Week 27: Thanks, Iceland

Oh, hello there! Yes, it's been a while, hasn't it? I suppose there's not much excuse, apart from the fact that I just couldn't be bothered. I've decided that I can't keep up with the daily updates (as evidenced by the lack of posts) so I'm going to switch to weekly ones instead. Here we go...

So, I'll be honest, last week was tough. The first week back from a holiday is always tough, and when the school is missing twelve members of staff due a particularly inconsiderate volcano, things get a little tougher.

Monday morning started with panicked texts sent between a fellow Teachy Firster and myself on the journey in, hoping desperately that enough teachers would be absent that we could close the school. I knew of at least 5, but alas, there were not enough. The motley crew left behind who were not honeymooning in Jamaica or stuck rather less luxuriously in Madrid shared the same shell-shocked appearance.
Personally, I had been looking forward to a day off teaching, as we had planned to moderate our coursework all day. As four members of the department were abroad, this was cancelled and I had to come up with a quick lesson for year 7 (test - ha!) and year 11.

The lessons themselves weren't too bad, although I was somewhat disheartened to see that K was back to his irritating couldn't-care-less in year 11. What was difficult was the rest of the children. Our corridor can be rather frantic at times, and four well-meaning substitute teachers do not help. The kids actually cheer when they see they have a cover lesson, because they know it means they aren't expected to actually do any work.

The day was rounded off with training, which I was disappointed to learn would be the last in a line of really great Lilac-esque training. I had thoroughly enjoyed the course, and it had actually made the Monday afternoons interesting.

So the week was set up well, but I was not prepared for what was going to come next: Tuesday. Having had a week to process, reflect on and over-analyse that day to the nth degree, I can honestly say that I've forgotten what was so terrible. As with every Tuesday, it ended with year 8. I did my classic holding them all back for a class detention, as, per usual, they were infuriating. W walked out after arguing with me, and I let him go. Booster class after was attended by the faithful three, but my professional tutor popped in to speak to me. We talked about various bits of paperwork, from my journal, to portfolio, to general marking, that I am woefully behind, and I began to get upset. An hour later, I went home feeling utterly miserable. I cried non-stop for two hours, literally crying myself to sleep, and decided I wouldn't be coming in the next day.

I woke up at 6 the next morning and thought it through. I can't go into that thought process now, mainly because I'm tired, but I decided that if I didn't go in on Wednesday, I knew I wouldn't ever go back. I also thought about my damn year 11s, and how I didn't want them to waste the last lessons they have. It also comes down to the fact that I knew that I couldn't make the decision to drop out on one bad day.

So, I went in. And the next day, and the day after that. It did, luckily, get better. I spent Thursday preparing my first Latin lesson which, as it turned out, was attended by no fewer than twenty students. By Friday I was laughing. Thank god for the weekend!

So yes, what a shitter. I can't believe I didn't even go to the pub! I actually had a very pleasant weekend with my housemates (and my father on Saturday) which made a real difference to my own frame of mind. Unfortunately, I wasn't at all productive on the Sunday, which meant that the usual Sunday-night blues hit me, with a vengeance. Just another week down, and 5 more to go till half term. I have to make the decision then as to whether or not I'll leave in the summer. Although it's not a publicised option, I know it exists, and I'm holding on to it as my mental safety net. I don't have to do it. And right now, that's getting me through.