Teaching practice memories

Even after all this time, I am still haunted by the dread of my first teaching practice. I had voluntarily signed up for active service at the chalk face, but in reality, it was the idea of getting away from home that really appealed, especially to live the legendary student lifestyle, with the promise of its attendant debauchery.

It all started out quite pleasantly, with the social activity only occasionally interrupted by inconvenient lectures - but grim reality was only just around the corner. This was one of the annual interludes known as teaching practise; fair enough I suppose, if you were supposed to be training as a teacher, but I had so far managed to block it out of my mind. All of a sudden, here it was, hurtling towards the present, at a speed that induced dread-filled panic and terror.

We had already been bussed out across Hertfordshire on brief school visits, but these were obviously to lull us into a false sense of security. We were now about to be handed out live rounds: this was grim, in-your-face reality.

Just to install a bit of confidence, one of the second-years tried to give us novices a few helpful hints: one of these was the revelation that if you clouted one of the little brats with an orange in a sock, it was possible to iflict severe internal damage without leaving any tell-tale bruises. All very illuminating but slightly impractical I thought. I preferred the less elaborate method of the tried and tested method of the elbow to the side of the head, accidentally delivered whilst performing a U-turn in the aisle between the desks.

Probably the most inconvenient aspect of teaching practise, was the need to wear clothes that were deemed socially acceptable in the responsible, adult world of the teaching staff, also contriving to ensure that these same clothes didn't smell too offensively. Anyone who had been brave enough to venture down into the New Hall washing room, would have been well acquainted with the sight and smell of abandoned clothing, all left to miraculously self-clean, by festering in a broth of pungent, grey scum for days on end.

The lucky schools that were to reap the benefit from our services were scattered over every far-flung outpost of the Hertfordshire countryside, so in order to deliver us to our fates before 9am, it was necessary for them to leave the college grounds at the crack of dawn. To a fresh faced eighteen year old, this was just adding insult to injury. I can remember making it to the dining hall in time for breakfast on one or two occasions, when I managed to grab the regulation allowance of porridge, toast and Alpen. The last minute arrivals would stagger in while the coach engines were warming up, lurching cold, dishevelled and hungry into the puke coloured vehicles. Apart from the sporadic, phlegm filled coughing fits from the smokers, we sat through most of the journey in stunned silence. Imagine the posture of troops in an amphibian landing craft, heading towards their fate on the Normandy beaches.

It was difficult to know who were the luckiest: those who were dumped off at the nearest school had more than an hour to pass in a stark and gloomy staff room; those who endured the longest bus-ride were ejected just before school began, with lungs full of diesel fumes and bladders stretched to bursting point.

Oh, the horror of those first few moments in the school: the smell of wax crayons, body odour and vomit; the effort of maintaining a rictus grin in the presence of the Head - aiming to fool him or her into thinking you were a normal person, but failing miserably. Worst of all was the sight of all those horrible little creatures; like people only smaller. They would hover around you in little groups, touching you and pulling your clothes, then beaming up at you, displaying their bogey encrusted nostrils. You suddenly realised that there was no escape and that you were trapped in this nightmare for another six and a half hours.

I vaguely remember those first few moments in the classroom with the real class teacher - supposedly my mentor and protector. She reeled off all kinds of essential information, but the words she uttered by-passed me completely, fluttering up to the ceiling, where they danced around like moths among the psychedelic kaleidoscope of poster-paint pictures and lop-sided mobiles.

The school bell sounded and a procession of small Chucky dolls entered the room, immediately breaking ranks and swarming around the room at random. Some of them came over to inspect this hairy, brown suited apparition that was before them, but were quickly dispersed in a magical fashion when the teacher clapped her hands three times. I made a mental note there and then to learn this trick at the first possible opportunity.

"Pay attention children"; as if she needed to say that - they were practically eating out of her hand.
"This is Mr Sharpe and he will be taking you for some of the lessons for the next three weeks. Will you all please say good morning to him".
I should have seen it coming: "Good mor-ning Mister Shar-arpe". My ears were assaulted by a sing-song chorus; if it had been bleated by older children, I would have interpreted as an act of such vicious sarcasm. The only possible recourse would have been to inflict as much serious damage on the group as possible before being inevitably overcome by the overwhelming odds.

Then I was then given the apparently momentous honour of taking the register. Momentarily baffled by the array of secret colour codes and strange hieroglyphics, I began to read out the names. Hysterics ensued all around when I made even the slightest mispronunciation. Perhaps I was ill when we were given register taking seminars. The register was obviously a big thing with this teacher. She knew I was unprepared and she was sadistically enjoying making me squirm.

In the Assembly Hall, all the kids sat on the floor while the teachers and students all sat around the edges of the room on vinyl covered chairs, specially designed to make farty sounds whenever you adjusted your posture. Judging by the thick aroma which wafted up from the floor in front of me, this was obviously being used as a cover for some serious, hardcore flatulence. Meanwhile, as the headmaster spouted all kinds of unintelligible nonsense from the front of the hall, two girls noticed me surreptitiously sneaking a succession of Treats to my mouth, in an effort to replace yet another missed breakfast. Just to make matters worse, the head then reprimanded one of the children for chewing.

When my final day eventually arrived, I was presented with a handmade card that I still have to this day. It was signed by all the children in my class… and with it was a bag containing about thirty packets of Treats.

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