One of my dearest friends, Amy, is the Headteacher of an inner city school in London (both her children were educated at Dulwich independent schools, went up to Oxbridge and have forged the finest of careers in their chosen fields).
Amy runs a very successful tight ship (OFSTED recently declared her school as 'Outstanding' in every category) and leads her school with vigour, dedication, determination and a passion that leaves the observer quite overwhelmed at her brilliant capacity to put 'great' into 'state'.
As for her school's Open Days....they don't exist as Amy has a pathological dislike of them and has never hosted one throughout her time as Head. Even when the school was persistently placed in the lower eschelons of the league tables, Amy refused to 'put on a show'.
Glossy brochures with staff and pupils trying their best to match. Staged lessons with carefully cultivated outcomes. Primed pupils with model answers to an array of potential questions. French cafes with stale croissants. Sweating Head with fixed grin expression. A million distractions obscuring the truth.
"We're open all hours," says Amy "and we don't disguise our warts!"
Enough said.
Thursday, 25 October 2007
Wednesday, 17 October 2007
State v Private...to be in or not to be in
When our children were mere babes, Colin and I started seriously considering schools. Actually, I'd already decided that we were to educate them privately (What else do you do in Dulwich with internationally renowned schools on your doorstep? Be real!) but I was keen to 'involve' my wonderful husband at every stage of their edcational journey.
To be honest, my state school experience as a practitioner sealed the decision for me long before the children came along. If I wished my children to grow up believing that crisps and Fanta are nutritional options for breakfast and that foul language (from parents as well as children) and fags in the playground is the norm, then a bog standard state primary it would have been. But no, my ambition and hopes for them circled much loftier heights despite the weighty consequences on the bank balance.
However, Colin had a slightly skewed tack on the notion of spending thousands of pounds to thrust our children towards society with clipped accents and roving eyes for designer labels when it could all be done for free, albeit with 'Sarf Lahndan' accents.
So, for a while, I decided to play the game and set about applying to state schools.
Despite being involved in the church, I avoided applying to the local all singing, all dancing local church school but aimed for the 'very good' state primary with the lovely new Headteacher (so I was told) and the other 'well meaning' school serving the local estate.
Enter 'Very Good State Primary School'. It went something like this ....As I entered the reception area, I was a little thrown by the distinctly pungent smell of urine and ventured along the corridor with adequately thrown up displays of children's work. I stood for a few moments, waiting for the admin lady (surely not the Head's PA wearing rubber flip flops and grubby skirt and top?) to acknowledge my presence. However, she made it very obvious that I was indeed disturbing her.
"Yes?" she uttered wearily still glued to her chair.
"I'd like to register my child for the nursery, if that's OK?"
" How old?"
At the time, Rosa was 2, with me and was being completely ignored by the Ms Muttonface.
"She's not guaranteed a place just because you register her early you know? If you just fill this out, we'll let you know when the Open Day is."
Justifyingly alarmed at her manner and wishing to meet the 'lovely new headteacher' , I enquired,
"Would it be possible for me to make an appointment to see the Head?" So that I could relay my first impartial impression of her newly acquired staff.
"No, you'll meet her on the Open Day. She doesn't meet new parents or show them around." No, not as long as you think you're ruling the roost, scattering potential new entrants back through the front entrance as quick as you could shout 'OFSTED'!.
"But surely, I can see someone of authority in advance of the Open Day - it might not be convenient for me on that day, whenever it is?"
"Try leaving a note for the Deputy Head - I'll pass the message on to her."
Needless to say, that I'm still waiting for that call and I've never discovered if the new Head would be the kind of person that I'd entrust my child's education to.
Enter 'Well Meaning School'. Having walked across the nursery playground (unchallenged) by the staff, I wound my way up the stairwell (also smelling of urine but this time with a hint of boiled cabbage) to the hovel known as the office. There I met a member of staff who failed to introduce herself and was new to the job. Pleasant woman but clueless and all alone without a competent colleague in sight. She kept apologising for not being able to find copies of anything I asked for, e.g application forms. It really wasn't looking good. I kept up the charade, exchanged numerous pleasantries and scuttled out clutching fodder for the recycling bag.
So, after that, I could smell the straw hats and stiff blazers at 20 paces.
Still, I won't give up just yet, there's always the Open Days.
To be honest, my state school experience as a practitioner sealed the decision for me long before the children came along. If I wished my children to grow up believing that crisps and Fanta are nutritional options for breakfast and that foul language (from parents as well as children) and fags in the playground is the norm, then a bog standard state primary it would have been. But no, my ambition and hopes for them circled much loftier heights despite the weighty consequences on the bank balance.
However, Colin had a slightly skewed tack on the notion of spending thousands of pounds to thrust our children towards society with clipped accents and roving eyes for designer labels when it could all be done for free, albeit with 'Sarf Lahndan' accents.
