Having proved myself in my performance management this week as an outstanding teacher in my new school, I had cockily invited the Head to pop in 'any time'. Obviously any time does not mean period 5 on the Friday before half term!
My Year 11 students have worked like dogs since I arrived. They are producing work that they could only have dreamed of six months ago; but not today. We were having a bit of fun. They have been stuck in a computer room for a month and will be again after half term. Therefore when the Head arrived this afternoon it was unfortunate that one of the alpha males was dressed as a woman, a more able A grade hopeful was giving it gangster speak, the Jeremy Kyle theme tune was playing and every other word on stage happened to be 'shag'.
I was watching the horror unfold assuming that as I get on with both the Head well enough, and my Year 11s extremely well, one of them would do something to stop the carnage. Surely he would leave or they would stop and we would all make polite conversation until he respectfully WENT AWAY. It didn't happen. The Head stayed and watched the car crash unfold and due to a combination of nerves and exhilaration, the dreadful improvisation went on for about 10 minutes. They'd only been devising it for 10 minutes - how could it last that long in performance?!
I couldn't decide on the spot,whether 'shag' is a word that can't be used in school drama. I let it go once assuming that it could have been missed by our leader. Wrongly assuming that the students wouldn't then take that as a green light to use it as often as possible for the remainder of their piece.
The correct teacher response would have been (a) stop the (already shit) drama and correct the use of possibly inappropriate language and (b) make a point of the fact that Year 11 students could have achieved so much more with the stimulus given. Unfortunately, this harassed and strung-out-newly-crowned-Head-of-Drama tried the following: (a) whooping up the crowd into a Jeremy Kyle frenzy hoping to blank out what was happening on stage and (b) sidling up to Head, WINKING (really, REALLY?! WTF?) and saying sotto voce, 'it is so nice to have a bit of fun just before half-term, isn't it?'
He left then. ;-)
Friday, 23 October 2015
Saturday, 8 August 2015
Come fly with me...
I'm struggling at the moment. A lot. I'm going on a long awaited holiday on Wednesday and at this current moment in time I'm not sure that I can get on the plane. Bit odd to share it with the masses but my husband doesn't want to hear it anymore and I would like my bezzies to have a little break so a bit of public declaration is obviously what is called for?!
I used to be terrified of flying. I'm not sure if it started as a child when I landed in Perth in a horrendous thunderstorm. Or when we did an emergency landing in Abu Dhabi and my mother slept through it and denies all knowledge to this day. Or possibly it was my Dad as our jumbo chugged along the runway on the edge of a cliff at Auckland airport, chuckling, 'I'm not sure we're going to make this!'
Who knows? Anyway, what I did a lot as a child became a huge problem for me as I hit teenage years. Julie will remember me chatting up American businessmen at the age of 15 to distract myself from take off. Katy and Aly will have not particularly fond memories of me hanging out until the seatbelt sign went off as we went to Greece and we legged it to the back of the plane for a fag (remember those days)? My fail safe solution to flying, (and possibly to everything ever), was always to become completely legless before getting on a plane. In fact, Katy and Aly will again remember a trip to Skiathos in our twenties which has the most ridiculously short runway that we had to go around twice to land on on the way out. On the way back I was worried we wouldn't make it into the air, (they were weighing our luggage - to be honest, I think there were some fat people they should have been weighing too if it was that tight), and so I downed a bottle of vodka at about 8am. That is pushing it, even for me. The key to getting shitfaced on flights is doing it at the right moment. There is that nasty pause between boarding the plane and the drinks trolley coming around to you, where you want to be nicely pissed but not a blithering idiot. I've not always managed that balance so well.
I was in Turkey when September 11th happened. Not a great combination for a fuckwit like me. I remember talking to my Dad on a payphone and explaining, (quite rationally I thought), that I would just find a little boat and come home that way. See you in a few weeks then. At great expense, over a period of a number of days, he managed to talk me around to getting on the plane. It was not pretty and I'll leave that one there.
