Chapter 4 Mistakes and learning from them

Chapter 4

Mistakes and learning from them

Everyone makes mistakes, so they say, and they are right. The important thing is to recognise them and to try to learn from them, and that applies equally to teachers and pupils. I would like to think that I did learn from my mistakes, but it should be borne in mind that this appears to be a continuous and perpetual process.

A few examples of mistakes I made and lessons I learned early on:

It is best to prepare thoroughly in advance and not to leave a class to collect some photocopying you’ve forgotten, giving the class time to set up a waste-paper bin filled with water above the classroom door which has been left ajar. This is particularly true if the depute rector decides to pop in to your room just ahead of you.

It’s probably best not to physically remove a pen from a pupil’s mouth – even if he has arrived late, is under the influence of magic mushrooms and refuses to remove his pen when speaking to you. Physically removing the pen is particularly ill-advised if you consequently discover it is ridged and causes a distinct rattle of teeth while being removed.

It’s probably best not to suddenly roar out of the blue at pupils who are inattentive and chattering, even if it has the desired effect of correcting their behaviour. At least, not if you have a pupil with a heart condition right in front of you who has such a fright when you bellow that he struggles to catch his breath and goes a very worrying shade of red. (He did survive.)

It’s best not to assume that parents will be able (or willing) to exercise control over their offspring. At one parents’ evening, a pupil and his father sat in front of me and the pupil held a polystyrene cup filled with tea. While I was speaking to this pupil, he bit a chunk out of the lip of the cup and proceeded to eat it. A little taken aback, I pointed out to the pupil slowly and clearly, “You’re eating the cup”, whereupon he took another bite. I looked at the father and said equally slowly and clearly, “He’s eating the cup”, at which he looked at me, smiled, and made a bizarre sound which indicated agreement, amusement and a complete inability to influence events.

It is probably best not to engage in potentially dangerous automotive activities at lunchtime ……

My colleague Andy was particularly keen on cars and motorbikes, and announced one Friday that the following day he was going to London to take possession of a new 600cc motorbike. I had to confess I had never even been a passenger on a motorbike, far less ridden one, so he suggested that I accompany him as a pillion passenger the following Monday at lunchtime.

I did my best to find excuses such as not having a helmet or suitable clothing, and I had a class immediately after lunch, but whatever excuse I produced, Andy furnished a solution. Nothing was going to prevent this man from providing my initiation to motorbiking.

Monday arrived and so did Andy on his rather large and impressive 600cc motorbike. Lunchtime came and I wore my leather coat and the helmet so thoughtfully provided by Andy. I sat in the pillion position and I have to say the sheer width of the seat took me by surprise. For a moment, I doubted if my feet would make contact with the footrests! When Andy got on, I realised I would have to find something to grip in order to steady myself and I didn’t want to grip Andy, so I felt around for some other means of delivering some sense of security and I discovered a form of handle (undoubtedly a bar allowing the secure transport of luggage) about level with my backside. I held on with both hands, safe in the knowledge my hands and arms effectively formed a backrest, preventing me from sliding backwards.

After warning me that I would have to lean into corners to help with balance, Andy started the engine and I suddenly became aware of the sheer, raw power available immediately beneath me, and before I could express any doubts about continuing, we were off.

We drove through the town and I handled the curves and corners of the streets well, leaning in to them as necessary. Once out of town and moving in a relatively straight line, Andy accelerated to about 60 mph (I could see the speedo over his shoulder) and I actually enjoyed the experience! I started to relax, though I continued to grip the handle behind me as we headed north, doing a steady 60 along the not very busy A9 above Invergordon. It appeared my fears had been ill-founded and I actually started to find the experience, well, a little mundane – almost disappointing, at least compared to how I had built it up in my mind before setting off.

We arrived at a couple of bends which preceded another long straight and Andy had to slow to a crawl as we came up behind a tractor.

“Are you alright?” Andy turned and asked, shouting through his helmet.

“Yes” said I, quite matter-of-fact. Then a doubt struck me. “Why?” I asked. “Because we’re going to overtake the tractor in a second.” “OK” I said, thinking nothing of overtaking a vehicle moving at 15 mph.

As we rounded the corner Andy could see there was no traffic ahead, so he made the manoeuvre to overtake.

