I’ve started a new blog of reflections and research on the teaching and learning of English, literacy, media, communication and related subjects. This is related to my work as editor of English in Education and in research development for NATE, the UK English teachers’ association.
I’ll keep up this blog, Living in the Future Present, for creative writing and other observations.
If you’re interested, do follow my new blog at https://research1english.wordpress.com/.
It is bad enough that children are now tested at the age of 11 on SPAG, the derogatory term used by teachers and examiners for assessment of children’s capabilities in spelling, punctuation and grammar. Any English teacher knows that a student’s attainment in these ‘skills’ (a term that requires unpacking in this context) is better tested through meaningful writing exercises rather than through decontextualised tests.
Now the situation is becoming worse, as Debra Kidd (@debrakidd)writes in her latest blog post, Testing without Brains:
<< When SATs were first introduced it was with the aim that a Level 4b would be an ‘average’ level of achievement. Very quickly this became an expected level of achievement for the majority of pupils and now it would seem that anyone falling below this (or its point score equivalent) is a failure. In order to address this failure, children will now be expected to resit the tests in Year 7. It’s a policy of such bum numbing stupidity I can barely be arsed to write. >>
Do read the rest of Debra’s post, which describes graphically how this policy will further degrade the quality of experience for pupils and teachers. What strikes me most is the ineptness of the assumption that an average attainment should become an expected attainment. This reminds me of one of the first signs of political interference in the curriculum, when GCSE was introduced in 1988. It was announced that grade F (the former CSE grade 4) would be the expected average attainment for GCSE candidates. Only in Britain, I thought, would government mark the attainment of the ‘average’ child with a grade F. Of course, expectations rapidly changed and a grade C is now regarded as a ‘pass’ for all candidates.
These attempts to constantly pressure children and their teachers on attainment (especially when the skills are poorly defined and the validity of the tests is highly questionable) need to be reviewed by an independent, non-governmental professional body. Unfortunately, there is at present no such body to act as a forum for discussion between the teaching profession and the Secretary of State for Education.
The new Southmead hospital is an airport.
There’s a shuttle bus from the car park
(Though you can walk in five minutes.)
You check in on arrival
And walk through a vast atrium to the designated gate.
There your credentials are checked and they say:
‘Oh, sorry, that clinic’s not running today.
We shouldn’t have made that appointment.
Can you come back tomorrow?’
I think they need better ground control.
I have reblogged Debra Kidd’s latest post because it gives a very clear and felt account of the reality of ‘accountability’ in present-day school education in the UK.
I’ve just spent an evening with one of my oldest friends who has just resigned from her NQT year in an inner city primary school. I encouraged her to go into teaching and now I wonder what kind of friend I was. Last year, having spent 17 years working in private business, managing teams of people and multi million pound budgets, she left to teach. She expected that she would find a working life that was more rewarding with higher aims than simply making money, which she was good at. Having seen her own children turned around with the support of a good teacher, she felt that here was a job where she could have impact and feel that there was a higher sense of purpose to her working life. And so, she took a massive drop in salary and enrolled on a PGCE.
Her PGCE was demanding with a…
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What I didn’t want for Christmas
was a spice rack.
Spices have never been my thing.
I get confused between oregano and origami.
I can’t remember when to use rosemary,
paprika, tarragon, or turmeric.
What’s the difference between cardamom and coriander?
It’s all a mystery to me.
I got a rack of spices for Christmas a few years ago.
I threw them out after years of neglect and disuse.
But this Christmas
I made bread sauce.
For the turkey.
I love bread sauce,
And this was my contribution to Christmas dinner.
I made it so carefully!
I bought ingredients.
Including spices.
Garlic, cloves, peppercorns and nutmeg.
Sprigs of thyme and a bay leaf.
It took me two hours to make on Christmas morning.
I took it to my son’s house in a large glass bowl.
It joined the other dishes on the groaning board,
Hidden behind a giant turkey and massed roast vegetables.
It was consumed without comment.
No-one said: ‘This bread sauce is beautifully spiced!’
So I explained that I’d made an effort,
Racking the shelves of Waitrose for fresh bay leaves,
Grinding nutmeg on Christmas morning.
After dinner, we opened presents.
My daughter and partner gave me a spice rack.
She said: This is just what you want, Dad!
We weren’t sure you would like it,
But after that bread sauce!
A band of jazz musicians, some retired, regularly play the Chelsea Inn in Easton, Bristol
Catching the swing, we synco-
pate into the Chelsea. The band
of six take time from years gone when:
brass resonates at front,
piano trips an autonomic rhythm,
banjo strikes arpeggio. Players retune
from lives of slower time,
set glasses dancing. Outside, Bristol
in January plays gusty wind,
debris and detritus; but in
the pub the air is clarinet
as time’s lefthanders beat the rhythm strong,
keep ragged time enhancing.
The sky is dark within the outdoor bathing pool.
Thin wraiths of steam ascend the solitary swimmers.
Swimming in January is serious. Three men, one woman
Propel themselves in lengths scooped out by hands
And arms bent right to gain dramatic traction.
Lights, blue and white, bedeck the changing roofs;
A Christmas tree is pricked with small red torches.
Double glazed diners wear cashmere sweaters
And sharp pressed trousers. Warmer by the blue-grey splash outside,
They sense their privilege. Only the swimmers toil,
Washing themselves clean of the old year,
Buoying their souls to meet the coming spring.
New Year’s Eve Dance:
Turning with the feet of time,
Reeling in the future.
Living in the future present 