So, for a while, I decided to play the game and set about applying to state schools.
Despite being involved in the church, I avoided applying to the local all singing, all dancing local church school but aimed for the 'very good' state primary with the lovely new Headteacher (so I was told) and the other 'well meaning' school serving the local estate.
Enter 'Very Good State Primary School'. It went something like this ....As I entered the reception area, I was a little thrown by the distinctly pungent smell of urine and ventured along the corridor with adequately thrown up displays of children's work. I stood for a few moments, waiting for the admin lady (surely not the Head's PA wearing rubber flip flops and grubby skirt and top?) to acknowledge my presence. However, she made it very obvious that I was indeed disturbing her.
"Yes?" she uttered wearily still glued to her chair.
"I'd like to register my child for the nursery, if that's OK?"
" How old?"
At the time, Rosa was 2, with me and was being completely ignored by the Ms Muttonface.
"She's not guaranteed a place just because you register her early you know? If you just fill this out, we'll let you know when the Open Day is."
Justifyingly alarmed at her manner and wishing to meet the 'lovely new headteacher' , I enquired,
"Would it be possible for me to make an appointment to see the Head?" So that I could relay my first impartial impression of her newly acquired staff.
"No, you'll meet her on the Open Day. She doesn't meet new parents or show them around." No, not as long as you think you're ruling the roost, scattering potential new entrants back through the front entrance as quick as you could shout 'OFSTED'!.
"But surely, I can see someone of authority in advance of the Open Day - it might not be convenient for me on that day, whenever it is?"
"Try leaving a note for the Deputy Head - I'll pass the message on to her."
Needless to say, that I'm still waiting for that call and I've never discovered if the new Head would be the kind of person that I'd entrust my child's education to.
Enter 'Well Meaning School'. Having walked across the nursery playground (unchallenged) by the staff, I wound my way up the stairwell (also smelling of urine but this time with a hint of boiled cabbage) to the hovel known as the office. There I met a member of staff who failed to introduce herself and was new to the job. Pleasant woman but clueless and all alone without a competent colleague in sight. She kept apologising for not being able to find copies of anything I asked for, e.g application forms. It really wasn't looking good. I kept up the charade, exchanged numerous pleasantries and scuttled out clutching fodder for the recycling bag.
So, after that, I could smell the straw hats and stiff blazers at 20 paces.
Still, I won't give up just yet, there's always the Open Days.
Monday, 15 October 2007
I'm a teacher...GET ME OUT OF HERE!
The moment that I more or less gave up on state system is etched in my mind with a thick, indelible Berol marker. It had been a catastrophic day (dinner hall fight between some of the Year 5 boys surrounded a braying pack of girls with 'Bratz attitude' encouraging the impromptu midday entertainment), laced with wet playtime, rounded off by a staff meeting with an agenda that would challenge Goliath and finally, Ms Murphy (traveller mother to cocky but smart Seamus O'Reilly, Year 6, embracing a bottle of Jack Daniels in the playground at around 6pm. That'll be a call to our friends and colleagues at Social Services ...AGAIN! I was becoming distinctly weary of the hallowed corridors at Peckland Primary.....
Once I finally got home, kissed my sleeping angels and ate the dried up meal lovingly prepared by my other half, I decided to cheer myself up by reading up on London's problems in the Evening Standard and learnt that '10 per cent of London pupils are taught at private school'. Hmm, really?
The article flashed trends and statistics, borough by borough, of the percentage of families going private citing the difficulties many parents had finding a place for their children in the good schools which are over-subscribed or the fact that several London boroughs had state schools with bad reputations.
However, there was the obligatory 'fight-back' statement from the leader of the National Union of Teachers..."State schools offer high-quality education (has he ever heard of Peckland?). Sadly, too many people think that if you pay for it, it's bound to be better. This is just not true." Sorry Steve, not sure when you were last in an inner city primary classroom but I'm off to buy the Times Ed. There's bound to be a suitable post in one of those prestigious Dulwich schools for a despairing dedicated professional.
Once I finally got home, kissed my sleeping angels and ate the dried up meal lovingly prepared by my other half, I decided to cheer myself up by reading up on London's problems in the Evening Standard and learnt that '10 per cent of London pupils are taught at private school'. Hmm, really?
The article flashed trends and statistics, borough by borough, of the percentage of families going private citing the difficulties many parents had finding a place for their children in the good schools which are over-subscribed or the fact that several London boroughs had state schools with bad reputations.
However, there was the obligatory 'fight-back' statement from the leader of the National Union of Teachers..."State schools offer high-quality education (has he ever heard of Peckland?). Sadly, too many people think that if you pay for it, it's bound to be better. This is just not true." Sorry Steve, not sure when you were last in an inner city primary classroom but I'm off to buy the Times Ed. There's bound to be a suitable post in one of those prestigious Dulwich schools for a despairing dedicated professional.
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