Frustration

06.09.11
Frustration is a dangerous thing. It can cause anger, a complete loss of patience and the inability to form a calm and logical thought process in attempting to talk to others.

I am a frustrated supply teacher. And at this very moment in time I am finding it difficult to stop myself constructing plans to seek revenge on council workers who have become, in Marvel comic terms, my worst enemies in the world of employment.

Let me try to begin explaining where my exasperation has come from.
After removing me from their supply list for no reason, a certain council in the West of Scotland (lets just throw ‘Dunbartonshire’ in there for a giggle)-then told me that I had to re-apply for the position (one which, incidentally has never given me any work up to this date), and in addition to this I had to pay a fee of £59 just to be back on that list. Furthermore, they sent me on a wild goose chase back and forth to the council buildings, then online to fill out further application forms, then back to the council (a 40 minute drive each way) just to give them said application forms and double-triple check it was me by photocopying my drivers licence and teaching qualification, (something they had already done). After all this, I was finally on that list- just to sit and wait another two years while they supply me with no work at all.

Now don’t get me wrong. I am certainly not blaming this council for the lack of jobs out there- it’s difficult. And for a supply teacher I understand that work is thin on the ground. However, I have been informed countless amounts of times in this particular council that positions are available in schools for supply teachers and they are simply not being advertised, or becoming inaccessible due to the outrageously high amount of admin and bureaucracy that goes into getting us registered. (Not to mention hefty money-making schemes just to squeeze a little bit more blood from our unemployed supply teaching stones).

This time last year BBC Scotland reported the figures for teaching to be 17 applicants for every 1 job. Things haven’t improved this year, if anything they’re worse. Teachers are now less likely to retire and if they do, continue working on in a supply role for the same position but with the added bonus of a pension. And where does that leave me? An unemployed supply teacher of 5 years at the age of 28 buried in useless paperwork and spending hundreds of pounds on petrol just trying to get on one of the most expensive lists in Scotland. It would be cheaper trying to teach the kids in nightclubs- they only charge a tenner on the door.

This year the BBC reported a massive shortage in male primary teachers, and overall unemployment rates this year have fallen by 8%. So what’s going wrong? Why is communication so bad? And why, when I walk into a council building does the secretary look almost scared to be there, while HR have no clue what to do about willing and highly qualified teachers? Someone let me in on this big secret because quite frankly I’m sick of being told I’m wrong, and someone with a lot of time on their hands is right and therefore I should go away and fill another form in.

I have been happy supply teaching for the last 5 years. It’s rewarding, fun and the kids in Scotland are fantastic to work with. It really is a shame that what my job has become is nothing but cut budgets, paperwork and a wall of confused office workers.

What’s funny?

Human nature is a funny thing.
We are, as humans, a whole big massive and dominant species. We got here because we’re intelligent and changeable and efficient at basic survival. Human nature is part of us, part of our every day life. It effects the decisions we make and the responses we give to various situations we find ourselves in. it’s curious and interesting and complicated and wonderful all at the same time.

There is one particular piece of human nature, however which fascinates me. And that’s the unnatural bit which separates us from any other living thing on the planet. I don’t mean the peculiar or unusual bits like hate, resentment, jealousy or frustration, all of these bits have actually been found in some primate species and are well on the way to being claimed by animals that fight or prove themselves worthy of the opposite sex. (All very much like human beings).

No. What I am referring to is that specific and magical piece of us which we alone claim as ours. It is the ability not only to understand humour, respond to it in a very obvious and yet totally unique way - but also our ability to create and carefully construct something in words and actions which, in themselves, are purely for the sake of laughing and to be appreciated as this thing called ‘funny’. And the strange thing about it is, it means nothing else. It’s not a survival technique. (Unless you’re in a bond film and feel the need to tell knock-knock jokes to get out of the clutches of professor ‘insert evil name’ by confusing him with witty banter). It doesn’t do anything to aid our health, our well being or even our ability to hunt, gather or procreate. So why is it there? What’s its purpose? Why is it such a huge part of us and why, most importantly of all, can’t we live without it?