The sheer force of the acceleration pushed me physically back along the seat so that the only things stopping me joining the A9 were my hands and fingers which were now gripping the bar behind me so tightly that they would have cracked nuts! At exactly the same time, my head dipped down behind Andy’s shoulders and my thighs clamped down hard on the seat, the throbbing power of the engine passing through me like an electric current. I was not in control of my limbs – instinct took over and I seized on anything and everything to survive!

I did manage to raise my head, albeit wobbling like jelly, far enough to see the speedo which read around the 100 level, and we had reached that speed in some three or four seconds.

Once out of the straight we slowed again to what now appeared like walking pace – about 60, and we headed back to the school without communicating.

When we stopped in the school car park, Andy got off, removed his helmet and asked if I was OK. He also had a wry look of satisfaction on his face, and wore an inkling of a smile.

I had some difficulty removing myself from the bike. My fingers had to be unwrapped from the bar to which they were now virtually fused, and my thighs felt like I’d run a marathon in record time. Worse, I had pulled a muscle in my right thigh and I couldn’t walk without limping. It took three days to recover.

I managed to muster a somewhat bemused “Thanks” for Andy, and I headed up to my room where my class was waiting for me. I have to admit that not a lot of French was taught that period – it was more of a debriefing, and destressing!

Most teachers will set out to build a rapport with their pupils in order to make their lessons more palatable or even amusing. However, not all would go as far as transforming into a superhero ….

Before becoming embroiled in the world of teaching, a colleague and very good friend of mine completed his education by gaining a PhD in chemistry and naturally became known by the title, Doctor.

Early on in his career, and aware that chemistry did not lend itself to verbal banter enjoyed in various other disciplines, the Doc decided to inject a bit of much needed fun in his own particular way.

And so, especially when he had younger classes, the Doc would wander up and down his lab (furnished with traditional science benches), explaining reactions and reciting notes to his hard-working, if somewhat gloomy pupils. Suddenly, however, he would duck down behind the bench at the rear of his room, pick up a black cape he had previously placed there, tie it around his neck, and with a single bound he would jump onto the bench, declaring “I am Superdoc!”

The Doc then proceeded to leap from one bench to the next, much to the amazement and admiration of his (captive) audience!

Now, you may be wondering why this educational superhero has not become a household name. Well, I have to tell you that Superdoc’s career was fairly short-lived.

On one occasion (his last appearance), he got a little carried away with his own success and, while leaping with balletic grace from one bench to the next, he failed to notice a protruding gas tap which brought his performance (and his career) to a somewhat abrupt and decidedly earthbound end!

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Chapter 5 Tall tales

Chapter 5

Tall tales

I have been known to tell some “tall tales” to classes in an attempt to build a rapport with my pupils. The following tale (from the early eighties) started as a result of me falling for some excuse and allowing a Higher pupil to leave class without good reason. Fortunately for me the pupil returned almost immediately, but with a smug smile of victory on her lips. She had lied and I had fallen for it, much to the delight of the entire class. Revenge would be sweet ….

I should emphasise that what happened was not planned in any way, indeed I could never have thought it up in advance!

One day, my colleague Arthur (who taught in the room next to mine) displayed staggering athletic ability by jumping from a school desk to the floor (we had been putting up posters in my room) just as my Higher class arrived. After his departure, various comments were made expressing surprise at his ability to make such a leap at his age (he had reached the prodigious age of 38 at the time!).

Incensed by this slur on the capacity of members of the teaching profession’s ability to achieve anything even remotely physically challenging, I snapped.

“But he hasn’t always been a teacher, you know.” said I, “Before joining the profession in an attempt to share his knowledge and help future generations to evolve in to well-rounded human beings, he was a stuntman.”

I received stunned looks of disbelief, yet they were tinged with a desire to believe this outlandish claim – they required more detail.

“You’ve all seen "Superman" with Christopher Reeve, well, Mr Scott (Arthur) helped to train Mr Reeve for the flying scenes – helped him to master the wires and landing techniques because he had had experience of these in pantomime.”

I think it was the detail and the sheer outlandishness that did it – it was so fantastic that it had to be true. I also knew that if I pushed it any further, they would suspect something, so I left it.

In the days that followed they vaguely broached the subject, but never really to challenge, just to check on the details. I even told them that Arthur preferred not to talk about it as he was slightly embarrassed – he didn’t want to be known as “The Flying French Teacher”.

