Flash fiction - Retirement Dinner and Speech

The Retirement Dinner

His name was William Thomson, known as Bill. He was a teacher of French in a small secondary school in the Highlands of Scotland. This was a job which, over the course of some thirty-five years, had gradually but quite relentlessly taken over his life (in common with most teachers) as he devoted his time to organising lessons, events and trips, produced materials, reports and test papers, considered and developed teaching strategies and techniques, even performed at charity concerts, and of course lost countless hours of sleep due to anxiety and an obsessive desire to do right by his pupils.

Now, somewhat to his astonishment, he was about to stand up before his colleagues to deliver his retirement speech.

He had looked forward to “escaping” for the last couple of years as the constant flow of dubious changes, questionable initiatives, pressure to justify just about every action he took, and the general daily grind seemed ever more intense, while the prospect of retirement offered a chink of light at the end of the tunnel and the thought of just saying “no more” was ever more appealing.

He had, of course, joked about the prospect of retirement for many years – if a pupil took an inordinate length of time to answer a question, he would remind them that he was due to retire in nineteen, then fifteen, then ten years and so on.

Now, at his own retiral “do”, as he was about to say his farewells to his colleagues, it was all of a sudden real, imminent and somewhat disconcerting.

Naturally, in the run-up to “the end”, many people had asked him about his plans for the future and he always jokingly answered that he was so preoccupied by thoughts of all the things he wanted to see come to a halt that he had never actually considered what he would do with his time and energy in the (now very near) future.

Joking though he was, it was actually the truth – immediate issues such as finding strategies to deal with that potentially difficult third year class, coaxing some senior pupils through their dreaded speaking assessments, adapting an exercise to make French grammar amusing and engaging at least to some extent, and dealing with a few poor wee souls whose difficult home circumstances were affecting their school work – all these things had indeed diverted his attention from the more personal and increasingly pressing matter of just what he was going to do with the rest of his life.

Discussion of this issue consisted largely of inane platitudes such as vague talk of travel, increased correspondence with friends and family, and regular trips to the cinema. The truth was he had given scant consideration to his future as he was too preoccupied dealing with issues in his present.

Then there was the small matter of his speech.

He had attended numerous retiral events and, in search of inspiration, he recalled the variety of tones and content of the speeches he heard at them. One or two were virtually scathing in their indictment of the direction in which they thought education was going (goodness only knows what they’d make of the present system!). Another colleague was remarkable in his brevity and conciseness - after hearing a couple of speeches in which his praises were loudly sung, and in the presence of many admiring colleagues, the retiree stood, said “Thank you”, and promptly sat down again! Then there was the colleague who stood, announced his year of birth and went on to provide a year by year account of his personal development and career. He took twenty minutes to arrive at the end of the Second World War!

So, these approaches had been done and Bill didn’t want to repeat others’ style – he wanted something that suited him, and then he remembered a quote from actor James Stewart who reportedly said that the best films were made up of “moments”. Bill thought that this notion applied equally to careers and indeed life itself, so he decided to recount some of his most memorable and cherished memories of his time at the school before simply thanking his colleagues for their support, camaraderie and friendship over the years.

Preparing the speech brought back many memories that had been buried in time and the process lent a focus and clarity to events, feelings and reflections. Bill had always been so immersed in the moment and his immediate concerns that he failed to perceive the bigger picture, but now, on reflection, he perceived patterns which perhaps only existed in his own mind, but which it pleased him to think might attest to some kind of overall purpose and even a modicum of success.

Bill’s working life for the last thirty-five years had been dominated by routine, duty, preparation, caring, supporting pupils and colleagues, but also camaraderie, mutual support and ceaseless humour in the face of adversity (on the part of both staff and pupils), all of which helped Bill get through some difficult times both professionally and personally. But all of this was within the context of his working environment, and within the next few days that entire framework would be gone. If the truth be told, Bill was somewhat unsure of the future largely because he was shortly going to gain that for which he had so long pined – his freedom, and he was none too sure of how he was going to handle it.

At one point, Bill even wondered if he was doing the right thing by retiring. However, he quickly disabused himself of that notion by recalling a few of the negative features of his working life:

Waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.

Anxiety over the content and delivery of lessons.

Further (and perhaps more profound) anxiety over exam results.

The unpredictability of behaviour (pupils and staff!).

The feeling that whatever you do is not enough or good enough.

The constant accountability, justification, analysis and demands.

Actually, however daunting the prospect might have been, freedom suddenly looked mighty attractive!

Applause from his colleagues upon his introduction stirred Bill from his reflection and he stood up to embark on the speech that was to sum up the last thirty-five years of his life.

