Category: Blog

The paragraph below suddenly appeared on my Facebook page. Perhaps I typed it:

I seem to have unretired. Back to working in a High School. I had forgotten how many laughs per day teaching can provide! Brain engaged! The Teacher Walk: a swooshing fly down the corridors, eyes swivelling and scanning for the slightest trace of trouble, then in the classroom – 360 degree x-ray vision. Every minute a performance, every word delivered with fine and perfect discrimination, the tone precisely measured, each word a tool. Teachers are heroes. They give their lives to other peoples’ children. But then there are the laughs…

CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTION

Being a teacher again causes an intense session of self-examination, which naturally will involve assessment, grading, measurement against targets, intense discussions with the Head of Department and perhaps resignation. I am going to share this with you, in case you either teach, know a teacher, have a kid or kids, or just want to know if teachers actually earn their Degree in Moaning by studying or just learn it on the job.

Don’t worry. I will physically restrain myself from plunging into the Teacher moans because I know how much it annoys what we used to call “straights” I.e persons who do not share our particular drugs. (And I don’t want to be arrested again for slapping a straight for saying “long holidays”.) In this case, the drug of joy at the achievements of others. A very special drug. What a high, ladeeez and generalmen who aren’t in the Profession! Seeing a kid’s face as he/she stares unbelieving at an unexpectedly high exam grade, or overcomes an obstacle or solves a problem which could be small, medium or extremely large academically or personally. And watching, thinking yup. I had something to do with that.

And the other part of the drug is the joy of performance, otherwise known as Showing Off. Actors have it of course, and teaching is one of the performing arts, very close to acting. With slight differences: for example, there’s a different script every lesson; the audience is expected to interact with the performer, which changes the script or causes it to have to be torn up. And the performer and audience are under a continual obligation to prove their worth. Meaning sometimes the audience has an audience.

Does this mean the perfect teacher is a Narcissist? I know some for sure but a true Narcissist has no empathy and is therefore sometimes an efficient teacher but a crap human being. Ultimately someone who doesn’t truly care about the kids will wreck more lives than they save. (Although caring too much has wrecked many teachers’ lives too. I have seen them crack open like eggs and spill their hearts out on the concrete. Many! But I promised not to moan.)

Chapter 2: Life Choices Examination

Use Answer book supplied. Write cursively ensuring you dot all the t’s and cross all the eyes. Write on one side of the paper at a time. You may blow your nose on the question paper. Total marks available: 3. Time: For the rest of your life.

Question 1:

Describe and explain your fumbling dumbass route into teaching.

Assessment Objective 1: Knowledge. 4 marks.

Having spent nearly 20 years in business, mainly marketing, one day I found myself in a new flat, having just broken up with a partner.

The silence was devastating. The dust spoke to me and began to take shape and form. Gradually, faces emerged. Both known and unknown. And they started fucking and fighting, singing, shouting. Filling up my arid Cheyne Row flat until I just had to write it down. And so my first novel, Umfaan’s Heroes was born and was accepted by the iconic publisher Andre Deutsch.

One day my secretary made an announcement. “Jeeeez boss” she said. “I’m so bored! Once we’ve done the mail shots and I’ve sharpened my pencil twelve times had sixteen cups of coffee had a chat with the guy in the warehouse I fancy there’s nothing to do!”

“Me too”, I said.

“You fancy him as well?”

“I mean, I’m bored! Once I’ve given you the mail shots to send out, blunted your pencils,  spilled your coffee and told the guy in the warehouse that you and me are lovers  I have nothing to do!”

So it was she who took me along to the Get Into Teaching Fair in Islington. Because we were both bored!  I told my boss me and sec were off to a critical marketing conference. He assumed we were off to do sex in a sleazy hotel and said “fine.” Almost as soon as I got into that cavernous room full of Universities wanting to teach me to teach, I decided to: a) write another novel b) get out of business and become a teacher.

Question 2:

Analyse your decision to enter this universally sneered at profession; what are the advantages and disadvantages for yourself and the poor buggers who were victims of your hubris?

Assessment Objective 2: Analyse and apply. 8 marks.