I had a rather disastrous trip to New Zealand where my poor parents had treated Stu and I to first class flights with them. I knew I would be scared so I responsibly went to the doctor and got a stock of valium in order to cope. I didn't read the 'no alcohol with valium' rule however, and cheerfully popped the pills and drank the plane dry of Dom Perignon on the first leg, leaving me on a hideous and collectively painful come down from Hong Kong to Auckland. Oops.
When I had Zak, I decided that the time had come to become a responsible adult and do something about this so that I didn't pass it down to the next generation. I did a BA fear of flying course at Heathrow that was amazing; cost a fortune, but was worth every penny. You spend the morning with pilots finding out the mechanics of planes. They related everything to driving which worked a treat for me, as, being such a control freak, the fact that when it sounds as if they have turned the engines off is just the same as you taking your foot off the accelerator a bit made perfect sense. The afternoon was spent with psychotherapists who explained in detail the nature of phobias. It was hilarious to see how many people sheepishly put their hands up to admit that they had checked the weather a million times that morning (there was a flight at the end of the day).
It worked! It really did. For a few years I flew without fear and looked forward to holidays without the dread associated with having to get there first. I went to Las Vegas for Shell's hen do. I remember as we went through a rather serious bump of turbulence over the Atlantic, Aly looking at me on that flight, and then looking again to check that I was still reading my magazine and drinking my glass of wine rather than digging my nails in to her and screaming. I flew in a six seater jet from Luton to Exeter and was fine. Nana was with us at the time and at the age of 90 she managed to get on with it so I thought that I probably should too.
I know nearly as much about flying now as most cabin crew. I had Sam, (who is also normally a little bit aviophobic), in fits of laughter last night as I told her that it was so ridiculous that you were statistically more likely to be kicked to death by a donkey than die in an air crash, even if you didn't spend your life with donkeys! It should put it into perspective.
So what's gone wrong this week? I don't know if I'm honest. The anxiety has crept back over the past few years, probably as the children don't keep me so distracted on the flights now that they are totally self-sufficiently plugged into IPads. This year is worse than ever. I have been veering from insane to hysterical over the past few days, with no obvious cause. If I'm honest the suicidal pilot in March did throw me slightly into meltdown even then - I've always thought that whatever else goes wrong you can trust in the pilots! My dear long-suffering husband deserves a medal. He is entertaining the idea with almost a smile on his face, (although if I'm honest I think it could be him that is verging on hysteria, but possibly more silently), that we might have to chuck 3 grand down the toilet and drive to France for two weeks instead. I'm hoping I get a grip before that happens though.
I read 'THE' fear of flying book in one sitting today. I'm not cured. Apparently there is a lot of mental rehearsal that needs to be done before I will be. Something to do with memorising song lyrics. I'm not convinced. I'm obviously not helping myself as my immediate thought was 'what the hell use are memorised song lyrics when your plane is crashing?' Hmmmmm. I'm fully away that I'm my own worst enemy. This flight anxiety is probably only a small piece in the jigsaw at the moment but it is the easiest thing to focus on.
Fingers crossed. By that I mean, fingers crossed I actually head to the airport on Wednesday and don't go via Dover and a massive unnecessary bank loan. I'm hoping that the public 'outing' might shame me into getting on the plane on Wednesday, rather than publishing random pictures from France without a location on. Let's see. I'm promising nothing but am fully aware of the cock that I will be if I don't make it to Greece. Thanks for listening.
I used to be terrified of flying. I'm not sure if it started as a child when I landed in Perth in a horrendous thunderstorm. Or when we did an emergency landing in Abu Dhabi and my mother slept through it and denies all knowledge to this day. Or possibly it was my Dad as our jumbo chugged along the runway on the edge of a cliff at Auckland airport, chuckling, 'I'm not sure we're going to make this!'