The Speech 

Ladies and Gentlemen,

It is difficult to sum up in a few words the thoughts, feelings and experiences of some 35 years. The obvious thing is to discuss the changes I’ve seen in the education system in that time, but don’t worry – I’ll spare you that rant. However, I will tell you about my first observation.

Bear in mind what is involved in an observation today – a double-sided evaluation sheet incorporating at least 20 if not 30 elements. At the end of my first observed lesson the Assistant Head Ken Carlisle (who was responsible for probationers) approached and gave me his purely verbal feedback – “That was fine, Bill, but you might want to move the tables away from the wall”, and that was it. How things have changed ….. .

When starting out in teaching, it is essential to find your own style – you have to work out what works for you and your pupils, and you have to learn from your mistakes.

I would like to think I did learn from my mistakes, but sadly I have to confess I continue to make mistakes from which to learn.

For example, I learned that it is best to prepare in advance and not have 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.

OR

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, quite slowly and deliberately, and with something of an air of disbelief, “You’re eating the cup”, whereupon he took another bite. I looked at the father and again pointed out quite slowly and deliberately, still with an air of disbelief, “He’s eating the cup”, at which he looked at me and smiled, making a bizarre high-pitched sound while shrugging his shoulders which indicated agreement, amusement and a recognition of his complete inability to influence events.

OR

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.

OR

It’s probably best not to inadvertently lock a pupil in your cupboard and leave him there during morning interval – even if that attention-seeking little devil had crawled his way across the room and sneaked in to the cupboard to try to access some exam papers and amuse his classmates.

There are many, many happy memories from the classroom, charity concerts, school trips and the staffroom, car sharing to get to work, even meetings – far too many to be able to share with you here tonight, but memories which I will cherish and may well go on to write about in my memoirs. Be afraid!

Although there are many happy memories, I have to say it hasn’t always been great.

There have been difficult and frustrating times both professionally and personally, and I think in teaching it is often difficult to separate the two, and it is during the more difficult times that I learned to appreciate and value the wisdom and camaraderie of my colleagues. At the risk of sounding like the theme song to “Neighbours”, it’s at those times you discover that good colleagues become good friends. Clearly, I worked most closely with my fellow languages teachers Liz and Clive over the years, but I would like to thank you ALL for your camaraderie, friendship and support.

I have frequently said that I have no luck – I rarely win anything, have no luck in cards and the only time I put a bet on the Grand National, my horse actually ran away before the start of the race.

However, I have come to rethink my position concerning luck. I met my wife Anne (aside to Anne - “that is what you wrote, isn’t it?), and I was lucky enough to find a job at Shiel Academy and have some of the best colleagues and pupils I could hope for, and I am now lucky enough to have been made redundant!

It has frequently been said there is something special about Shiel, and actually I don’t think it’s hard to define – it’s just not that common.

It’s about caring. Putting pupils first and wanting what’s best for them, but extending that attitude to colleagues. It’s about professionalism with humanity and I know that I have benefited greatly from that environment and I thank you most sincerely, past and present colleagues.

My experiences have not been restricted to the school itself - I have also participated in several trips and I’ve been to France, Switzerland, Holland, Germany, Belgium, Italy, London and Edinburgh.

I’ve met many interesting people along the way – not just colleagues and pupils, but people like Alastair Burnett (news journalist), Tom Weir (TV presenter), Rudi Oppenheimer (Belsen survivor), Jon Lee (former member of S-Club 7), John Owen-Jones (Valjean in Les Misérables), and I scared the living daylights out of Gareth Gates!

I have sung, danced and presented events.

I did a year-long exchange with a teacher from France and taught English in Rennes.

I was a union rep for many years and delivered milk, tea and coffee for 17 years.

As a result of one trip I developed an interest in “Les Misérables”, and wrote a study guide which led to the creation of a website, which in turn led to making several hundred acquaintances on the internet.

The point is that working in a school is a two-way process and if it is felt that I have made a contribution to the life of the school, it is equally true that my life has been a product of Shiel Academy, and I thank you all for the contributions you have made to my life.

I wish you all the best for the future, but whatever that holds, please remember you are already getting it right.

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Reflections on "The Prisoner" 1967 TV series

Reflections on “The Prisoner” 

(1967 TV series starring Patrick McGoohan)

A video presentation of this material is available here.

This is not intended as a detailed analysis or review, but rather a personal interpretation of the much admired and unique TV series.