Ok. So when I said humour wasn’t about surviving or procreating I wasn’t exactly honest with you. Actually, it is.
I’ve read a few studies, (and by read I mean watched a lot of Michael Mosley documentaries) which in simple terms outline ‘humour’ as the equivalent to an animal mating ritual, and for the purposes of this ‘study’ (I’m using the phrase very loosely here, because in truth I am neither an expert nor have I actually bothered to do much studying)- I shall use the Pacific Bull-frog as my example of why we laugh like we do. The Bull-Frog (let’s call him bob), puts on a performance. He doesn’t just ribbet, or stick out his chest, or dance- he actually does all three. He carefully constructs a beautiful show for female frogs to appreciate, consider and if they’re suitably impressed receive and mate with. Bob is an entertainer, and he does this basically to show off. (Remind you of anything?) Yes. In the same way many animals need to show they’re worthiness to the opposite sex, so do we as humans.

Ask any female who has switched her computer on in an attempt to find ‘the one’ without having to sift through a thousand drunk and incoherent twits in bars and she will tell you that above abs, wavy hair, nice skin, a lovely bum and a well-endowed wallet comes a sense of humour. Why? Well, because it screams intelligence. And I don’t mean knowledge. You can have 5 degrees in neuro-science and a PhD in micro-technology but if you can’t make a girl laugh you are on the road to many a lonely night with nothing but top-gear re-runs and a bottle of Stella to keep you company. Turn this on its head and look at the many comedians out there with stunning wives. They achieve this by being confident, sharp and clever- and with this often comes a lot of success and prestige. It’s almost considered a ‘Myth’ for a woman to be ‘talked’ into the bedroom these days- but ask around the comedy circuit and you’ll actually realise this is not a myth- bizarrely even in this day and age, in many cases its very true.

But this isn’t the final say in comedy and why we need humour. This is only one part. The other part comes with these delightful little things called endorphins, and they truly are human nature’s best friends.

It would be naive to think that humour is used purely as a means to getting your end away. It’s not. Consider the thousands of comedy clubs around the world and particularly here in the UK. The hundreds of comedy shows, and the plentiful supply of comedians making a living through making people laugh. If all this was to procreate we’d never get anything done. What this is actually about is that little ‘high’ humans get when they laugh. Connected to the mating ritual described above, endorphins give us a little ‘kick’ whenever we do something right to our body- like a little piece of encouragement every time we do something like eat good food, have naughty-cuddles and exercise.

Most importantly we get this little ‘kick’ when we laugh. In the same way that we find the opposite sex attractive because they’re witty, we also get deep enjoyment out of reacting to something funny- because laughing is good for us. It stops depression, it encourages human-interaction and it connects couples together in order to make babies and live happily ever after.

Therefore, in the same way that we have a rush of adrenaline from a roller-coaster that frightens the living bejesus out of us, we also get huge enjoyment through going to a comedy club and being able to laugh for three hours. Its natural, and its wonderful. And believe it or not, it’s completely necessary to the survival of mankind.

So go out, get a few drinks, meet some nice people and go to a comedy night- because that’s what funny is there for. To make us better human beings.


-Sarah-May Philo.

Springtime

When I think of spring a few things pop into my already very messy and over exhausted head. The first of which being “Thank god the snow is over, finally I can not only feel my nose but wear make-up that doesn’t clash with frost-bite blue” and the second being “ooh! New wardrobe!”

Now don’t misunderstand me. I may be quite the blonde ditz but I also concern myself with the more substantial topics of our society, the upcoming election, for example. I am very much looking forward to the heated debates between Cameron and Brown, jostling their fraught and in some cases extreme social opinions, (What was Cameron thinking when he prioritized fastest broadband ever over cleaning up the East End of Glasgow from drug dealers, pimps and over-stocked Lidle stores?!).
However as I browse the pages of BBC News online I cannot help but be slightly distracted by the bold and somewhat more attractive headlines of “Why didn’t Hitchcock’s blonde’s have more fun?” and “Nicolas Sarkozy accused of affair”. In both cases, I suspect, these journalists grossly underestimate Blondes and their ability to earn serious money through a smile and wink. This therefore brings me back to Springtime, and my wardrobe.