Who knows? Anyway, what I did a lot as a child became a huge problem for me as I hit teenage years. Julie will remember me chatting up American businessmen at the age of 15 to distract myself from take off. Katy and Aly will have not particularly fond memories of me hanging out until the seatbelt sign went off as we went to Greece and we legged it to the back of the plane for a fag (remember those days)? My fail safe solution to flying, (and possibly to everything ever), was always to become completely legless before getting on a plane. In fact, Katy and Aly will again remember a trip to Skiathos in our twenties which has the most ridiculously short runway that we had to go around twice to land on on the way out. On the way back I was worried we wouldn't make it into the air, (they were weighing our luggage - to be honest, I think there were some fat people they should have been weighing too if it was that tight), and so I downed a bottle of vodka at about 8am. That is pushing it, even for me. The key to getting shitfaced on flights is doing it at the right moment. There is that nasty pause between boarding the plane and the drinks trolley coming around to you, where you want to be nicely pissed but not a blithering idiot. I've not always managed that balance so well.
I was in Turkey when September 11th happened. Not a great combination for a fuckwit like me. I remember talking to my Dad on a payphone and explaining, (quite rationally I thought), that I would just find a little boat and come home that way. See you in a few weeks then. At great expense, over a period of a number of days, he managed to talk me around to getting on the plane. It was not pretty and I'll leave that one there.
I had a rather disastrous trip to New Zealand where my poor parents had treated Stu and I to first class flights with them. I knew I would be scared so I responsibly went to the doctor and got a stock of valium in order to cope. I didn't read the 'no alcohol with valium' rule however, and cheerfully popped the pills and drank the plane dry of Dom Perignon on the first leg, leaving me on a hideous and collectively painful come down from Hong Kong to Auckland. Oops.
When I had Zak, I decided that the time had come to become a responsible adult and do something about this so that I didn't pass it down to the next generation. I did a BA fear of flying course at Heathrow that was amazing; cost a fortune, but was worth every penny. You spend the morning with pilots finding out the mechanics of planes. They related everything to driving which worked a treat for me, as, being such a control freak, the fact that when it sounds as if they have turned the engines off is just the same as you taking your foot off the accelerator a bit made perfect sense. The afternoon was spent with psychotherapists who explained in detail the nature of phobias. It was hilarious to see how many people sheepishly put their hands up to admit that they had checked the weather a million times that morning (there was a flight at the end of the day).
It worked! It really did. For a few years I flew without fear and looked forward to holidays without the dread associated with having to get there first. I went to Las Vegas for Shell's hen do. I remember as we went through a rather serious bump of turbulence over the Atlantic, Aly looking at me on that flight, and then looking again to check that I was still reading my magazine and drinking my glass of wine rather than digging my nails in to her and screaming. I flew in a six seater jet from Luton to Exeter and was fine. Nana was with us at the time and at the age of 90 she managed to get on with it so I thought that I probably should too.
I know nearly as much about flying now as most cabin crew. I had Sam, (who is also normally a little bit aviophobic), in fits of laughter last night as I told her that it was so ridiculous that you were statistically more likely to be kicked to death by a donkey than die in an air crash, even if you didn't spend your life with donkeys! It should put it into perspective.
I read 'THE' fear of flying book in one sitting today. I'm not cured. Apparently there is a lot of mental rehearsal that needs to be done before I will be. Something to do with memorising song lyrics. I'm not convinced. I'm obviously not helping myself as my immediate thought was 'what the hell use are memorised song lyrics when your plane is crashing?' Hmmmmm. I'm fully away that I'm my own worst enemy. This flight anxiety is probably only a small piece in the jigsaw at the moment but it is the easiest thing to focus on.
Fingers crossed. By that I mean, fingers crossed I actually head to the airport on Wednesday and don't go via Dover and a massive unnecessary bank loan. I'm hoping that the public 'outing' might shame me into getting on the plane on Wednesday, rather than publishing random pictures from France without a location on. Let's see. I'm promising nothing but am fully aware of the cock that I will be if I don't make it to Greece. Thanks for listening.
Friday, 31 July 2015
Sunday, 19 July 2015
Growing up without growing old.