In my dreams I thought: easy peasy! This could be fine, I thought. Where do I sign I said. Two years Bachelor of Ed degree? Great stuff. Sex drugs and rock & roll reprise! An essay or two and time to write that second book. Do lots of work with Anti-Apartheid. Enjoy the fame as the first novel comes out. Get lots of money from that and letting Cheyne Row to the American architect responsible for the re-jigging of Battersea Power station.

Did that.

What a twat.

American’s company went bust and he wouldn’t leave or pay.  While I had lots of publicity and great reviews, revenue from UH was small. But at least I finished Laszlo’s Millions and it was accepted for publication.

And I did have that reprise. Not bad for a forty-year old.

But once the BEd finished I had no choice. I had to become a teacher. I needed the money! Laszlo’s was published to little or no publicity and went the way of the stereotypical black hole of the Second Novel Syndrome.

Question 3:

Evaluate your 20 years in the world’s most moaningful profession and draw conclusions as to:

a) Whether it was worth it. How much on a scale of 1 – 56? Justify your answer.

b) Explain all deaths incurred in the process and say how they could have been increased and why;

c) Did you make any damn contribution at all? You know all this “I wanted to give something back” shit? How much did you give back to the nearest penny?

Assessment Objective 3: Evaluation. 12 marks.

a) I think is was worth it. What would I be doing now had I not gone into teaching? Crystal ball consultation. Hang on… I’m discerning…hah! Have you ever listened to BBC Radio 4 comedies? One of my favourites is Ed Reardon’s Week. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ed_Reardon%27s_Week

Wiki says the publicity material describes him as “author, pipe smoker, consummate fare-dodger and master of the abusive e-mail” – could that be me? Living in a grubby one-bed flat with a cat and desperate for any writing jobs going? Ghost-writing autobiographies for nonentity celebrities, or descriptions of the beauty of caravans for a caravan magazine, resting on the rotten and decaying laurels of an ancient TV series once co-authored?

Or perhaps the UK’s Kurt Vonnegut?

Or maybe I would have stayed in Marketing. In which case, if I  stayed in the Industrial Marketing segment I would have been earning 40 – 80K, I’d live in a Victorian semi with overweight spouse and a cat. A Mr Pooter for the 21t Century. Or Reggie Perrin. (You do the Wiki if you don’t know who they are)

So was it worth it. On the Laughter Index Scale, I would have had 90% fewer LPD (Laughs Per Day). I would have earned between 80% less (Ed Reardon scenario) or 20 – 30% more (Marketing) or 500% more (Vonnegut). WDFK. (Who De Fuk Knows). So score is 30.

No deaths were caused, although if I could have paid somebody to…delete that thought. BUT had I continued in Industrial Marketing: well, we were certainly prepared to make deals with anyone, including the most nasty, dodgy, fascistic regimes. We bought and sold everything and anything that could turn a profit. For an example, read “Laszlo’s Millions”. How many deaths could that have caused?

To (c) above then. I leave others to make that judgement.

Having looked at the Mark Scheme, I award myself 1.736/3.

CHAPTER 3: Teacher Moans

Here is a summary of the Teacher Moans. I know I promised not to, but I feel it is my duty to warn those considering entering the Profession of the pitfalls.

In your first Teaching Practice you will probably break down in tears and realise that this profession is not for you. This normally happens after a Year 9 lesson in which despite the 4 hours of lesson planning and preparation, no bugger gave a damn. You are right. This profession is not for you. But if not you, who?

The sad fact is that more time is spent filling in forms, preparing lessons, marking, attending meetings, supervising extra-curricular activities than in  teaching.

You will be supervised, inspected, watched, expected, inspected, harassed and probably at some stage, persecuted.

You will, on many occasions, leave school in a miasma of hatred and frustration, remembering that this profession is not for you.

You will make mistakes. In an unguarded moment, you may let a comment out which may be interpreted by a paranoid student or parent or colleague as being racist sexist homophobic transphobic, or even right wing .. Even though you know that you are the least….(fill in here) in the world. Even saying “shut up” to the wrong student can get you hauled up before the Head. Make friends with your Union Rep just in case. Please note: it is compulsory to blame the Government for all of this.