In terms of the its televisual background, the series is clearly influenced by McGoohan’s previous work in “Danger Man” (known as “Secret Agent” in the USA) and is a sequel of sorts, though this was strenuously refuted by McGoohan who doubtless saw “The Prisoner” as a separate and individual work dealing with much broader and universal themes. Although in the same category as several other spy/action/adventure series of the early sixties, Danger Man’s plots and characterisations reflected a more profound perception of events of the time and were treated with a level of intelligence and awareness not always shared by its contemporaries.

During his time as script editor on Danger Man, George Markstein, who went on to collaborate in the development of “The Prisoner” and wrote and edited the scripts of some 13 episodes, became aware of the existence of a mysterious resort-like prison in Scotland where some were held during World War Two. This style of prison seemed an ideal setting to present ideas McGoohan had been garnering for another series for some time during his stint in Danger Man. An episode of Danger Man was filmed in Portmeirion (on the north western coast of Wales) and it appealed to McGoohan as a location. Executive producer Sir Lew Grade gave the go-ahead to the project based on McGoohan’s outline (with no written contract between the two men), and the rest is history.

What is it about?

In a nutshell, it seems to me that “The Prisoner” is about the place of the individual in society and the restrictions a social framework must impose on the freedom of the individuals within it.

The series considers various aspects of conflict between an individual’s freedom and the lengths to which members of society will go in order to protect the “sanctity” of that society.

We start with the resignation of an agent (who holds important and potentially sensitive information). He is kidnapped and held in a comfortable resort-like village in order that authorities might ascertain just why this agent has resigned and whether or not he represents a threat to the security and best interests of the society he formerly helped to protect.

This contrasts with the right of the individual to exercise his freedom to cease fulfilling this function – whatever his reasons might be.

From this relatively conventional start (which fits well with the end of Danger Man and contemporary issues concerning the lives and careers of former agents), we experience episodes which are increasingly allegorical in nature (to the point of being arcane at times), but which are always engaging, thought-provoking and compelling.

The authorities in the Village seek information from Number 6 (inmates/inhabitants of the Village are deprived of names and are reduced to mere numbers, like cogs in the machinery of society) about why he resigned and use a variety of means to achieve their end.

They play psychological games to test Number 6’s strength of character and spirit, though he frequently manages to turn the tables so that the authorities (usually in the form of the current Number 2) fail and may even reveal important information to Number 6.

Along the way questions are raised about the very nature of democracy and the trust we all place in the (sometimes shady) figures who run our society. “Sides” become irrelevant as ultimately all parties would behave in the same way, leading to the conclusion that no-one can be trusted. We are also invited to question motives and the very positions we are expected to adopt in society, placing the interests of that society above those of the individuals who collectively form it. Clearly, these ideas are a product of their time (the Cold War was at its coldest in the sixties), but the series develops these ideas to deal with universal concepts of freedom and identity.

Within the context of extraction of information, the authorities resort to confidence tricks, application of drugs and even science-fiction duplication – all exploring identity, strength of character and principle (Number 6 doesn’t know which “side” is trying to break him, therefore it could be argued that he is actually trying to protect the society he has known, or, if his own colleagues are responsible for his incarceration, he is fighting for the principle of personal freedom and choice).

The persistent and ubiquitous use of technology throughout the series also serves to emphasise the apparent futility of trying to preserve individuality or escape the clutches and influence of modern society. Yet Number 6 manages to outwit the users of said technology or find weaknesses within it, thus offering hope for humanity.

In the end, when we have moved into purely allegorical territory, Number 6 does indeed escape and returns to London, but it is clearly implied that some degree of supervision is maintained. Number 6 is unbroken and intact but he (and we) can never escape social pressure and supervision. Total freedom is an illusion – the best we can manage is relative freedom within limits, though these may be limits of which we remain largely unaware.

Number 6 also remains a prisoner of himself, condemned to behave in certain ways by his character and genes. Might his refusal to co-operate be regarded as a character defect or weakness? Are the authorities simply trying to help him adapt to reality and enable him to lead a “fuller” life within certain confines? This appears to be the interpretation of the remake of 2009, a remake I found desperately disappointing exactly because it appeared to preach conformity.

“The Prisoner” is undoubtedly a work of art. It is a representation of ideas which all should consider at some point. It is intriguing, inspiring and thought-provoking, but by its very nature it is also personal, subjective, can lack clarity and is open to a variety of interpretations. It has even been suggested that we are witnessing a mental breakdown as Number 6 faces the consequences of his actions in resigning. Perhaps he is in a coma and is dreaming. Whatever the context, the questions the series poses remain valid and the thoughts it provokes remain intriguing, important and relevant.

The performances and production are highly polished and assured. The viewer feels those responsible know exactly what they are doing, suggesting that any lack of understanding is due to some inadequacy on the part of the viewer (though this may be far from the case!).