And so it was that I forgot all about it, until about ten years later when a group of primary age pupils came to the school, accompanied by their well respected teacher of some six years, who had been one of my pupils.

During my time with these pupils I made some ridiculous claim at which point my ex pupil (and their teacher) simply shook her head and informed me that they were not gullible enough to fall for that one! It was at that point that I vaguely remembered telling a class about Arthur being a stuntman and helping to train Christopher Reeve in "Superman", and I recounted this tale to my ex pupil, who had studied French to Higher level with me. About ten years previously.

I was left totally speechless when, after I had finished my story, she gasped, “You mean he didn’t?”

A word of advice - if you are going to lie, make an effort to remember to whom you lie!

On another occasion, a group of young ladies in S4 who had just sat their Standard Grade exam in French came up the stairs rather excitedly to tell me how they felt they had done.

As they left the stairway and turned right towards my room, they were struck by the rather loud music emanating from Doctor Ferrier’s lab as the man himself sat at his desk without a class, preparing lessons. What really fascinated them was the fact he was listening to a track by the Bee Gees, hardly a style of music this group normally associated with Doctor Ferrier.

All thoughts of their exam and how they fared disappeared from their minds – Doctor Ferrier’s choice of music was a far more interesting subject, and one which enthralled them.

They entered my room babbling about the Doc’s poor choice of music – it was the Bees Gees, for goodness’ sake! How old-fashioned. What poor taste. Imagine listening to that for any length of time!

I felt this group’s mockery of Doctor Ferrier’s choice of music merited something of a retribution, especially as I knew full well that the poor man had merely been listening to the radio and had no influence whatsoever over what music came from the speaker.

“You have to understand,” said I, “that sometimes the Doc likes to think back to the good old days before he became a teacher. He was the road manager for the Bee Gees, you know. He helped organise travel arrangements, accommodation and the setting up of the stage for the group. He enjoyed it, but he got a bit fed up with the constant travelling and felt he wanted to do something he considered more worthwhile with his degree, so he decided to become a teacher.”

Again, I think it was the detail and possibly the appeal to humanity that clinched it. Of course, they had a few doubts initially, but I persuaded them of the Doc’s desire to do his bit for the education of the youth of today.

They were very impressed and their dismissal of his choice of music transformed into genuine admiration and a desire to hear more. After all, this was a man who had associated with celebrities!

Off they scuttled to seek further detail from the Doc himself about his previous existence as an assistant to the famous ….

I’m not too sure exactly how the Doc put it, but he wasted little time in disabusing the girls of their conviction he had worked with a famous pop group, and they came back to have it out with me in an absolute fury tinged, curiously, with disappointment ….

As a young man, I loved the James Bond films. To me, the early films were the epitome of sophisticated, self-mocking yet effective action/adventure films. Many years later, as a Christmas present, my wife sent away for a mock newspaper front page with the headline (and accompanying story) to the effect that I had been chosen as the next James Bond. Needless to say, I loved it and I still have the original on a wall in my home. However, I thought it too good a joke to restrict it to my house and family, so I made a photocopy, laminated it and put it on a wall in my classroom.

Most classes thoroughly enjoyed the joke, pointing it out and impertinently suggesting I’d make a very “different” James Bond.

However, one small group of pupils saw it and started whispering among themselves, seemingly discussing the potential veracity of the headline and story.

It is an interesting phenomenon that a small group of people can influence the thinking and common sense of the majority, and so this small group of pupils prevailed upon the intelligence of the majority of the class and by the end of the period I was asked by the class if the headline was true.

I’m afraid I just couldn’t resist. It was too good an opportunity to miss.

“Yes,” I said, “but it’s a long and complicated story. Daniel Craig was originally contracted to do two films, with the option of doing more. After “Quantum of Solace” it appeared he lost interest so the producers got in touch with me. Of course, Daniel Craig decided to stay on and “Skyfall” was such a big hit they thought they’d stick with him, and in any case, I’m too old now.”

Maybe I should have been an actor. To my astonishment, there was no laughter, no scoffing, no derisory remarks. Nothing. Just a sort of dubious acceptance of what I said, and this took me somewhat by surprise. I didn’t know what to say – I didn’t want to compound the lie by trying to further convince them, but equally I was going to feel awful if I announced I had duped them all. The result is that I said nothing, and as I write this I realise there may still be a few ex-pupils who actually believed I was in the running to be James Bond! My apologies!