You will encounter colleagues who fit into any one or all of the above categories but get away with it. You may even encounter a colleague who has inappropriate thoughts or feelings toward a pupil. Often sexual. (Hell, every teacher has been through the I want him/her dead thought. That’s natural. But it is not natural to say, “Let’s do a play about Ancient Greece. I love seeing those girls in flimsy chitons…” as an ex-colleague said to me. I reported him. In his words, I betrayed him. I have come across 3-4 pedos in my teaching career and am pleased to say I played my part in their downfall)

You will spend many evenings fulfilling duties like parents’ eves, curriculum eves, and on. And you will go home and cook/eat or make love to the cat. After doing the marking of course.

You will have to fend off several ex-friends saying, Yehr stop moaning! Long holidays…As soon as you hear that phrase you are entitled to resort to  violence.

You will experience the most incredible levels of stress. Only a Brain Surgeon or Bomb-disposal person has more. You will WISH you were a brain surgeon or bomb-disposal operative. At least if you are the latter, there will be a swift end and no need to face parents.

Whatever, you will be blamed for everything. Traditionally parents blame teachers for the fact that their kids are out of control. Governments do the same. No-one dares to blame indigent bored on-their-phones parents, because there are more parents who vote than teachers.

On the other hand….

Some delightful colleagues! Some great school trips! Cheap food! Constant mental stimulation. and after all, there ARE the laughs!

CHAPTER 4: Conclusions and Recommendations

It’s great being back even though I get home with a crushing headache, too tired to cook, even the cat, sometimes dreading the next day. The students are so good for me. They refresh my brain. They remind me to laugh, and you know what? It’s such a privilege, having the opportunity to change lives for the better. Sometimes with a single sentence, or word.

Take V, for example, in Year 12. A large-boned dreamer, stares into space in the classroom. When it comes to coursework, he gives a vacant grin and says, “Sir, what do I write? His results at GCSE were terrible. His best was a C for English.

Then one day he arrived early to class and just randomly, I asked him if he reads novels. He immediately became animated nand listed a variety of books he has read. Including Dickens, Thackeray as well as a several Fantasy books I had never heard of. So inside that apparently vacant smile is a whole world. He excitedly informed me that he is  writer too! And showed me some of his writing.

So now I know which button to push when trying to get him to write the boring nonsense required by BTEC. “You can do this V! You are a writer, and a writer can write anything!”

Every kid has a button. If you can find it and push it, you can get the student to believe in you, even when you say “BTEC is important.”

….Sigh.  Retirement is wasted on me, and on you.

Did you ever die? Me neither. Unless we believe in reincarnation. But I very nearly did twice. Both times I was in the care of the NHS. The first time was when I was ambulanced into Chelsea and Westminster Hospital years ago, with intense paroxysmal Atrial Fibrillation. That’s when the heart goes mad like a trapped bird in the chest. They shocked me three times. The first, the heart stopped. The second, still stopped. “He’s going blue” my cousin the doctor, who was there, reports them saying. The third the heart started. Hello again.

The second time Death and I met we made love. Just over a week ago in Hammersmith Hospital I was coming out of surgery for the gall bladder operation. In the ward they gave me another shot of Tramadol for the pain and that was so very nice. I was semi-conscious. I could feel myself slipping into the most beautiful glorious warm place. Breathing was getting slower and slower, until it was no longer necessary. This felt right. Everything was sorted. there was nothing that actually mattered. Time to stop breathing. I was very content.

Standing around me, five people who disagreed. The wonderful Dr KS made them inject Naloxone and I re-emerged into this fucking Trump/pain/Tory/NHS Crisis world. Gee thanks. I think.

The point of telling you within the context of this blog is this question: if this had happened in the USA, would they have reacted so quickly and would I be typing this? Yes I know, your default is to say Of Course They Would. I’m not sure.

Shortly after having been admitted to the U of W Hospital in Seattle I was given morphine for the pain. Then, after a couple of scans etc I was alone. I began to shiver. It got worse. It became uncontrollable. I rang for the nurse. A football halfback-type came in, promised me another blanket. Left. Eventually returned with one. Left. Said he would discuss with the doctor. Didn’t, I don’t think. Eventually the shivering subsided.