The idea behind the use of the penny farthing spinning out of control in the end credits was that society was getting too big for its boots, developing at such a rate that control can no longer be exercised and might eventually lead to self-destruction. I suspect something similar can be said of the series itself as, toward the end, it shifted to ever more outlandish and perhaps indulgent representations and arguments concerning freedom and society.

For all that (and perhaps even because of that), I am grateful for the production of this unique series which continues to provoke reaction and thought.

My thanks for taking the time to read this page – I hope you found it of some interest.

I can be contacted at stuartfernie@yahoo.co.uk .

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Chapter 1 Foreword and Beginnings – being an assistant in France

Chapter 1

What have I done?

Memoirs and anecdotes from a lifetime in teaching (and learning)

by

Stuart Fernie

Before I forget, and am forgotten ….

Foreword

Countless reports have been written offering advice on content and evaluation of lessons, and strategies to drive them. I once attended a meeting chaired by members of Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of Education (HMIe) in the course of which some ten elements were proposed as representing excellence in the classroom - presentation of learning intentions, differentiation of content and evaluation, use of ICT, evidence of progression, summary of key elements at the end of a lesson etc. – all very admirable and worthwhile, and all rather “mechanical”.

We were then asked if there was anything we thought had been omitted and would be worthy of inclusion, and it struck me that something that underpins all elements of good teaching and learning is relationships between teacher and pupils, so I put forward that point. The Inspector chairing the meeting looked at me, somewhat bemused, and asked if I meant discipline or good order. I agreed, but suggested there was more to it than that, involving why pupils were willing to work with a teacher, the atmosphere in the room and the rapport between teacher and pupils.

The Inspector continued to look bemused and it was clear that this element had not been factored in to the official perception of excellence in the classroom at that point. However, it is precisely this element that made the job viable and worthwhile for me. If I hadn’t been able to get on with my pupils, have a bit of banter with them and just plain have some fun at the same time as teaching and fostering learning, my time in the classroom would have been unbearable.

I feel I was never very good at making the work itself fun, but I often found myself injecting touches of humour in order to engage the attention of my pupils and enable them to enjoy the process of learning, at least to some extent.

Of course, this is a two-way process and I am eternally indebted to my pupils who were willing to “play the game”, i.e. produce the work of the class while indulging my desire to amuse and engage.

Beginnings – being an assistant in France

When I was at school and university and I was asked what career path I wanted to pursue, I always said I was unsure but the one thing I didn’t want to do was teach. This response reflected a lack of guidance and direction combined with a considerable lack of self-confidence on my part. It may also have been based in good part on my perception of the experience of some of my teachers. Several did not have a pleasant time with some of my classes at school and I was none too sure of how I would cope with some of the challenging and at times downright awful behaviour I witnessed from certain classmates.

How, then, did I become involved in teaching?

As M.A.(Hons) students of French at Edinburgh University in the seventies, we were expected to spend our third year in France and we were encouraged to apply for an English assistantship in a French school (assistants are usually native speakers who provide linguistic and cultural support in modern languages classes). I can’t say I was very keen as I was very unsure of myself and how I would cope, but my application was successful and, at the age of twenty, I spent the academic year of 1978 – 1979 in Le Havre at the Lycée Porte Océane and I have to say that although I was initially apprehensive and anxious, it was one of the best formative experiences I could have hoped for.

Le Havre is hardly a beautiful city. Strategically important in the Second World War, it was virtually razed to the ground by the Allies and was rebuilt after the war. It is very “practical” in feel with everything carefully placed and planned and there is a great feeling of space and openness while the roads are nearly all straight, long and at right-angles to one another. It doesn’t feel like it has evolved and grown because it hasn’t – it was carefully and deliberately rebuilt after its devastating destruction. It is France’s second port and has an enormous industrial complex on its outskirts. Having said all that, I found the people warm, caring, friendly and welcoming, and in the end, it is the people who make a place.

Porte Océane was a fairly large upper secondary school (for pupils aged fifteen to eighteen) with approximately 1,200 students and about 80 staff. As an assistant I was contracted to give 12 classes per week, though my timetable varied from week to week to ensure I saw as many students as possible within the English department.

The greatest (and first) lesson I learned was the necessity to “throw yourself in”. I had to cast aside inhibitions and “perform”. I had to lead classes, plan activities, deal with any problems (in terms of linguistic questions and/or behaviour), and I had to try to engage the interest of the pupils.

Of course, I wasn’t a teacher as such and so that allowed me the freedom of developing a more informal approach and style within the classroom.