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Chapter 6 Fun can backfire

Chapter 6

Fun can backfire

As a general rule, I wanted classes to enjoy their lessons with me. That said, I was never particularly good at making the work itself much fun (there is even an argument that work may not be taken seriously if presented too frequently as entertainment), but I did often try to make the lesson fun in terms of explanations, interplay and general banter as the lesson progressed.

There were times, however, when this approach backfired and not just on the occasions when pupils outwitted me in class, but also on a few occasions when I was caused physical pain.

One such event, which left a scar I still carry today, occurred with a small, bright, chirpy S3 class. I was explaining something and undoubtedly starting recounting some tale in an effort to bring the explanation to life, when I became aware of one particularly bright and chirpy lad tapping his teeth with his pencil while I was spouting forth. To be fair, this appeared to be a by-product of concentration rather than some attempt to distract or amuse his classmates. Nonetheless, the persistent tapping did prove distracting – to me. I therefore politely invited the pupil to stop the offending action as it was annoying me. He apologised and immediately stopped.

I continued, and about thirty seconds later I became aware that the pupil, still focused on my tale, had restarted the tapping.

Again, I asked him politely to desist, explaining his action was very off-putting, and again he apologised sincerely and stopped.

A couple of minutes further into my tale I once again heard the regular Tap ….. Tap ….. Tap ……

This time I was fairly abrupt and simply told him it was annoying. Embarrassed at my repeated warnings, he placed his pencil on the desk in front of him, went quite red and said sorry nervously.

The next time (and quite unbelievably, there was a next time), I knew I had to do something to finally get the message across that this was to stop. The problem was he was a nice lad who innocently indulged in a very low level disturbance and I certainly didn’t want to react disproportionately, so I thought I would over-react in a funny way to defuse the situation and at the same time remove the pencil from his hand.

In my mind, the plan was thus:

I pull an exaggeratedly annoyed face (intended to amuse and get the message across), while swiping the pencil out of the boy’s hand with my right hand.

However, I failed to take into account the fact the lad was anxious because of my previous attempts to chastise him and so he didn’t recognise any humour whatsoever in the face I was pulling, and in an attempt to make matters right, he actually made to hand his very sharp pencil over, stretching out his arm so that the sharp point of the pencil met my swinging right hand and embedded itself about half-way along my life-line!

With no small measure of disbelief at how my plan for lightening the situation led to squeals of shock and horror from the rest of the class, never mind the utterly distraught reaction of my “aggressor”, I pulled the pencil (which stood independently at an angle of 90° to my palm) from the wound.

I quickly reassured the class that all was well and that everything was my fault, and did my best to continue as though nothing had happened.

I didn’t seek treatment - it was just a minor flesh wound, but curiously that incident seemed to bring me closer to the class who regularly enjoyed reminding me of my folly, but also showed a willingness to make more of an effort in class, perhaps out of some sense of sympathy.

Within my subject, we did not have the advantage of being compulsory and if class numbers dropped (which was often the consequence of levels of staffing and resultant option choices), we were invited to consider our course content and strategies for delivery.

In part because of this, I had a preference for a light and productive atmosphere in my room as I was aware that several pupils struggled or didn’t enjoy the subject so I set out to do what I could to make the class reasonably pleasant, and I preferred to reserve more serious chastisement for more serious offences.

Thus, often if a pupil was distracted or failed to keep on task, I would direct a light-hearted remark at them, or occasionally try to embarrass them by sneaking up behind them and bark sharply, causing them a fright. Usually they got the message and settled down to the task in hand.

However, on one occasion I was a little more effective in causing a fright than I anticipated. One S3 girl tended to be easily distracted but always returned to task when reminded of her educational duties, though she responded more readily to a light-hearted reminder than a serious ticking off, so I thought I would embarrass her by sneaking up behind her as she was chatting, and barking “Work!” at the back of her head.

This I did, but to fairly disastrous effect for me as my dear pupil got such a shock she bucked her head backwards and collided with my forehead and glasses.

