey-ho. You know the saying 'Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach. And those who can't teach become Ofsted Inspectors.'

('That's you stuffed on the karmic spectrum for the next two days,' says Mrs Miggins, who has come to see exactly which chicken it is who is careless enough to be running around with their head cut off. She suspects it's Mrs Slocombe. Again.)

And so, since THE CALL came in yesterday morning, everyone has been running around shouting 'DO THIS, DO THAT, DO THE OTHER, PUT THIS HERE, CHANGE THAT, EXCLUDE THAT CHILD WE DON'T WANT HIM RUNNING AROUND WITH HIS POTTY MOUTH AND ADHD/ODD/ADD/EBSD/ whilst the Inspectors are in etc...'

And when I say 'everyone', I mean Senior Management, who, to be fair, probably have more to panic about than those of us who had the foresight to resign ages ago, never more to darken the doors of teaching with our carefree and incompetent ways.

I have not been panicking. I see little point. Perhaps the Reiki training is digging into my spirit more quickly than I anticipated. 'Just for today, don't worry.' Good advice. What's the point in worrying? I'll do my best, of course, which as you know, hasn't been quite good enough for this school. I have submitted my detailed lesson plans. I have put together resources galore. I have gee-upped the children - 'C'mon, we're great! Let's show those Inspectors how much we have learned about 'Holes'/ 'The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas'/ Blood Brothers.'

I am awaiting to embrace the end of my teaching career with open arms.

Today, I've had various people arrive in my classroom, all starting their conversations with 'Could you do a favour for me?' One of these people asked me if my marking was up to date.
'Yes it is,' I said.
'I don't suppose you could help me with mine could you?' came the reply.

Ah, so that's how it works! People who do their jobs conscientiously, and keep on top of their work are rewarded by being expected to help other, less conscientious people, out of the sh*t.

Luckily, because I am in 'just say no' mode at the mo, I just said no.

Besides, I had enough of my own work to do, having been supplied with a shed-load of bin-bags and told to 'clear out the cupboards' in my room. Blimey, I thought, as they carted away one of my cupboards, 'I'm not even cold in my grave yet.

And as I was working on my lesson plans this evening, another member of staff appeared in my class,
'Ooh, this looks a nice quiet corner,' she said.
'Mmmmm,' I agreed, trying not to lose the thread of what I was writing, which was a particularly good bit of box-ticking jargon.
And this person promptly sat down, spread her papers across the desk next to me and spent the next twenty minutes talking to herself as she sorted out what she needed to do for the next couple of days.
I gritted my teeth. My classroom IS quiet. That's what I like about it. No noise. Plenty of peaceful atmosphere conducive to good lesson planning. Generally devoid of people making rambling, out-loud thoughts.

Luckily, just as I was about to ask her to 'SHUT UP I'M TRYING TO CONCENTRATE HERE,' she finished what she was doing, gathered up her papers and disappeared, presumably back the chaos. And then we had another after school meeting during which the FOUR assorted head teachers (count 'em - 4! Too many chiefs...?) forced out what I assume they thought to be encouraging grins but looked more like the Cheshire cat trying to pass a basketball, and the rest of the staff scowled back with a look of pure hatred in their eyes. Me? I doodled some flowers on a piece of paper and thought how nice it was that two Reiki teachers have contacted me
with a view to starting my training proper. And that I've already got a paying client waiting for me to set up business.

So there we go. I suspect there will be many exploded heads by the time Thursday afternoon comes.

One of them, God willing, will not be mine.

For I've done all I can. My mind is elsewhere. I was awake at 4.30 this morning so I got up and meditated for a while and then I wrote a poem.

Now that WAS a worthwhile use of time...