Open Writing

I'm still in Portsmouth, working in a summer school. I've been here a month now and have only one week to go 'Hurray'.

So much happens here that it's hard to know where to start. I'll just try to give you a brief glimpse into the lifestyle here as a teacher without going into too much detail.

Well...a typical day may start at 7am, with breakfast duty, patrolling the students to make sure they take only one croissant and one carton of orange juice. This will continue until the teachers' meeting, which begins at 8.45 and ends at 9am, or a minute after, just to make us all a bit late to class.

The meeting will often involve imposing new rules on us or the students, or may inform us that we have to change our usual classrooms, or that we have new students, reports to write or even different classes to teach than those we were expecting.

I have learnt it's better not to plan anything too definite, but, instead, to have a mishmash of materials at hand to cope with any situation.

Then we file off to our classrooms to meet our Italian teenage students. The best way to get them to do what you ask is to give them chocolate as a reward. I have got through four packs of fun-sized chocolate bars and a large box of Roses in the last four weeks, and I only ate two or three of the chocolate bars and four of the chocolates myself.

The classes are held in kitchens. It's quite hard to wedge all fifteen students in, between the sink, fridge and microwave but we somehow manage. The centre office is in a bedroom, as is this computer room, and the staff room is also a kitchen.

I play lots of communicative games with the students, and never mention the word grammar, verb or participle. I have learnt from previous experience that summer school work is not real teaching but entertaining with party games, as they just want to chat each other up and have fun. It is, after all their summer holiday.

At the end of their two weeks with us, there's a formal presentation ceremony. I have to write 15 reports and certificates for this. The report comments are getting shorter. They all get an 'Is making good progress' at the beginning and a " Well done!" at the end , regardless of their effort, just to keep them happy.

They seem to be of the mentality that they are paying out a lot of money so they are entitled to this. so finally they are congratulated and awarded with a 'diploma' for making a lot of noise, consuming a lot of chocolate and hurling a lot of shiny chocolate wrappers round the classroom.

Actually, the teaching in my first two weeks was a little more rewarding than thereafter. This was due to the fact that I taught 'Impdap' students rather than 'Classics'. It's a bit tricky to explain but the 'Impdap's holiday is subsidised by the government and is for normal youngsters from state schools. The 'Classics', on the other hand, are from wealthy parents and fee-paying schools.

Ironically, the 'Classics' think they are superior to the Impdaps. One of their group leaders informed me on an excursion that her dear Classics students would be no bother at all as they were all 'well-bred.' Hmm, three of the boys appeared late twice and held up the coach! Also, in class, the ‘Impdaps' smile a lot and are polite and grateful for their lessons. The Classics on the other hand, treat teachers like slaves and sulk if they find a certain activity hard work.

I also feel very deflated each morning when I am confronted with 15 scowling faces. It puts me off doing my job. The Classics have demanded separate activities from the Impdaps, so they don't have to mix, and the Classics have their bedrooms in the nicer accommodation while the Impdaps have to make do with inferior rooms, with cold showers. The Classics also complained that they shouldn't have to eat Impdap food!

And the food is another subject of consternation here. The idea of tinned carrot batons is unappetising enough for me, but overcooked they are even worse. Thankfully, because of my coeliac condition, the chefs have to cater for me individually, so my food is generally a bit nicer than that of everyone else.

The same food is offered every mealtime for them: pasta, battered fish, chips, hard boiled potatoes, over cooked tinned or frozen veg, and the same boring salad; lettuce cucumber and tomatoes with olive oil to pour on top.

When students fill in feedback reports at the end of their stay, they scrawl a large cross in the 'D' box when they reach the food part of the questionnaire. In the extra comments section one of my students wrote: “Why do you serve always potatoes fried? I do not think this is balanced. I suggest you to serve lasagne but I do not think you know what is it.’’

I was delighted with my steamed white fish and boiled potatoes the first day, and impressed with the quorn fillet they gave me for the next meal, but after four weeks of fish and quorn with various bottled sauces to disguise the fact that they're just giving me the same protein sauce every day, I am longing for lentils, chickpeas and red kidney beans.

The thankful smile I dutifully flash when Tom, the chef, hands me another plate, with another, 'We've got a real tropical extravaganza for you today', is wearing as thin as my appetite for the food. Anyway, in a week's time I'll be able to tuck into a nice boring lentil extravaganza so I'm not too worried.

What else? Well the management are hated by staff, and students just as much as the food. New rules and duties are devised to make life more complicated and prison-like, in order to ensure that the students do not enjoy their expensive holiday. eg. weekly fire drills at 7am, strict curfew at 10.30pm, followed by staff snooping along corridors, looking for miscreants, until 2pm. (after which time they go and sleep in each other's rooms anyway).

Unfortunately, the staff suffer too. As I have been nominated as the corridor fire officer I have to round up all the students and group leaders in west block corridor one - freezing in their slinky nighties, pyjamas, underwear and slippers.

I think that's why the Classics hated me so much. Right from the start they scowled at me and made loud protestations as I walked into their classroom. I am sure a lot of their resentment had to to with the fact I was given the students who live along my corridor to teach, and their first meeting with me was in the car park at 7am, when they were pulled out of bed for the fire drill.

So being a teacher on a summer school does not just involve teaching. Straight after lessons in the morning, we transform into dinner ladies, checking that students don't push in the queue, and take only one pudding. Then we have either a short break in the afternoon or evening, depending on which activity shift we're on.

I have asked for afternoons free, so I can go swimming in a pool nearby. This is the best part of the day as the pool is a small community one, next to the sea. The water is warm and there's a friendly atmosphere. It's also quite quaint, as there are no lockers. We have to put our clothes in cast iron baskets, and hang them on a rail next to the pool; like in Victorian times.

I walk back along the sea and Albert Road, where there are lots of funky second-hand clothes shops, health shops, a small Tesco with everyday people in, curry houses, with delicious cuminy smells blowing out, and antique shops.

But then it's back to the ugly Langstone Campus, which is situated next to a council estate. There are often police and security men at the gate taking down names of bothersome kids.

Although Portsmouth is in the south of England along the coast, it is not at all similar to Brighton, Eastbourne or any other place I have visited down there. When I asked the students to brainstorm the word Portsmouth I was shocked when they asked me the name for'boys who throw stones at us and shout things'. Indeed, I myself was spat and shouted at, as were other members of staff.

So, then it's back for another plate of fish and boiled potatoes, followed by evening activity duty. This will involve patrolling the disco, talent show, beauty contest etc. The disco must be the worst. I feel like a huge wallflower as I sit and plan lessons, with earplugs in, surrounded by fashionable young students, with Gucci handbags, Prada dresses, Dolce and Gabana sunglasses, bright make up and stiletto heels.

As dancing is in their culture they dance so professionally that I am not encouraged to join in for fear that I would be treated as an old fuddy duddy. My salsa lesson steps seem as basic as a crawling baby in comparison with their hip wriggles, speedy leg work and seductive arm movements.

The day ends with night duty. My shift is generally from 11.30 until 12pm.. so I have a little sleep before I start my rounds.