In 9 years of teaching at Nuova Lazio High School, I've never felt the system so near the edge of collapse as now.
For once, it's not the kids (although their behaviour doesn't really help), it's the bloody staff.
I won't go into the details to a great extent except to say that we have 4 Deputy Principals.
|I know there's only 3, one's hiding. She's camera shy.|
Two of them are directly concerned with the reporting system and the content of the reports.
AND THEY"RE NOT TALKING TO EACH OTHER.
It reached a peak at the end of last week, when one locked his door, so the other one couldn't talk to him.
It makes the English Farces seem logical.
First we're told not to put in any results which have not been marked. This may seem logical, but it also means the parents of our wee angels are not informed of what they have coming up at the end of this term and the next.
Then we're told to put them back in.
Then we're told to get them back out, but to replace the results (or potential results) with Milestones achieved.
(e.g. Mary managed to write her own name today. We're so glad. Seeing as she's leaving school tomorrow)
Which we're supposed to make up on the f*cking spot, with no reference to curriculum levels or anything else to do with what we're supposed to be teaching.
Oh yes, did I mention that we're due for a visit from ERO in about 6 weeks? (This is like HM Inspectorate, they check that the schools are doing what our political masters are telling us to do)
So half the staff are so f*cking enraged that they're ignoring the instructions of one, but not the other. And the other half are so cowed that they're obeying the instruction of the other, but not the first.
I predict (pray on bended knee actually) that some heads will roll.
It would be easier to lock Pompous and Ringo in a darkened room and tell them that only one can get out. Then we dump in 5 rabid rats and D*****n, the psychopathic wand wielder from our "special" unit.
Then we shoot the winner as he emerges.
The whole bloody place would run much smoother with just Runner and Temp.
|The real Gods of Aotearoa|
I am not a Godbotherer in any shape or form, but I feel an overwhelming urge to prostrate myself to the Rugby-playing Gods of Aotearoa (and didn't we smash the poor Bog Trotters 42-10; go the ABs) in grateful and everlasting thanks that this year I have absolutely f*ck all to do with the reports setup, or any minuscule part of the entire, completely fucked-up process.
Then we have the parents' nights to look forward to.
This is when we tell the parents of little arsehole Johnny that he's really been misunderstood all of his life, and that he's not an arsehole, but just a terminal rectum.
|This is an arsehole. (Sorry, a little Kiwi joke)|