If I had been suffering from what the Doctor called “Respiratory depression” in that bed in the US, would I be here now? Would I have pressed that call button? No, actually I wouldn’t.

THE SCORE SO FAR:

US: 16             NHS: 19

The winner at this stage is the NHS. Mainly because of the staff: in America it’s all about customer satisfaction and revenue maximisation. Despite the superficially better resources and much bigger man and woman power. In Britain, it’s about maximum care within constraints. And all done with love. No American healthcare professional made any human contact with me – it was all Customer Service. As if to confirm this, Dr KS has just called me to see how I am and give me results of blood tests. She has also read my blogs. Hello.

Back to the story: Let’s see how the NHS score holds up – in Emergency.

PAINLAND 

Painland is a province of the Land of the Living. Yet it has no specific territory. Any living  being can be exiled there for short periods, or long periods, or even for life. Once in Painland, getting out can be horribly difficult.

My visit there (US) with the gallstones was horrible. The visa out  was supposed to be the operation (UK). Three days after the operation when the pain relief wore off I was summoned back. Just above my diaphragm, intermittent sharp hard pain, varying between 7 and 11 on the 1 – 10 pain scale.

Eventually at 1am or so I called NHS 111. Foreigners: this is the NHS Helpline. Every time (I think there have been 3) I called I would speak to a nice doctor or nurse who would say “Go to Emergency” or, “I’m calling an ambulance”. Naturally. They can’t afford to take risks.

But this time there was (still is) the NHS Crisis. So they are obviously instructed not to send anyone to A&E unless there is a life-threatening crisis. “I’ll set up a Home Visit”, nice Dr George said. “They’ll call you.”

A nice woman called. (They are all Nice. Even the NHS organisation which decides on whether medications are to be used by the NHS has the acronym NICE. National Institute for Health and Care Excellence. Uh – where’s the H? https://www.nice.org.uk) “Go to your local out-of hours surgery” she said. “I can’t! George promised me a Home Visit!” “Oh sorry,” she said. “We’ll call you.”

A not nice Doctor in crisis mode called. Tiredly, exasperatedly, he asked me to repeat the whole damn story yet again. I had already repeated it twice to Nice George because he had pressed the wrong key on his computer and deleted everything by mistake. Or something. “Go to A&E at Hammersmith” he said. “There is no A&E at Hammersmith.” I said. “Well go to A&E at Charing Cross then” he said. “Get a cab.”

I didn’t do that. I just took a life-threatening bowel cementing load of pain relief.

SCORE: NHS down 5 points.

They next day was my birthday and to celebrate it the pain came back, booked in, made itself at home and began burrowing away at the diaphragm. I telephoned my NHS GP. and asked to see the Nurse. My idea being, she could look at the dressings and check if there’s anything visibly wrong.”Sure. One hour.”

The walk to the surgery took the pain well above 13/10. I was tearful and ready to scream. A doctor was summoned into the nurse’s room and examined me. She called the Hammersmith,  had to wait 20 minutes to talk to the right person, finally spoke to a surgeon who said, “Send him to Charing Cross A&E. We have to have a referral.” “A&E Charing Cross” she said. “Get a cab.”

SCORE: NHS up 3 points

Oh joy. A Happy Birthday to me.

THE CRISIS UP CLOSE

Here’s my post from Facebook.

I have just seen the NHS Crisis up close and it’s terrible. Had massive pain and the short story is I ended up in Charing Cross A&E. Everything they say is true – patients everywhere. Trolleys in corridors. Took 5 hours to get dealt with. A churning mass of people, like a railway station made mayhem by multiple train delays, crashes, fires, strikes. Superb staff (except for one sneezing doctor who neither washed his hands nor shielded others from his germs) desperately trying to tend to every variety of illness or accident with kindness and as much efficiency as is possible under impossible circumstances.

When I finally saw the Registrar he said he would like to do scans tomorrow. But there are no beds for me to stay overnight. I said Great! It’s my birthday, I’m outta here see you tomorrow. And as I headed for the door he snatched a phone, someone was having an embolism or something, what can I do? He said, There are no beds!