Parenting in the Ward household is reaching new dizzy heights of excellence this weekend. We seem to be taking it in turns to entertain the kids while the other one lies down in a hungover coma. Today it is more my turn to bear the brunt of the childcare which means that everyone is having less fun. They are playing games such as 'put all the bits of lego in the lego box' and 'lay the table' which apparently is not as fun as wrestling their father or playing football! Spoilt.
It has been a great weekend. I've been out in town two nights on the trot which hasn't happened since about 1998. I had a bit of an epiphany whilst throwing some shapes on the dance floor in Havana at about 1am on Saturday: maybe I'm getting a bit old for this shit.
It was my first night out with my new workmates and I was determined to make it a success. The thing is, with each new workplace I get a little bit older, (I know I'm stating the obvious here, bear with me), and therefore being the life and soul of the party is becoming more challenging. I wasn't even sure where I should standing in the pub as there were a couple of groupings and I didn't quite fit into either. The young beautiful people and the older crowd. Obviously the answer is to down a bottle of rosé in approximately 10 minutes and then you convince yourself that you are still well and truly down with the kids.
As we got to the club some of the people in front of me got ID'd. 'Aren't you going to ask me love?' I drunkenly and un-wittily quipped to the bouncer. At which point he asked me for photographic ID (as apparently everyone needs it to get into Havana anyway), of which I had none as I had a different handbag on me. I then had to use every trick in the book to talk my way in without any, holding up the entire group, and suddenly my young beauty began to fade a bit even to me through my rose-coloured-rosé goggles.
I was doing revolting shots at the bar for the rest of the night and shaking my booty on the dance floor with people that I could have technically given birth to. At 1am my feet hurt, I smelt like an old beer mat and I decided it was time to go home. I had seriously done my bit at integrating with my new crowd and now it was time for bed. As I waited outside for a taxi, a load of Beaumont staff were coming INTO Havana and for a moment I thought about turning around and regrouping with them but luckily my one remaining brain cell forced me into a cab.
It was quite a relief last night therefore to go out with really old friends (in the time I have known them rather than their seniority). We drank nice and slowly after our dinner as we were full and digesting and we all complained about the music being too loud and interrupting our intelligent conversation. Oh dear.
I'm out on the piss with my Dad tomorrow night who remains the worst influence of everyone I know. He has started trying to find a younger crowd himself to hang out with as he gets annoyed with people of his age falling asleep and not coming out regularly enough. There is officially therefore no hope for me and I'd better stay in the this current job rather than again trying to prove myself by dancing around my handbag with people half my age when I'm in my forties!
Friday, 19 June 2015
Forgetting the Fear
Hopefully the last work-related blog post for a while! A quick update on my improved mindset towards my job. In a nutshell, I manned up a bit.
It took a while and there was some distinct lack of man-uppiness in between. In the course of the last week; I've had my first row, I've cried in the staff room, I've cried on the Head, I've attempted resignation and I've sworn quite a lot. Well done me. (What. A. Knob.)
Surprisingly all this has resulted in me getting quite a few more friends! I'm aware that this could possibly be that people are just wanting to see what happens next to the car crash... When I was mid-about-to-resign state on Wednesday, I sobbed on the Head of Music that I was just going to be remembered as that Head of Drama that cried a lot then left.
The hilarious thing is, that when I went for my meeting with the Head, unable to decide if I was about to be fired or was going to resign; I came out 15 minutes later completely at peace with the world and then couldn't quite understand why everyone was still 'fussing' over me. 'I'm fine now', I cheerfully told everyone. People in general were looking a little bit puzzled. I keep forgetting that this group of staff don't know me. The fluctuating tide of emotion is yet to become normal to them and from the outside it could well be misinterpreted as fair to middling psychosis.