I feel it is my duty to re-introduce “New Season” wardrobe to Glasgow. I have noticed these past few minus-degree months that girls seem to have forgotten that your clothing should, in fact, change with the weather. Instead what I see on Sauchiehall street at 2am on a Saturday morning are a few umpa-lumpa type 17 year olds wearing nothing but a skirt/belt, a flippant excuse at high socks (definitely not marks and sparks, I checked as she was bending over to pick up a dropped chip), and a t-shirt just about covering the nipple area and with just around enough room to fit the words “Princess Bitch” on the front. Charming.

So I feel a campaign is in order. Get these little darlings off the pornographic/hypothermic catwalk and straight into a Gap store for some reasonable undies and a few lessons in spring-time fashionable updates. A nice dress and pumps perhaps. Some light organic cotton shirts and maybe some lessons in how to say “no” when approached by dodgy infestation-riddled boys in their 20’s. Spring should be about celebrating taking your Burberry coat off and replacing it with a nice cardigan from Miss Selfridge. It should not be about replacing your Burberry cap with a high-tailed scrunchy and doubling it up as a boob-tube. You have been warned. Happy Easter.

RE: Play.

Dear James,
I am writing to you in response to your post on the OUDS job shop. My name is Sharon Routledge, I am a first year at St. Hilda's and passionate about plays dealing with the persecution of homosexuals. I have a great deal of experience with silent roles and indeed have been assigned them almost exclusively since my acting debut in my primary school's nativity, where, in the words of one parent, I was 'upstaged by Mary's placenta'.
I trust you have never been subjected to (negative) comparison with divine afterbirth, but as you can imagine it does nothing for an impressionable young girl's self-esteem and since then I have been unable to speak on stage. I am then, in a word, ideal. Among my none-speaking roles in plays based in or around the second W.W. I have played the List in 'Schindler's List', a drape and subsequent dress in 'The Sound of Music' and exfoliator in 'Shaving Ryon's Privates'. I look forward to what will undoubtedly prove an exciting and challenging experience.

Yours sincerely, Sharon

Surviving Supply

This morning I read an online article- “Tips for teachers- how to survive supply”. I found this article quite fascinating, as the general message within these tips was the idea of being prepared- whether this was with stationary, ‘fun games for time fillers’ or simply just to be there early on the morning you start. Nothing about this article mentioned the experience you may have if it all goes horribly wrong- and to be honest I can understand why. If just one supply teacher wrote about their experience in a truly terrible school with a tough environment and no information, I doubt many people would enter into teaching- let alone supply teaching.

Well I’m sorry but I think I’m going to have to burst that ill-favoured bubble and who knows, you may still like the idea by the end of it. So let us begin: ‘The real survivors Story of the Supply Teacher’.

Day One.

As you walk into a new school there is always a sense of the familiar. There will be a school office with staff who don’t know who you are, and quite frankly as long as you are not a parent don’t really care either. Like everyone else in the state-school system they are most likely to be run off their feet and behind on paperwork that they would prefer to have roaring on an open fire (Preferably one lit in the office).

As soon as you say the word ‘supply’ a look of recognition will appear on faces- something between ‘I had no idea you were coming’ and ‘what should I do with you now?’ It’s usually at this point that they refer you somewhere else (without directions) or to someone else (who you will instantly forget the name of), and so the day begins.

First class is sometimes- but not always- a good one. The children are still sleepy and not yet full of sugar and caffeine so they tend to be docile and easy to manage. If you are lucky, the day will start well. If you are unlucky- which on most occasions you most certainly will be- you will be faced with the first of many challenges; Being under minded by other adults.

The first and most important thing to remember is, much like the office staff, the other teachers find it difficult to help you. They are stressed, tired and in the middle of organising their own classes so generally they will come in, give you work then run away again. The ultimate horror is when they explain to you-in front of the pupils- how to contact them if you can’t cope on your own. This roughly translates to anyone under the age of 14 as, “This poor sap is an easy target- fire at will”. Teachers will very rarely remember to tell you about discipline in the classroom, and almost never tell you where the nearest toilet is- or how to get a key to unlock it. (I can tell you from experience that trying to find this information out has about as much success rate as retrieving the hidden gold from the Rennes-le-Château).