I quickly realised that my youth (I was only three or four years older than most of the pupils) and the fact that I wasn’t a “real” teacher worked in my favour when dealing with pupils. Since I didn’t share their language or their culture I needed some way to break down barriers and engage with them, so I set out to be friendly, share experiences with them, “make a spectacle of myself” as one member of staff put it, and ensure I didn’t adopt a tone of superiority. Several assistants I knew tried to act as teachers, insisting on certain standards of discipline and formality, but I discovered pupils reacted well to humour and self-mockery and as a result there were few problems concerning good order or engagement.

I tried to incorporate less formal strategies of language-learning in my lessons such as songs which could be translated and discussed (usually played on cassettes!), extracts from books (one of which was a series of comic observations by Ronnie Corbett), discussion of topics of interest to them, and I chatted about my experiences in their town. I also invited and offered correction of language, emphasising humorous interpretations or misinterpretations of words and phrases which allowed and encouraged pupils to relax and contribute where otherwise they may have remained silent.

I should say that the teaching staff were all warm, approachable and encouraging. Each (there were five of them) had his/her own style with varying degrees of discipline and different ways of engaging with pupils. They were all supportive, helpful and happy to invite me to social events which helped build my sense of belonging and self-confidence.

Of course, I wasn’t the only assistant at the school. There were three of us – me, a German called Joseph and a Spaniard called Julian. Both were older than me - Joseph was in his late twenties while Julian was thirty-seven, married and had three children. We each had a poorly insulated and soundproofed room (with hardboard walls separating us) on the top floor of a block of flats attached to the school, built specifically to house school staff (a common practice in France), with my room in the middle, Joseph to my left and Julian to my right.

Joseph was quite a gregarious character. He wore NHS-style glasses, had long dark hair, was confident and direct to the point of being abrupt and in a loud, almost booming, voice, he was not slow to express his thoughts and opinions. He was fond of playing music loudly into the wee small hours of the morning and would accuse me of behaving like an old man if I dared complain about the noise. We may not have been great friends, but we got along and even attended a few social events together, and it is for one of these events that I particularly remember Joseph ….

As I already indicated, the staff at the school were exceptionally welcoming and sociable and one evening they were due to meet a former colleague who had fallen ill, and whom they had not seen for a considerable time, in a restaurant not far from the school, and the three of us were cordially invited.

We arrived at the very ornate and fairly busy restaurant where we met our colleagues and were introduced to several guests who were unknown to us. Introductions involved shaking hands with all the male guests and kissing (once on each cheek) all the female guests, a process which took several minutes and which was repeated as each further guest arrived.

We took our places at the large table set aside for our group, to friendly and understanding looks from other patrons, and set about drinking aperitifs while the other guests arrived.

About twenty minutes later, the guests of honour arrived (their former colleague and his wife) and they proceeded to meet and greet each and every guest with a handshake or embrace, but this time with not just one but two pecks on each cheek, thereby at least doubling the length of time already spent on simply saying hello and significantly delaying the start of our meal.

This all got a bit much for Joseph who by this time was rather hungry and had downed a reasonable quantity of wine, and who couldn’t believe the sheer amount of meeting, greeting, embracing and especially kissing that was going on. He stood and in his usual direct, bold and very loud manner, he asked everyone in the restaurant in his vaguely Germanic but perfectly clear French, “Mais, combien de fois est-ce qu’on baise en France?”, which translates roughly as “But how many times do you screw in France?” !

(This is an easy mistake to make as the verb “baiser” originally meant “to kiss” in the dim and distant past, but has gone on to have a MUCH stronger meaning in present-day French, a fact of which Joseph apparently remained blissfully unaware).

Reaction was rapid, widespread and amused. Several mouthfuls of wine narrowly avoided being spat on the floor and there was much gasping followed by polite and understanding laughter, while it was left to Julian and me to explain to Joseph what he had in fact said rather than inquire about the number of kisses the guests had shared, as he thought he had done.

Julian was something of a rarity – a ginger-haired and ginger-bearded Spaniard. He was very kind, human and a lot of fun. We became very good friends to the extent that six years later he drove all the way from Seville in the south of Spain to Tain in the north of Scotland to be the Best Man at my wedding.

We helped one another and shared many trips and adventures. We toured the local area in his car, went further afield to Lille, Brussels and Bruges, and were even invited together to colleagues’ homes for dinner, forming a sort of double act as our hosts apparently found us entertaining.

One evening we had been invited to the home of a friend of a friend and, perhaps because he was missing his wife and three children and was upset at the thought of spending another five months or so in Le Havre without them, he got particularly drunk before we even sat down at our host’s table.