I'm making it sound as if the entire staff knew I was a complete cock. I don't think they did, but it is not the largest staff body around and so I'm guessing that a fair few of them are privvy to the fact. I heard by default today that there is apparently an email that goes around on a Friday about going to the pub. 'Why didn't they email it to me?' I lamented at my poor dear husband as I frogmarched him to the pub instead after work. 'Erm, probably because you keep crying and they'd rather go out with cheerful people?' Yikes. Alright Stu. Hearing you loud and clear there.
Roll on next week. Even more than that; roll on the summer hols - four weeks to go!
It took a while and there was some distinct lack of man-uppiness in between. In the course of the last week; I've had my first row, I've cried in the staff room, I've cried on the Head, I've attempted resignation and I've sworn quite a lot. Well done me. (What. A. Knob.)
Surprisingly all this has resulted in me getting quite a few more friends! I'm aware that this could possibly be that people are just wanting to see what happens next to the car crash... When I was mid-about-to-resign state on Wednesday, I sobbed on the Head of Music that I was just going to be remembered as that Head of Drama that cried a lot then left.
The hilarious thing is, that when I went for my meeting with the Head, unable to decide if I was about to be fired or was going to resign; I came out 15 minutes later completely at peace with the world and then couldn't quite understand why everyone was still 'fussing' over me. 'I'm fine now', I cheerfully told everyone. People in general were looking a little bit puzzled. I keep forgetting that this group of staff don't know me. The fluctuating tide of emotion is yet to become normal to them and from the outside it could well be misinterpreted as fair to middling psychosis.
I'm making it sound as if the entire staff knew I was a complete cock. I don't think they did, but it is not the largest staff body around and so I'm guessing that a fair few of them are privvy to the fact. I heard by default today that there is apparently an email that goes around on a Friday about going to the pub. 'Why didn't they email it to me?' I lamented at my poor dear husband as I frogmarched him to the pub instead after work. 'Erm, probably because you keep crying and they'd rather go out with cheerful people?' Yikes. Alright Stu. Hearing you loud and clear there.
Roll on next week. Even more than that; roll on the summer hols - four weeks to go!
Thursday, 11 June 2015
Feeling the Fear
Nine days in and I'm pausing for breath. A nice, deep one.
In so many ways the job has started really well. Everybody is more than friendly, the kids are so pleased to have a permanent drama teacher and the cleaning out of someone's years of crap collecting works well for a serial binner like me.
Why then am I finding it so hard? I'm not such a tough cookie as I thought. In many ways a department of one suits me very well. Everybody in my department accepts my decisions on the first vote. Everyone in my department gets their shit done when its meant to and everyone in my department seems to agree on the best way of things being run. It is however, the tiniest bit lonely. It is horrendously tempting to stay shut in away in cupboard at all times as there is so much work to do. Why bother eating my sandwich whilst trying not to make conversation with my mouth full in the staff room when I could be happily writing drama grading criteria on my own in a cupboard with crumbs all over my face. Oh...
I haven't found my deviant mates yet. I know they must be out there (surely, surely?!) It is good that the colleagues that you meet in a school seem friendly, yet professional and sensible. That means they are good teachers. Even I can pull that one off with advanced acting skills. However, there seems to be no element of naughtiness I can sniff out so far. Everybody is extraordinarily good at their jobs and very keen. 4pm on a Friday I am in the pub with my Beaumont colleagues lying face down on a table emptying a bottle of rose in five minutes. What worries me is that this is also the nearest pub to my new school and yet the other guys are not there.
I'm getting all sorts of advice from every area of my life:
'Take cans of gin and tonics to the staff rounders match.' (Shelley)
'Screw the lot of them and do your own thing.' (Dad - note why he never entered the world of teaching).
'Liven up T&L briefing by arriving with a bottle of fizz.' (The Greek. 8.15am I may add)
A gorgeous friend from Beaumont yesterday told me that it is good to shake things up and try somewhere different. Beaumont is like family, said she, and lots of people never end up leaving for the wrong reasons. She is so right. However, I love that family, they took me, warts and all, and we laughed and laughed and laughed. I will cut the umbilical cord, soon; get me to September and I'm sure I will have found the new school Friday boozing haunt and won't even remember the family names.