The pain subsided very quickly and my glasses were easily twisted back into shape. I did think to myself that maybe it was time to stop doing these idiotic things, but on the other hand the pupil did then get on with her work, and she even wrote a note of apology on a card given to me by her class on my retirement. Maybe it worked after all …..

So, you’d think I would learn my lesson after that incident, but no …..

I continued to use this ploy as an amusing (in my mind) means of shocking pupils back into work mode, and it proved quite effective – several pupils whose attention had wandered got the not very subtle message that it was time to get back to work, until the day I used my trick on a particularly chatty and ebullient lad in S4.

The scenario was the same as usual – chatty pupil needing to be gently goaded into getting on with some work, but the pupil was not quite the same as usual. He was sharp, savvy and confident, and when he bucked his head back I couldn’t be sure whether it was a reflex action or something more calculated. Either way, the result was the same (and was entirely my own fault) – the back of his head connected firmly with my nose, and given the pain I felt and the crack I heard, I was fairly sure my nose was broken.

It is at this point I have to indulge in a Victor Hugo-like digression.

For as long as I could remember, my nose had been slightly off-centre, veering a little to the left. It wasn’t something to which I gave any particular thought until I needed my first pair of glasses (at age 19) and I went to be “fitted” by a local optician. He kindly informed me that I had one ear further up than the other, but added that I shouldn’t worry about it as one eye was also further up than the other to compensate. A little taken aback, I muttered something about resembling Quasimodo, whereupon this highly sensitive professional announced that my most interesting feature was, in fact, my nose which “went off at an angle of about 15°”. I entered his offices needing glasses and left feeling the need of a plastic surgeon!

I can’t be sure, but I think I may have broken my nose originally at the age of four when I fell and gashed my lip which required stitches, so any damage done to my nose was overlooked due to the more obvious and dramatic wound on my upper lip.

Anyway, to return to the headbutting of my nose. The pain was now considerable but what I noticed above all else was that it felt different somehow. I ran my fingers over it and realised that this pupil had actually done me a huge favour – my nose was virtually straightened!

The pupil in question showed little remorse (and it was, after all, my own fault), but I think he was a tad disappointed to learn his action had had a positive effect.

Of course, having fun with a class did not necessarily imply physical pain. Fun could be produced through teasing, banter, singing or trying to catch one another out.

Homework (consisting of the completion of a short piece of writing) had been set for an S2 class and it was to be collected at the end of the period.

One charming pupil approached before the end of the class to say how sorry he was, but that he had left his homework at home – he would bring it in the following day.

Having made something of a fuss about handing in the homework on time, I asked him a few questions just to make sure he had, indeed, done the work.

I asked if he was sure he’d done it all and wasn’t just making an excuse. He appeared almost hurt at the implication he might be fibbing. “It’s all done. I was working on it in bed last night and when it was finished I put my jotter under my bed and then forgot to put it in my bag in the morning.”

I looked at him a little doubtfully. “Are you sure? You wouldn’t fib to me, would you?” By now the attention of the rest of the class had been drawn to our conversation as they sensed a potential drama unfolding.

“No, I swear – I got it done, felt sleepy and put the jotter on the floor. I’ll bring it tomorrow and you’ll see.” He was becoming quite indignant at my continued questioning and even started to grandstand a little for the benefit of his classmates.

“I’ll bring it tomorrow at registration. You can’t say fairer than that”, he said, almost triumphantly, sensing I was either convinced by his display of honesty or was caving to his persistent offers to bring the work in at the earliest possible opportunity.

“No need”, said I, and promptly produced his jotter from behind my back and plonked it on the table between us.

“You left this behind yesterday so I kept it in my desk for safekeeping”, I added.

The class loved it and laughed appreciatively while the lad himself had the decency to go deep red and gave me a smile which indicated he accepted defeat and he had been well played.

“Tomorrow at registration”, I said, handing him his jotter which he took while nodding compliance.

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Chapter 7 “Singing”

Chapter 7

“Singing”

The use of songs and singing can be of great benefit in a Modern Languages classroom. Apart from playing, translating and singing songs from French musicals (about which, more later), I was fond of inviting classes to chant grammar points to well-known tunes. The various versions of “some” in French (du, de la, de l’, des) go very well when repeated and sung to the tune of “The William Tell Overture”!

We even developed this to incorporate simple dance moves (all led by yours truly), and we had entire classes bouncing and chanting “du, de la, de l’, des”. At one point, we even had a dance-off between two classes which we filmed and replayed to the classes for maximum “fun”.