We made a start on our entrée, French Onion soup which contained Mozzarella, a type of cheese that goes very stringy when heated and which appeared to stretch almost infinitely as we dipped our spoons into our soup and raised them to our mouths. Unbroken thin cords of cheese clung to the spoons and refused to break free from the motherload of molten cheese hidden under the surface of our soup. The bigger problem was that as we put the spoons in our mouths these cords of cheese simply transferred their grip to our lips, thereby creating the effect of a virtual rope bridge consisting of strands of cheese between our mouths and their apparently never-ending source in our soup-bowls.

The other guests were unhindered by this problem – clearly there was some technique whereby it was possible to eat the damned soup without establishing visible and unbreakable connections to it, but no-one informed us of what it was.

Somewhat embarrassed by our predicament, we began to giggle at our inadequacy, but Julian had an even bigger problem than I had. The cheese strings attached themselves to his beard and appeared to be multiplying at an alarming rate as he tried to disentangle the cords, succeeding only in spreading them ever further.

We shared knowing looks and giggles, made worse by the fact our hosts and the other guests steadfastly and politely tried to ignore our situation.

I don’t know if he simply wanted to break the grip of the cheese strings or if he acted out of devilment to see how far they would stretch before snapping, but Julian started to swing on his chair, going ever farther back, giggling increasingly and in disbelief as he was ever more impressed by just how far the cheese cords would stretch before giving way.

Well, Julian’s ability to maintain his balance gave way before the cheese cords as all of a sudden, he hurtled backward toward the wall, his head ending up at a 45° angle between his shoulders and the skirting board, the cheese strings intact and Julian giggling uncontrollably but managing to utter the odd “Merde!”

We were not invited back.

Spending a year on foreign soil brings with it many advantages in terms of language, personal development and professional experience, but also in terms of development of cultural knowledge and awareness. You tend to accumulate such knowledge without really realising it – you simply adapt to your circumstances and environment, and assimilate. I do, however, clearly remember my introduction to “Le Trou Normand” (The Norman Hole) and Calvados, a strong brandy made with apples.

During my stay in Le Havre I opened a Lloyd’s bank account and became friends with Michael, one of the young ex-pat managers. One Saturday evening, he and his wife Hilary kindly invited me to a gathering in their home.

Everything went well and a good time was had by all. About 1 a.m. it was time to leave, but as I was about to set off someone in the group mentioned “Le Trou Normand” and asked if I had heard of it. It was explained to me that this is a tradition in the north of France whereby if you have enjoyed a hearty meal and would like to indulge in a little more, but feel you have insufficient space for an extra course, you drink some Calvados.

Calvados is an exceptionally strong brandy produced from apples and is offered after a large meal (in a thimble-sized container and in a single shot) to burn its way through the food already consumed, consequently leaving room for more – The Norman Hole.

So, at the end of the evening with Michael, Hilary and their guests, I was offered a Calvados largely, I think, because they wanted to see what effect this strong brandy would have on the young fresh-faced Scot before them.

I accepted their kind offer and consumed my thimble of Calvados in one go. Maybe it was because I had eaten well or maybe it was because I was already merry, but the emphatically strong Calvados had no effect on me.

Visibly disappointed, Michael, Hilary and their guests insisted I should have another before setting off on my mile-long journey across the city to my flat.

I downed the second Calvados and this time I did feel some effect, a slightly increased wooziness and merriment, but hardly the effect my hosts clearly hoped to see. Still, they were satisfied their “digestif” had produced some effect, so they let me go.

I made my way down the stairs from their flat to the street below, and as I opened the door onto the street the cold air hit me, and so did the Calvados!

Suddenly I was energised! I felt dynamic and vibrant! No wooziness, no lack of clarity – just a desire to run!

I was off – the first part of the journey was downhill in a quiet (it was 1.30 a.m.) suburban area, and I negotiated the twists and turns of the streets with no problem and with no shortage of breath – I was a running machine!

I then came into the city centre and so had to negotiate zebra crossings, wide roads, and a not inconsiderable amount of traffic (city traffic never stops). I was thoroughly enjoying my return journey and felt like my upper body was sitting astride some kind of automated travel machine which my legs were driving like pistons and my feet were the wheels. I was particularly taken with the fact that I was overtaking motor vehicles which had to slow down and stop for traffic lights while I simply waved at the drivers and was able to weave my way across junctions and crossings, and between stopped cars, all at a steady speed!

I arrived at my flat with no breathlessness, no fatigue or light-headedness, and with absolutely no desire to go to sleep!