If the communication within the higher ranks of a school is bad, it tends to be the case that a ‘domino’ effect will then ensue, right down through the ranks and departments until the poor suckers at the bottom (i.e. yours truly), feel the real sting. Schools where the head teacher is no-where in sight should have a warning light above the door- ‘ENTER AT OWN RISK’; because it is almost always guaranteed that your day will be a disaster throughout all departments. You will introduce yourself to what feels like hundreds of staff and pupils, each with a different idea of how the school should be, and is, run. You will sit in someone’s chair in the staffroom and get looks of distaste and reprove until you leave said chair, and you will almost definitely use the wrong mug, in return for which you will receive an all-too-obvious ‘leer’ from one of the other staff members- insinuating that you should probably clean it until you can see your own face on the side of it- (in between the ‘’world’s best teacher’’ slogan and a picture of some fluffy kitten in the middle…vomit).

But let’s fast-forward to the next part of your supply-teaching day, as the morning experience is relatively easy-going and vastly different to your afternoon. If you are fortunate enough to be told about the cafeteria, even more fortunate to have been given a card/code or in some cases a finger-print scan (yes, finger-print scanning for a school cafeteria)- you will probably experience a half-decent semi-warm and salt-free meal. If you are not part of these privileged few, I seriously suggest bringing your own food. Or you will starve and no-one will notice.

Lunch breaks are different in every school so be prepared to scoff in twenty minutes and sike yourself up for an afternoon of sugar-induced hyperactive teenagers…who will inevitably know you are new and love their new-found power. (To answer any doubts on this subject I will confirm right now that yes, they can indeed smell fear). This, quite delightfully takes us to the big number two in overcoming the supply challenge- your age. Anyone who tells you age doesn’t matter in teaching is deluded, or just young and attractive- and most importantly male.

I am short, blonde, young and female. This isn’t usually something I have an issue with- I’m quite happy to be in my late twenties and peroxided up to my eyeballs. However this does not in any way work to my advantage in the classroom- it is one of my worst enemies when meeting new classes and new staff. The pupils think I’m a pushover and the teachers think I’m a pupil.

Male staff in school more than anyone else will have a good initial chance of survival because young teenagers will size up to them in a very different capacity. Young boys will look up to them, and girls will just start having ridiculous hormone-conducted crushes, (I say ridiculous but to be totally honest I am not completely immune to them myself…something about a guy in control perhaps?) At any rate, as long as anyone entering the classroom can hold themselves well, keep a straight face and do not under any circumstanced pretend to be the kids best friend- there is a chance of survival. Easy targets in the classroom tend to be young, nervous teachers or retired Santa-types who just need a hot-water bottle and a pair of warm slippers rather than a room full of aggressive post-pubescent ingrates who, thanks to the training mum and dad have carefully provided, are well-rehearsed in torturing anything with a tie and a workbook.

Not knowing children’s names can be the worst part of supply teaching, so for every new class your best chance of survival is to immediately make a seating-plan- or else you are slowly, over the course of one very long hour, subjected to painful and humiliating torture in the form of stupid noises, giggling and offensive remarks. (You will learn their names surprisingly quickly after the first “Were you in FHM miss?” remark).

And at the end of the day? Well, after you have made it through two more excruciating hours of trying to find pencils, sharpeners, rulers, punishment exercise sheets and eventually your own sanity…you wonder to yourself why in hell’s name you didn’t wear flat shoes and a low cut top (it shuts the boys up). And as you stand before the office once again and ask for a time-sheet in order to generate some kind of evidence and recognition of your suffering that day, you may actually look back and reflect on a few highlights. These may come in the form of an occasional smile from a another staff member, a piece of cake you were offered in the staff-room and even a few comments from some friendly fourth years who liked your boots and wondered where they were from. But wherever these small highlights have come from- and whenever they will appear again, treasure them. Because these are the small perks of teaching- no day, as they say, will ever be the same as the one before.

The Taste of Strawberries: Magazine.