Another way of incorporating song in the classroom while helping to build a rapport with pupils was to sing “Happy Birthday” (or “Joyeux Anniversaire”) to those whose special day it was. This became something of a performance, sometimes climbing on the table in front of the pupil to cause the maximum impact and embarrassment, sometimes singing as a duo with the Doc (both of us trying to make the moment memorable rather than focusing on the niceties and finer points of actually singing well), and even occasionally as a trio with Arthur joining the duo, though I think Arthur found this somewhat awkward as he has a very good voice and couldn’t bring himself to do anything other than sing well.

Some of these “performances” were captured on video by numerous pupils who, despite being told that such recordings were officially illegal in school, would surreptitiously (they thought) return their phones to their bags upon completion of the celebration. Fortunately, I have never been privy to a viewing.

I should point out that I do not have a good voice. I have a powerful voice and this occasionally served to dupe some individuals into thinking I can sing, but I readily recognise the limits of my “vocal instrument”.

This was brought home to me particularly on the occasion I was invited (very early in my time at Invergordon) to join the choir for a rehearsal.

It did not go well.

My failed attempts to hold the notes merely attracted the attention of the other choir members and had the effect of distracting them from their own performance. This led to a choir-wide ticking off from choirmaster and music teacher extraordinaire, Ewan Stewart, who said nothing directly to me but neglected to invite me to further rehearsals. Ever.

Ewan retired many years ago, but if ever we bump in to one another he never fails to inquire about the continued quality of my singing voice. Clearly, an impression was made ……

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Chapter 8 Disillusion and the possibility of an exchange

Chapter 8

Disillusion and the possibility of an exchange

As I have already mentioned, “Tour de France” (the course we used from S1 to S4) had its weaknesses which led to frustration and dissatisfaction, and toward the end of the eighties a replacement was being sought. In March 1988, I suggested an approach based on contexts familiar to pupils but which was dependent (with substantial input) on class input. Our adviser at the time seemed very taken with this idea and offered to fund a cover teacher for me for two weeks to allow me to type up an outline of contexts, vocabulary and exercises which he would then have written up professionally and distributed.

I have to confess I was flattered and pleased to go down this route of possible career development as the traditional promotion route really didn’t appeal to me.

So, I spent two weeks beavering away and produced what amounted to a two-year course with a variety of contexts, vocabulary and suggestions for speaking, listening, reading and writing extensions. It was duly collected and the Headmaster received a very nice letter commending my professionalism.

And that was it. My “course” simply disappeared into the abyss of educational ideas.

Some time later I approached the subject with the adviser and he pointed out that my whole approach required substantial input from both teacher and pupil (though I had provided copious amounts of guidance, detail and vocabulary) which was seen, on reflection, as a major problem. In all fairness, although disappointing, this was something of a stumbling block as staff had enough to do delivering lessons without having to create them as well.

Of course, some twenty years later this might have been viewed more favourably under Curriculum for Excellence in which teachers were encouraged to depart from “normal” book-based work, but at the time it was, understandably, rejected.

I was quite demoralised. Although I understood why my work had not been picked up, it pained me to think my efforts served no purpose. More importantly, I had thoroughly enjoyed producing the materials and would have liked to pursue such endeavours, and an alternative means of moving forward which seemed to have been proffered was now withdrawn. I had been at the school for some seven years, having intended to see out my probationary period of two years there, and I had itchy feet. I was reasonably happy, but I felt there may be other possibilities elsewhere. This feeling was compounded by the fact my father died a couple of years previous to these events and, as is often the case, loss of that kind invites reflection on values, purpose and the future, and I was no longer sure of what I was doing and why I was doing it.

I needed a change and Arthur helped me on that route by organising an interview for me with the bureau for international educational visits and exchanges.

To my astonishment, one of the members of the panel had been my own teacher of French in S2 and S3, Mr Joe Wake! He was responsible for ensuring the standard of French of candidates, and after pointing out to him that this was the first time in some sixteen years that we had spoken to one another in French, he seemed happy that I could communicate adequately and announced that he was entirely satisfied with the level of my language skills.

The rest of the interview went smoothly and thus I took my first steps toward spending the following academic year in Rennes, Brittany.