Maybe... Just maybe...
x
In so many ways the job has started really well. Everybody is more than friendly, the kids are so pleased to have a permanent drama teacher and the cleaning out of someone's years of crap collecting works well for a serial binner like me.
Why then am I finding it so hard? I'm not such a tough cookie as I thought. In many ways a department of one suits me very well. Everybody in my department accepts my decisions on the first vote. Everyone in my department gets their shit done when its meant to and everyone in my department seems to agree on the best way of things being run. It is however, the tiniest bit lonely. It is horrendously tempting to stay shut in away in cupboard at all times as there is so much work to do. Why bother eating my sandwich whilst trying not to make conversation with my mouth full in the staff room when I could be happily writing drama grading criteria on my own in a cupboard with crumbs all over my face. Oh...
I haven't found my deviant mates yet. I know they must be out there (surely, surely?!) It is good that the colleagues that you meet in a school seem friendly, yet professional and sensible. That means they are good teachers. Even I can pull that one off with advanced acting skills. However, there seems to be no element of naughtiness I can sniff out so far. Everybody is extraordinarily good at their jobs and very keen. 4pm on a Friday I am in the pub with my Beaumont colleagues lying face down on a table emptying a bottle of rose in five minutes. What worries me is that this is also the nearest pub to my new school and yet the other guys are not there.
I'm getting all sorts of advice from every area of my life:
'Take cans of gin and tonics to the staff rounders match.' (Shelley)
'Screw the lot of them and do your own thing.' (Dad - note why he never entered the world of teaching).
'Liven up T&L briefing by arriving with a bottle of fizz.' (The Greek. 8.15am I may add)
A gorgeous friend from Beaumont yesterday told me that it is good to shake things up and try somewhere different. Beaumont is like family, said she, and lots of people never end up leaving for the wrong reasons. She is so right. However, I love that family, they took me, warts and all, and we laughed and laughed and laughed. I will cut the umbilical cord, soon; get me to September and I'm sure I will have found the new school Friday boozing haunt and won't even remember the family names.
Maybe... Just maybe...
x
Thursday, 14 May 2015
Facing the Fear
This time next week, I will have taught my last lesson at Beaumont, possibly ever. I've just received my timetable for Samuel Ryder and am busily planning for the next half-term but there is a feeling that is sitting with me that I'm not used to; the feeling of complete and utter terror.
Some slight nerves would be normal at this juncture I think, but this is more than that. I'm aware that it is going to be a big change for my family as well as myself, but kids are resilient and our new Nanny is wonderful. I just hope that I won't scare her off with my four sides of A4 instructions as to how to look after my kids. I managed to edit myself down from six sides and surely more information is better than less? Right?
At the crux of it, it is absolutely the fear of failure. Nearly everyone that I have broached this with has laughed and poo-pooed the idea of me poo-pooing my pants but it is really true!
"But you're Nikki Ward! You aren't scared of anything!" has been a familiar refrain. Along with:
"You are fabulous; you know you will be fabulous."
I have obviously spent so many years telling everybody I meet how wonderful I am at everything, that they've started to believe it, whereas I seem to have forgotten. This blog is not a cry for sympathy, or for a load of comments telling me that I am wonderful, though thank you for the thought. It is merely an outpouring of anxiety that I hope will ensure therefore that the worst does not after all happen.
So what is the worst that could happen? It would be, that I am a distinct non-event. If I have been told once, I have been told a million times, that this job is the perfect opportunity to make a huge impression and to turn a department around in a school that is on the up. All well and good, but what if I arrive and my huge splash actually becomes a little drip in a puddle. Well awkward for all of us.
I still believe that I am a brilliant teacher, but I'm wondering if I am just brilliant at Beaumont. I have spent a long time there and not much time anywhere else over the years and we fit extremely well. I like the Beaumont way of doing things, Beaumont likes me and it tolerates my idiosyncrasies. How do I know that I am able to run my own department? Maybe the fact that I am successful is that I am just currently flying underneath the extraordinarily capable wing of my amazing Head of Department.
