Will he won't he 2014

So, the news is out.  The BBC, ITN, Points West were all at the press conference.  Reuters have been brought up to speed, and the lucky ones who were in the room at the time have been interviewed, their images bounced around the globe in the syndicated clips from the press.  What are they reporting on?  Of course, the big news from Badock’s Wood:

I am NOT going to camp this year.

Many regular subscribers to this nonsense will know that the will-he-won’t he decision about my Exmouth attendance is an annual internal monologue.  After the success of last year’s camp – which I swore would be the last – I started to waver.  Could I do it?  Could I manage one more?  What would be the ramifications if I did? I just started to think about it …

…when I had a change of heart, and a decisive one.  The amount of grey looking back at me in the mirror made me do it.  No, camp didn’t need me, and there were other people waiting in the wings, trained by yours truly, to take up the baton.  So I had made the decision.  I was happy with it.  I even did the most final-nail-in-the-coffin thing imaginable: I told the wife. 

So that was that.

It was no secret that I planned to pass the baton over to a fellow camper from last year, and a few selected others.  So when one of the chosen informed me one Monday morning that she wouldn’t be going, I had to do some radical rethinking.  Could I really?  Should I really?  Could I tell the wife I had been wrong?

Then, one evening, some of the others started to circle around me.  I sensed a trap, and trod with extreme care.  This could go badly. I might have to agree to something I didn’t want to. Or, even worse, spending money.  As it transpired, we wanted the same thing, ie, they wanted to go and I didn’t.  Negotiations began.  Negotiations continued.  An amicable settlement was reached.  The decision was made again.  It took the best part of 11 seconds.

I should point out at this point that the decision has nothing to do with my feelings about camp:  I still love it, and will continue to support it whether I go or not.  However, people throughout BS10 must have wondered what that strange noise was recently: it was my knees, my back and my right hip breathing a huge sigh of relief when they found out I wasn't going.  

There are, I freely admit it, things I won’t miss.  Such as:

• ·         Wrestling children into bed on that first night;
• ·         Telling them, for the seventh time, they do not need another wee at 11.45pm;
• ·         The zig zags;
• ·         The smell of the drying room.

However, in making the decision I would not go, it meant making certain sacrifices.  I will miss, miss terribly:

• ·         Watching the sheer joy on people’s faces;
• ·         Being a privileged observer of the successes;
• ·         The excuse to eat clotted cream on a flapjack at any time of the day;
• ·         Standing in the middle of the sea, with children surfing all around me, and thinking “I did that”.

Those who know me best know that it is this last one I shall miss most of all.

On the day, I shall wave the gang off with much excitement on their behalf, and not a little envy on my own.  But I am extremely happy in my decision, and hope that my small contributions to the event will make a difference.  (And I will still pop up on watersports day.)

Because here’s the truth: when it comes to memories, I have a tent full.  For every hour of sleep lost, I have a memory gained, an unforgettable moment shared, some magic woven.  It’s time for others to be let in on the treasure trove I have been privileged to gaze into for many years now, and I don’t begrudge them a second.    When I see them off the bus on the Friday evening, suntanned faces and exhaustion heavy, but full of new found life force, I will take no small pride in what my colleagues and our children achieved.

Magic is still magic, however far away you have to stand to weave it.

From me, that is all.

What Nanny Willis (might've) said

As term 5 comes hurtling to an all-too-soon curtain, I wish to make an alarming confession:  I have tried to write a blog several times this month, only to find myself despondently stabbing the crumple and throw into the forlorn looking bin button.  So much has happened, so many things cemented (and demolished) that I have sat at my laptop three times and tried to blog, but have miserably failed.

One idea occupying my ethoughts has been displays and learning environments.  Although I still have much to say, these seeds are still waiting to take full shape in the unloved, overgrown weed patch of my mind.  Improvement planning has also been at the forefront of my mind, but that's not a blog - at least not one that will make sense to anyone other than those who have the misfortune to be paid to sit in a room and listen to me ramble on about pedagogy.

Mostly, I have been thinking about positivity.  The power of positive thinking / talking / acting / being.  As term 5 is so short, I have reasoned with staff and pupils, how on earth can it not be fun?  How can our attendance be anything other than brilliant?  With so few chances, why wouldn't you make your books amazing?  Our assemblies have been filled not with answers, but with questions, and I have done no singing this term - just dancing (much to the chagrin of year 5).  Let's keep it upbeat everyone.