While the school was happy to support my candidacy, there were a few misgivings about who exactly would replace me for the year. A colleague had undertaken the same process three years previously and while we appreciated having a native speaker and permanent source of cultural information in our midst, there were one or two areas where things didn’t go entirely smoothly.

Dominique (the exchange teacher) was a relatively small, balding, bespectacled, age-obsessed (he always gave his age as forty, though it transpired he was still thirty-nine) Corsican with a magnificently sculpted physique of which he was (rightly) very proud.

He was a fairly tense man not renowned for his sense of humour, and found it quite difficult to adapt to teaching his own language (rather than English), the course and methodologies we used to teach French, and of course his pupils and the relationship they expected to have with their teacher. He was also accustomed to doing everything at a steady pace and never seemed to be in a hurry to do anything.

At the start of his year with us (and, come to that, throughout his stay), he had a few discipline/relationship problems as French teachers tend to be a little more distant than their Scottish counterparts and have expectations of pupil-teacher relationships which differ from those that frequently apply in Scotland. He didn’t cope well with questioning and challenge, and was of the opinion that pupils should simply accept his authority. When I gently suggested that he could perhaps make some effort to get on with his pupils and thus win their esteem, it appeared he just couldn’t (or wouldn’t) understand that concept.

“I have to gain their respect?”

It was really all a matter of culture and adaptation, but therein lay the problem.

Dominique insisted on a relatively dry and traditional approach whereby he would present the work and it was up to the pupils to meet the standard or not, whereas our course book was built on strategies and methodologies which aimed to engage and develop personal communication. As he was clearly struggling with this aspect, I wrote out some forty lesson plans (all very simple and straightforward), but he abandoned these after about three classes.

While most of the staff made some effort in terms of clothing (shirt, tie, reasonably smart outfits), Dominique persisted in wearing casual clothing (as per expectations in the French education system) and often wore rather large and heavy walking or climbing boots which tended to attract attention.

I once was conducting a speaking test in the base adjacent to my first-floor room, with the pupil facing the open door which looked out on to the corridor. As my pupil gallantly tried to answer my questions in French he was suddenly distracted by the sight of Dominique passing by the open door, slowly but steadily measuring his pace in his sizeable climbing boots, clutching a bottle of water and looking as though it had required quite an effort to get this far up the stairs and along the corridor.

“I know we’re quite high up on the first floor, but that’s ridiculous!” he said, remarkably astutely, as I stifled my desire to laugh and repeated my question in French.

Dominique was given the use of a new Citroen 2CV during his stay by his exchange partner, and toward the end of the year he very kindly invited Arthur and me to lunch at a local restaurant and insisted on transporting us all in his car.

It is common for foreign drivers who are unused to driving on the left to occasionally wander into the right-hand lane, causing considerable anxiety to oncoming drivers, or to keep so far to the left they almost mount the pavement and virtually invite fellow road users to overtake them. Dominique found a novel solution to both these potential problems. While both going to the restaurant and returning to the school, he opted to drive down the middle of the road thus avoiding the two traditional problematic approaches, but doing very little to avoid all other traffic. This was compounded by the fact that he undertook both journeys at his usual pace and proceeded at no more than 20 mph.

On our return, and with magnificent understatement, Arthur whispered to me, “That was a bit hairy, wasn’t it?”

The result of all this was that the Headmaster expressed a desire to meet my exchange partner before giving final approval to my year-long exchange.

I met up with Claire (my proposed exchange partner) at a train station in Paris during the Easter break of 1989. (I thought it best to spend a week or so in France to re-acclimatise myself to French culture and life before spending an entire year teaching English in a Collège (a secondary school for S1 to S4 pupils) in Rennes.) All went well and we spent a pleasant hour or so chatting about ourselves, our schools and our hopes for our exchange. Claire had been an assistante in Scotland some twenty years before and she clearly wanted to recapture some of the pleasure and benefit she had gained from that experience. She struck me as a very competent and confident individual who was keen to make our exchange work. We organised a visit to Invergordon in May so she could see the school and meet the Headmaster.

Everything went well during that visit. The Head was suitably impressed and concurred with my thoughts on my partner, and Claire seemed very happy with what she saw of Invergordon Academy.

Everything was in place for our exchange to start in August 1989 and all augured well, or so it seemed ….

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