Samuel Ryder is going to be very different. I am slightly concerned that the kids won't jump through the hoops I need them to. The catchment is different to Beaumont, however, as Sam put it, it's the other end of St. Albans, not Moss Side. Fair point.
Having fun has been banned (by me) in our department office at Beaumont for my last week. Suddenly all our jokes about me being alone in a department, howling at my desk, aren't quite as funny. Even the Greek has temporarily toned down his elation at my departure and removed the calendar where he is crossing off the days. ;-)
It will be fine. Of course it will. Not every kid in the school will hate me. I only have to keep up the pretence in the staff room of being a nice, non-alcoholic deviant for a few weeks, surely? If it doesn't work out then I will just have to leave won't I? I will quietly resign, lay-off the Nanny with a huge guilt-payout and skulk up to school in massive sunglasses to pick my own children up whilst being incredibly nice all the time to my suddenly-having-to-earn-loads-more-money husband. Hmmmmm, none of that really bears thinking about. Maybe it is time I manned up and remembered that Nikki Ward is perfectly capable of doing this after all...
Some slight nerves would be normal at this juncture I think, but this is more than that. I'm aware that it is going to be a big change for my family as well as myself, but kids are resilient and our new Nanny is wonderful. I just hope that I won't scare her off with my four sides of A4 instructions as to how to look after my kids. I managed to edit myself down from six sides and surely more information is better than less? Right?
At the crux of it, it is absolutely the fear of failure. Nearly everyone that I have broached this with has laughed and poo-pooed the idea of me poo-pooing my pants but it is really true!
"But you're Nikki Ward! You aren't scared of anything!" has been a familiar refrain. Along with:
"You are fabulous; you know you will be fabulous."
I have obviously spent so many years telling everybody I meet how wonderful I am at everything, that they've started to believe it, whereas I seem to have forgotten. This blog is not a cry for sympathy, or for a load of comments telling me that I am wonderful, though thank you for the thought. It is merely an outpouring of anxiety that I hope will ensure therefore that the worst does not after all happen.
So what is the worst that could happen? It would be, that I am a distinct non-event. If I have been told once, I have been told a million times, that this job is the perfect opportunity to make a huge impression and to turn a department around in a school that is on the up. All well and good, but what if I arrive and my huge splash actually becomes a little drip in a puddle. Well awkward for all of us.
I still believe that I am a brilliant teacher, but I'm wondering if I am just brilliant at Beaumont. I have spent a long time there and not much time anywhere else over the years and we fit extremely well. I like the Beaumont way of doing things, Beaumont likes me and it tolerates my idiosyncrasies. How do I know that I am able to run my own department? Maybe the fact that I am successful is that I am just currently flying underneath the extraordinarily capable wing of my amazing Head of Department.
Samuel Ryder is going to be very different. I am slightly concerned that the kids won't jump through the hoops I need them to. The catchment is different to Beaumont, however, as Sam put it, it's the other end of St. Albans, not Moss Side. Fair point.
Having fun has been banned (by me) in our department office at Beaumont for my last week. Suddenly all our jokes about me being alone in a department, howling at my desk, aren't quite as funny. Even the Greek has temporarily toned down his elation at my departure and removed the calendar where he is crossing off the days. ;-)
It will be fine. Of course it will. Not every kid in the school will hate me. I only have to keep up the pretence in the staff room of being a nice, non-alcoholic deviant for a few weeks, surely? If it doesn't work out then I will just have to leave won't I? I will quietly resign, lay-off the Nanny with a huge guilt-payout and skulk up to school in massive sunglasses to pick my own children up whilst being incredibly nice all the time to my suddenly-having-to-earn-loads-more-money husband. Hmmmmm, none of that really bears thinking about. Maybe it is time I manned up and remembered that Nikki Ward is perfectly capable of doing this after all...
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