However, you can't do this halfheartedly.  You cannot be positive on a whim.  A painted smile is no smile at all.  You need to embody it, empower it, live and breathe it.

Because it's infectious.  It's relentless.  It's brilliant.

You get a small group of people - a happy cabal if you like - who start it off, and you can't stop it.  Although the feeling is undeniable, you can't really sum it up, until small but incredibly important things start to occur: children rewarding teachers in assembly, children giving up their lunchtime to volunteer, reconciliations being forged of their own will, a game of volley ball at lunchtime that encompassed ages 5 to ... 37 (she says.  We think it's more like 42 but, hey ho).  Even I got in on the act, offering to take a forfeit if key stage 2 could do the unthinkable and keep the toilets clean.  They did.  I took it.  Days of pain ensued.

May dear old Nanny Willis always used to say: "When it comes to positivity, you lay the ground work, and the building builds itself." (Alright, she never technically said it, but she was a thoughtful, very, very funny lady who never, even in her most painful, asthma ridden years, stopped smiling.)

It has been such an enjoyable and successful term, for all sorts of reasons, made all the more remarkable that it lasted a grand total of 23 working days.

But here's the real big news, the thing people keep forgetting - the best thing about term 5 is that it's followed, like an overly enthusiastic spaniel, by term 6.  And what better time is there to really kick start new projects, than term 6?

Sure, we're trying to cram even more in than we did in terms 3, 4 and 5 combined, such as reports, sports day, curriculum planning and transition, into an ever decreasing number of days, but what promise! What optimism!  Amongst all the usual fun, we have so much to look forward to (and I genuinely mean look forward to - no joke intended).  A new curriculum, new methods of assessment, new colleagues, new ideas.
You see, there is nothing more positive than the promise of something utterly new and exciting.  Except maybe, a happy cabal in a primary school.

Keep on smiling everyone.  You never know who you might infect.

Until the craziness that is term 6 is in the ascendancy, that is all.

The BIG Questions? Oh, you mean the REALLY BIG questions...?

What is everyone so worried about?  What’s the fuss?  It can’t be that awful, can it?

As a professional, surely we should be taking our creativity and expertise into overdrive, shouldn’t we?  Why should we be asking “why?”? Why aren't we demanding, hands-on-hips indignation, “why not?”?

I think this can be great, can’t it? In fact, could we go so far as to say that this could be our finest hour?

Only when we ask the big questions do we get anywhere, don’t you think?  That’s why we had the idea that the new curriculum should be loaded with questions, shouldn’t it?  These are only our first suggestions – we hope you like them – what do you think?

“How do you make the purple, and how does it sound?”

“How many Bristols are there around the world?”

“Where did that mountain come from?”

“Was Hadrian's building firm the first example of private enterprise?"

“What do those musical notes actually mean?”

Don’t you think that sometimes we get far too obsessed with answers?  When did the questions become less important?  The joy, the craft, the sheer art of discover surely never started with someone saying “I know that already thanks” did it?  Did we get as far as we have by people like Mozart / Moliere / Michael Angelo / Madge from Neighbours saying “It’s alright lads, we’ve got this one covered”? 

Did the code breakers at Bletchley, or the people who deciphered the Rosetta Stone, or the people who attempt to listen to Shane McGowan, all start with an answer?

Don’t you think this could be great?  Shouldn't we be using this as an opportunity to design and build something really exciting?  For once, couldn't we do it as a united profession that shows everyone how creative and passionate we are?  Did I leave the iron on?

Could we not take this new curriculum, with all its little idiosyncrasies, and transform it into something truly amazing that children up and down the land will be desperate to discover?  (Maybe the kid who put question marks after everything in Thunders and Lightning had a point after all?)

It could be amazing, couldn't it? Why not?

That is all….?

What will it be this time around?

Two years ago it was Phineas and Ferb.  I enjoyed that one.  Many of them were intermingled with some Tom and Jerry, but on the whole it was the brothers of fearless innovation, and the semi-aquatic egg laying mammal of action, who took centre stage.  The reason?  I used it as a shining beacon, an example based upon respect, trust, fondness, and good old fashioned fun.