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Chapter 2 Teacher training

Chapter 2

Teacher training

I can’t say it was all fun and frolics in Le Havre – there were some difficult and lonely periods as well, but it was my first lengthy experience of independence and I learned a lot about myself, others and how to get on with people. It also had the effect of making me tire of academia. I had had a taste of freedom, responsibility and participation in the world of work, and that made my return to student life (with its instruction, deadlines and imposed structure) all the more difficult to bear. I did what I had to do in my final year at university, but I certainly felt the need to move on. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any clear idea of what I wanted to do with my life, so I started applying for anything that vaguely took my fancy. I no longer remember the detail but I do recall that I put in some 27 applications, including one for teacher training at Moray House in Edinburgh.

My application was somewhat half-hearted. I only had to think back to some of the experiences of my own teachers to understand why this was the case, though I did enjoy my time as an assistant in France (even if I realised I wasn’t a “real” teacher), and that was why I applied.

Apparently, that year (1980) was the first time candidates were called to interview and I duly presented myself for interview in March.

It didn’t go particularly well. I did not shine. I was acutely aware of potential discipline problems and although I had got on well in Le Havre, I was only too well aware that the style of teaching I adopted in France was not what would be expected of an “official” teacher in a Scottish secondary school.

My two interviewers did not introduce themselves, appeared to simply go through the motions and did little to put me at my ease. I can recall little detail, but their questions were dull and uninspired while my responses were equally mundane and revealed little flair or enthusiasm. The low point came toward the end when I was asked how I would deal with a difficult second year class last period on a Friday. Rather predictably, I came out with some advantages of learning a language which they instantly and rather dismissively rejected as “far too philosophical”. I snapped back, asking what they would do, and they suggested giving the class comics to read or games to play – something simple and undemanding that wouldn’t cause ripples.

I would later recognise the wisdom of that strategy (or more substantial variations of it – it’s never that simple), but at the time it seemed to me they were expecting an insight I couldn’t possibly have, or if this was something I should have known then I was not what they were looking for and I didn’t have what it took to become a “proper” teacher.

In any case I gave up on the idea of a career in teaching, a decision confirmed by the letter of rejection I received a few weeks later.

Shortly afterwards I obtained my degree and wanted to find a summer job, since a more permanent position wasn’t in the offing, to keep me going. I replied to an advert seeking teachers of English for foreign students at a summer school in Edinburgh (thinking my experience and informal approach as an assistant might suit their requirements), and I got the job!

I was able to apply the same strategies as I used in France – I was friendly, open, willing to share thoughts and experiences and I used music, books and personal input to try to engage students’ interest. We also went on trips to St Andrews, local tourist sites (Edinburgh Castle, Tantallon Castle), the cinema, and I even acted as a barman at a leaving party.

It was altogether a successful time which was eventually extended to include the following Easter and summer periods.

However, I still didn’t have a permanent job and my time with the Edinburgh language school was due to come to an end in September.

Just as I was becoming anxious and started to wonder just what I was going to do, I received a phone call at the beginning of October from Moray House offering me a place on the PGCE course (Postgraduate Certificate in Education, leading to a teaching qualification for secondary education)! One of their students had dropped out and I was next on their list! Naturally I was delighted to accept, especially after my successful time with the language school. I was aware I was a second choice, but at least I had something to aim at and I could give it my best shot.

My recollections of classes at Moray House are fairly vague. There were classes on legal aspects of the profession, and social aspects involving raising awareness of various potential problems and situations, and awareness also of your own response to these problems and situations. Of course, there were also classes on teaching your subject, but these seemed to consist largely of recollections from our tutor rather than structured lessons on how to go about teaching a class, dealing with form, content and behaviour. There were broad suggestions, but little in the way of concrete ideas or advice. On the other hand, so much depends on the particular composition of a class – age, ability range, interest, conduct, background knowledge and, of course, the relationship with the teacher, I suppose it was difficult to generalise and cover all eventualities.

Half the time was spent on placement in local schools, and I much preferred that element. I attended three very different schools and gained something from each.

My first placement school was very near where I lived. It was a fairly large secondary school and the pupils were very mixed. The school as a whole, and the department where I was placed, were highly organised but fairly cold. There was little rapport between pupils and teachers. It was efficient and productive but rather stolid. The distinct distance between pupil and teacher made me fairly uncomfortable as I was used to trying to build a bond with students in order to engage and involve them, but it seemed to me that this establishment was too regimented for that. Indeed, I was told I was being “too nice” to pupils, including some who actually turned to me for help with homework rather than go to their “proper” teacher, presumably because they felt I was more approachable, yet I was being told this was not the way forward.

I left that school with serious misgivings about my place in such a rigid and disciplined environment – I felt it just wasn’t for me.