Hail to the Heroes and Heroines who despite the criminal underfunding of what was the brightest jewel in the British Crown, continue to fight the good fight. And hail to all those who protested in London on Saturday, and to all who support our NHS.

SCORE: NHS down 3 points.

The next day at Charing Cross took a great deal of sitting down. Waiting and waiting. More waiting. As the pain had eased considerably I kept getting the guilt: here there are people who need these scarce resources more than I do.

There were certainly some who needed less. Percentage of Worried Well to Really Sick: no idea. Especially since I had no idea as to which category applies to me.

And to those who say the NHS is overwhelmed by Health Tourism, i.e. foreigners coming to the UK for cheap or free high-quality treatment: there were certainly people in those heaving corridors who spoke little or no English. Some in what your more racist Brexiter would describe as non-British dress. (many of them are more British than you are Mr Farage!) Percentage? Hard to tell who was entitled to NHS care and who wasn’t. My guess would be that the number of Health Tourists is far smaller than Faragists think.

According to Fullfact, “Health tourism costs the NHS around 0.3% of NHS spending” https://fullfact.org/health/health-tourism-whats-cost/

It’s important to note, however, that since October non-EU workers are to be charged £400 per year for healthcare; and NHS services are required to ask for proof of nationality and residence from foreigners. There is a huge amount of resistance to this from NHS staff, many of whom are from non EU countries. And from me too, I have to admit. If someone’s bleeding or dying it is a moral duty to do one’s best to alleviate suffering. Besides, that’s what the Hippocratic Oath says.

It took a day for me to get an Ultrasound scan and an CT scan of my brain (I was very wobbly. As I have AF, it was worth checking if I had suffered a TIA (a mini stroke.). The final conclusion being, dunno. No idea as to the cause of the pain. And today, dear reader, the pain is minor. Each morning at 4am it’s excruciating. Then, painkillers and a little sleep and hope of recovery begins to grow. I think I’ll live. Sigh. At any rate of there’s anything nasty going on in my fundament it’ll show itself sooner or later. Hopefully once the Crisis has passed.

SCORE for EMERGENCY TREATMENT:

NHS: 11          US: 17

Is this fair? The NHS is in Crisis mode, and that’s abnormal. I can assure you: if you have an accident or emergency the NHS is there like an angel. Fast, fully equipped and full of care. And to now, free. However, my experience of emergency care in the US – once I told them I was insured and that my brother the Professor is on the Faculty at that University – was excellent. Initially at least.

PAYING THE PRICE

In the US legend has it that it isn’t long after an accident that you are asked who your insurer is, or how you will pay. That’s coming here. If you have a foreign accent in the UK, certainly you will be asked for ID and how you will pay.

The American nightmare: What if I am ill.  No doubt if you are well employed you may be able to afford good insurance in the US  “A 2015 Employer Health Benefits Survey by the Kaiser Family Foundation found that employer-sponsored family healthcare insurance premiums cost $17,545 annually, and the average worker contributed $1,071 for single coverage and $4,955 for family coverage per year.2 Aug 2016″ https://www.zanebenefits.com/blog/the-cost-of-healthcare-in-america

Of course if you’re not, you can’t. “About 44 million people in this country have no health insurance, and another 38 million have inadequate health insurance. This means that nearly one-third of Americans face each day without the security of knowing that, if and when they need it, medical care is available to them and their families” http://www.pbs.org/healthcarecrisis/uninsured.html

And how much will I pay for my night of emergency treatment in the US if my insurer wriggles out of their obligation?

The total bill for one night and all those scans is, I think $2,140.92. That’s much smaller than I thought it would be. I might have miscalculated or missed something out.

In the UK for one night including surgery, drugs, care, having my life saved, £0.

In the UK for two days of emergency investigations £0.

CONCLUSION AND RECOMMENDATION

Americans, you are crazy. As flawed and underfunded as our NHS is, my final score:

US:

UK:

You tell me.

For the full story on the American experience, see http://jonelkon.com/letter-from-america-part-2-a-rock-in-a-hard-place/