Last year it was Dungeons and Dragons.  We examined each character in depth, then discussed how they made a valuable (or, indeed, negative) contribution.  We considered how each member of this group made it greater than the sum of its parts, how they would each step up - albeit reluctantly - when required.  We talked about Hank's courage and leadership, Diana's dynamism, and Eric's stupidity.  We evaluated how they had to - sometimes subconsciously; often unwillingly, consistently successfully - overcome unbearable adversity, regularly manipulated by a one horned, skirt wearing sorcerer or a 5 headed female dragon.

Isn't that always just how it goes?

Naturally (and I can see all you D&D fanatics getting closer and closer to your monitors in anticipation) I chose as my finale the episode entitled "Dragon's Graveyard".  I can still recall the Thursday afternoon, sat in my Nan's lounge, when I first saw it, and was struck in fear of mortal peril whilst being unable to turn away.  I watched the faces of the collected audience as they had their first experience of the graveyard, and the powerful lessons it delivers of humility, forgiveness and caring.

(I've only just thought of it, but I could use Flash Gordon.  There's a brilliant bit in the film where Flash helps Lord Barin instead of sending him to his doom, and Vultan asks what madness is this.  "Humanity" enthuses Zarkov.  Now there's an assembly for the future...)

Anyway, you may well be asking what on earth I'm going on about.  (That's if, and it's a big if, you've made it this far.)  Of course, I'm talking about my last two term 5 assemblies.  Followers of the SEAL structure will know that Term 5 assemblies are based on "Relationships", and I have used the cartoons and images mentioned above to give children tangible images and examples of how effective relationships work, and , more tellingly, what factors are present when they don't.

I have no problem confessing that my original motivation for this was simple: it was often the theme / topic I looked forward to the least, and as we all know from our teacher training days: if you can't get enthusiastic about it, how can you make others enthusiastic?  Over the course of the terms, around 6 or 7 weeks, I have used lots of examples and scenes from these two cartoons, as I have been able to talk to children about making relationships work, the sacrifices that have to be made, the consideration and time successful relationships often need.  We also talked about negative relationships, and what makes them so bad.  Tom and Jerry serves as an extreme starting point, but the lessons don't lurk too far beneath the surface.

So, having already completed all the prezis for this week's assemblies, my thoughts turn to term 5.  In which direction shall we go this year?  Who will serve as our examples this time around?  Who will be our paragons of relationship virtue, and who shall be our poor relations?   Far from thinking about fictional boys in a fictional city in America, and even further than a group of high school children thrust into another realm (and a whole world away from an American footballer on another planet -literally), I'm thinking of a group of people a little closer to home.

Indeed, I'm thinking of a group of people who have made a competition out of how many books they can put on my desk whilst I'm out.  The same group of people who had issues with one another in term 3, especially of a racist nature, but who have worked hard - collaboratively and collectively - to improve this situation.  The same group of people who have worked tirelessly to improve our dining hall, our playgrounds, our corridors and our lunchtimes.

I'm thinking of our children.

I have been utterly spellbound during recent weeks about how much energy, effort and - seems so small but is oh so important - care our children, right from the inquisitive nursery newbies to the seen-it-all year 6 gang have put into school.  One Thursday morning, things weren't quite right: one of the toilets was broken and there was someone not from our school bring disrespectful in breakfast club.  Who put these things right?  Our children.  With sensitivity, diplomacy and (I'll say it again) care, they did what needed to be done to sort out these issues.  The day began more peacefully.  Relationships carried us through.

I was returning from one of my trips to the Children's centre recently when I noticed a group of children - in our colours - on the wrong side of the road.  They also had a load of adults with them I didn't recognize.  Furthermore, they looked like they were having a party.  When I got closer, I was reassured when I saw emerge from the park their teacher with (one of our local celebrities) Mark the Park keeper.  Our reception children, and a large group of parents, had been invited into the park to plant lots of trees and bulbs in the community.

Two days later, upon hearing the sad news that our new park had been vandalised, instantly the thoughts turned not to retribution, but to reconciliation, and as to how we could make these people our friends, hopefully becoming a part of the group who enjoys it, as opposed to an outsider who will not.  One of our year 6 boys was quoted in the Evening Post about what should be done.