My second placement was a little farther away but was still within easy travelling distance from home. After my previous experience, I was more than a little anxious about what awaited me.

The first lesson I learned from my second placement is that each school has its own atmosphere and “feel”.

Here the staff were firm but friendly and fair. They entered into conversation with pupils and there was a warmth in their relationships, though there was a clear line not to be crossed. I was delighted and felt much more at home in this environment. My attempts at engagement with pupils met with approval and I even received praise for my teaching of a difficult grammar point. This was something of a breakthrough for me in that I felt I was making progress as a teacher, and it led to the development of a strategy I’ve used time and time again ever since – break down the point you’re covering into its component parts, revise what may be familiar and ensure understanding of these parts, then build up understanding of each new element until knowledge is complete and pupils are able to apply what they have understood.

All told, a much happier experience and one which gave me hope for the future!

My third placement was in a much more modern and avant-garde establishment. Here, pupils were encouraged to be responsible for their own learning – a modern and laudable policy, but in this school it was interpreted by pupils as meaning they had a choice in terms of attendance, focus and concentration. There was considerable variation in teaching methodologies and levels of discipline, but at its worst, there was informality taken to the point of disrespect and lack of responsibility which appeared to do no-one any good.

So, I had seen three distinct variations on the theme of education. I was fairly unhappy with the restrictive practices of the first, encouraged by the less formal but effective policies of the second, and left perplexed and anxious by the apparent lack of structure and effectiveness of the third.

Although I preferred a less formal and cordial approach, I recognised the need for limits. I hoped that being reasonable with people would produce reasonable behaviour, but I had to accept that not everyone was open to reason and a certain level of discipline had to be imposed – for everyone’s benefit.

Of course, all of this was academic and of no importance unless I managed to find a job. Toward the end of the year we all embarked on the process of finding employment, which was going to be particularly difficult for me (my tutors kindly pointed out) as I had only one language to offer while all my fellow teaching students had two. It appears it was principally on that basis that I was initially rejected – nothing to do with my weak responses to my interviewers’ questions!

Thus, it was with something of a heavy heart that I took part in what was called “The Milk Round” toward the end of the session. This consisted of a set of preliminary interviews (not job offers) at Moray House with representatives of all the local authorities or regions in Scotland. Their purpose was to establish the chances of gaining employment in each authority and therefore whether it was worth applying to them.

I attended interviews/conversations with representatives of several authorities (which existed at the time), including Central, Lothian and Strathclyde. In each conversation, I was told politely (yet indifferently) there were few posts coming up for Modern Languages teachers, and what few there were would go to those with more than one language.

A sense of hopelessness fell over me. It was clear that every authority was going to say the same thing. What was I going to do?

As I was walking along a corridor, I came across a door with a sign saying “Highland” above it. I actually walked past it, asking myself what was the point. However, emboldened by a feeling of pointlessness and thinking I had nothing to lose, I turned around, put my head in the open doorway and, vaguely aware of four gentlemen, one in each corner of the room, I called out quite cheerily but hiding a sense of desperation, “Don’t suppose you have any jobs for French teachers, do you?”.

Three of them shook their heads sorrowfully and said no, but the fourth in the corner diagonally opposite the door called back, “Come over and we’ll have a chat.”

After a millisecond of raised hope, I realised the chap was simply going through the motions, probably because he was bored and would rather chat to someone for a few minutes at least than just leaf through some papers for the umpteenth time.

And so, he asked the usual questions about what subjects I did, where I had studied and for how long. Then, however, he asked what Moray House thought of me. I answered honestly as I was sure I wouldn’t be seeing him again – that I was OK, but nothing special. He then asked me what I thought of Moray House, so I told him about the strengths and about the weaknesses I perceived in their course. Finally, he asked how I felt about working in schools, and I was able to tell him I vastly preferred that aspect of the course to any other, and that I particularly enjoyed being with young people.

Mr Alan Forsyth, Education Manager for Easter Ross, smiled benevolently, looked me straight in the eye and said, “I think I can offer you a post at Invergordon Academy.”

Stunned does not cover it. “A job? You’re offering me a job?”, I asked in a somewhat high-pitched and disbelieving tone. He confirmed it. I couldn’t believe my ears. This was not supposed to happen – these were not job interviews as such and in any case, I was the last person they would want! Of course, it was true, and I discovered the following day that I (the most unlikely candidate) was the only one of our class to be offered a job.

I rather arrogantly asked to visit the school before finally accepting (I’ll put that down to shock), but there was never any doubt about my acceptance.

All I had to do now was find out just where Invergordon was! It transpires it was some 200 miles north of my home, but that was of no importance – I was just relieved to have found a job.

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