End of term. They think it’s all over. It is now.

“Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.” Hamlet

Walk down any High Street over the next couple of weeks and without doubt you’ll be able to distinguish between a teacher and parent. Tricky, because although both resemble zombies, it is for very different reasons. Teachers are crashing carelessly into shop windows, knocking down shelves and walking up the down escalator, not for fun. Parents, on the other hand, perfectly blend in with The White Company soft cuddly dressing gowns and appear to have covered their faces with Johnson’s baby powder. Protruding eyes and in a trance, parents are petrified. The teachers are acutely aware that their Teacher Superpowers which enable them to educate, and occasionally entertain, 30 children for 6 hrs a day disappears on July 20th and they will return to being plain Jo Bloggs (or Birks) Relief. Some parents are traumatized by the prospect of spending the next 5 weeks with their delightful offspring, the teachers are dizzy with joy. Despite what you read teachers don’t sleep at school, and yes they do go shopping.

Having said all that, this blog, though long overdue, was not intended to be about the highs and lows of the end of term for both parties, typically I’ve been distracted, and my diagnosis is inevitably “end of term exhaustion.”

A Reception parent once said to me “My daughter says you’re her favourite teacher, and I just reminded her you’re the only one she’s had” Thanks for that. So this poem is dedicated to all the favourite teachers. For one year only.

You are my favourite teacher
I’m sad the end is near
We’ve spent so much time together
I’m fighting back a tear
***
You made my learning easy
I’m told I progressed a lot
I can discuss the importance of #Brexit
But the rest I just forgot
***
I never understood subordinate clause
And the maths was just so weird
With all that chunking and gridding
My sanity disappeared
***
I survived the tests, oh what a week
A waste and such a chore
Our stress was reported in the news
The results came out so poor
***
I’ll probably get you a candle
And I’ll definitely make you a card
Then you’ll remember me in the summer
And how I worked so hard
***
Perhaps you’d prefer a mug
I know teachers like their tea
Every time you drink from it
You’ll have to think of me
***
You were my favourite teacher
In September I’ll have someone new
And I’ll write another poem
Because she’s my favourite too

***

Alas, what if you’re a parent and a teacher? You probably need therapy and a 5 star package holiday where there is an “outstanding” kids club and free flowing gin. If you’re married to a teacher and have children, well, it’s only 168 days 01 hours and 35 mins until Christmas at time of going to press. Sorry. Must head to the beach…

beach

 

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