Upon announcing the illness of a member of staff recently, I was humbled by the reaction of the class.  "Is she okay?" they asked.  "Can we talk to her?".  "Shall we send her a message on twitter?".  One of our more mature friends made sure it was a quiet moment when she said to me "you will tell us how she is, won't you?"  I felt extremely humbled, and very proud, to be a part of such a web of intricate yet such strong relationships.  It was all driven home when one of our bigger lads, never famed for his sensitivity, came back in after school with his Mum and asked "Is she going to be okay?".

In times when children all too often get accused of not being able to care less, I could not conceive how they could care more.

So the stars of term 5 assemblies may well be the very people in the room.  And, for once, I will really look forward to such a topic.

That is all.

Have you ever seen a beetle on a big dipper in Bristol?

As Term 4 starts and February waves its tear stained hanky in adieu, I though it only fitting that we take a quick peek at what's happening in the world of Badock's Wood.  I also have one eye during these net musings on something lumbering into view in the distance - the new curriculum.

Once again I have to sit here and state, with almost gratuitous smugness, that I am enormously pleased with the curriculum we have built.  Key stage 1 are learning all about minibeasts, and have turned their attentions to transforming their corridor into a subterranean terrorscape.  Years 3 and 4 are discovering how amazing their home city truly is, without even mentioning a bloke in a top hat.  At their rather cool end of the corridor, years 5 and 6 are embarking on their topic of Thrills and Spills, a mechanical and technological tip toe around the fairgrounds of the world.  All in all, you could say, its pretty cool.

Added to that, I sent a year 5 boy in to year 4 the other day to teach numeracy (this isn't budget cuts; this is a #placeoflearning).  I observed reception on Wednesday, and saw how they are developing as confident and inquisitive learners, then observed year 6 today and noticed how the children of Southmead collaborate without any issue.  The children walked into assembly this morning to be greeted by one of our year 3 girls playing the piano.   One of the year 1 boys has been teaching most of his class about hundreds, and our year 4s have been marking each other's (extremely long, detailed and adventurous) writing with diligence and detail.  I awarded my first Aspire Achieve Enjoy award at 10.10 on Monday morning, and my last at 3.15 Friday afternoon.

On my way down to a vibrant and busy early years from my desk in the corridor, I was struck by two things:

1 - How engaged key stage 2 were

2 - How engaged key stage 1 were

The place even smelt busy.  This doesn't happen by accident.  A number of factors must converge and #playtheirpart in order for this to occur.  Primarily, the incredible conscientiousness of my colleagues.  Equally important, the diligence of the learners and of the learning.  The environment has to be conducive to success, and the routines and surrounding / supporting cultures embedded.  And the curriculum has to be exciting.

You can have all the tools, gizmos and gadgets in the world of education and beyond, and as much money as you can print.  Yet if the curriculum isn't right, and it isn't delivered in a vibrant, dynamic package by skilled practitioners, its all for naught.  This morning, this week, have reminded me of that repeatedly.

So, it is with not a little trepidation that I contemplate the new curriculum.  I am most looking forward, I think, to classifying rocks and soils one afternoon in year 3.  That sounds exciting.  Doesn't it...?  Furthermore, I cannot wait to get to grips with looking at British history that must be taught chronologically up to the point at which we emerge from the pondweed.

Where's the fun?  Honestly, I have to ask myself what was in the tea at this meeting.  Furthermore, it seems somewhat counter productive that, in remaining a proud local community and authority maintained school, we have to opt in to this stuff, whereas our freedom friends can opt out.  Where's the equality of opportunity for children there?  Where's the moral imperative?  Once again I cry, where's the fun?

Fear not.  As ever, I have something of a solution, packed in a compromise wrapped up in the cloak of an agreement.  Our children will receive the new curriculum.  Our school, as ever, will meet its legal and statutory obligations.  On our terms.  Our children will get rocks, and British pondweed to the third century, but they'll get it packaged in our own brand of curriculum, something exciting, enjoyable, and irresistible.  They'll get their legal entitlement and their beetles, their big dippers and their Banksys.  And still, year 5 will teach year 4, reception will continue to grow in confidence and stature and the children of Southmead will collaborate in their learning.

There's the fun.  There's the imperative.  It's all too easy to view these issues as a trial.   I see them as a privilege.

From a brilliant term 3, a fantastic February and a promising start to term 4, that is all.