20th July 2008

So… how’s retirement going, you ask?

Well, imagine stepping into your golden years with the elegance of a swan… only to be immediately sideswiped by a freight train of Yellow Fever. The vaccine I had the previous Friday (marketed cheerfully as “a mild dose that might make you feel a little under the weather, like a slight cold”) came back swinging like an angry wasp with a grudge. Headache? Tick. Aching limbs? Tick. Churning stomach? Of course. Zero appetite, waves of sweating, and subsequent shivering? Oh, all the fun of the fair. If that was mild, I dread to think what the full-blown version involves. Possibly a priest and a will.

Despite feeling like an extra in 28 Days Later, I ventured out with Roger Woolnough on Friday to try out my new GPS. We tackled a 10.5 km stretch of the Jurassic Way, from Harborough to Welford, with a civilised pitstop at a pub in Sibbertoft for lunch. Sue, acting as our chauffeur, picked us up at the end. Although I staggered through most of it like a plague victim from medieval times and paid dearly the next day, I must say, the GPS is brilliant. If only it had a “locate nearest hot bath and sympathy” feature.

Later that same Friday (yes, the same day, my last gasp before collapsing into bed), Sue and I went to see Rendition. A gripping film that questions whether torturing terrorists is effective. Personally, after Yellow Fever, I’d say torture isn’t always unjustified…

Now that I’m free from the school bell, I’ve had some time to sit and reflect, or as I like to call it, cogitate with coffee. And what have I been cogitating about? SATs, of course. That annual delight we inflict on our innocent young workforce. A noble exercise in data-gathering, self-worth measurement, and ensuring they’re fully aware of their place on the grand ladder of national usefulness.

In my years of teaching, I prided myself on not bowing to the Cult of the Test. No SATs bootcamps, no mountain of past papers, and certainly no countdown charts in red pen. If the children asked when the tests were, I’d say “sometime” and offer them a book instead. As a result, my classes were relaxed, well-fed, and refreshingly untraumatised. The results? Comfortably average. Some did a little better, some a bit worse, but most performed exactly as expected. A lovely, healthy curve of mediocrity. How British.

But here’s the twist: this year, I broke my own rulebook. It was my final class, and I had them from January onwards. I thought, “Why not go out with a bang?” So I did what I had sworn never to do: I prepped them like a Victorian crammer with a point to prove. Past papers, SAT-style homework, practice runs… the full military operation.

And did it work?

Well. One paper came back with no errors. Not one. 35/35. The examiner even left a note, saying they’d never seen a flawless paper before. And this lad wasn’t even the top of the class! Nine more scored over 30, with three getting 34. Impressive? Yes. Gratifying? Perhaps. A complete and utter disaster for the teachers who have to follow me? Absolutely. The bar has not just been raised, it’s been launched into orbit.

And therein lies the moral of this story: if you teach to the test and narrow the curriculum until it squeaks, you’ll get the numbers. But will you get thinkers? Dreamers? Future poets or engineers? Or just highly trained regurgitators of official phrasing?

Sorry, future colleagues. And sorry, children. You were lovely, you deserved better than being Exhibit A in my retirement swansong.

But my, didn’t you shine?