Why Not To Post A Lazy Post…


When there has been nothing in my head, I have often posted lazily. 

Sometimes it’s a repost of a item that I found interesting. At other times it’s a silly. I sometimes like my sillies, but I don’t wish to overuse them.

This morning I woke up with an empty head. I had had a dream about looking up the word, Truthless, but beyond that there was nothing remotely creeping close to an original thought. Just before setting off for work, I got the urge to post.

No, urge is the wrong word. What I was feeling was basic habit-related responses. I felt the need to post without having anything worthwhile to say. It’s like people having the need to talk when they are in company with others. Conversations suddenly unfold around groups and before long they are all taking a turn at adding another piece to the jigsaw. The finished puzzle is never truly completed, there are pieces left out, a half-formed corner here and a middle-piece there. Not that it makes much sense.

Being a ‘seeker of meaning’, I tend to leave rooms when these types of conversations are threatening to take place. I keep my jigsaw pieces firmly in my pockets.  

What I don’t get from the activity is shared participation. The others are performing a valuable societal function and ritual. 


I sit in my classroom and read. 



It’s hard to keep sharp when there is so much that wants to blunt your blade. 

I have taken to the notion that the pen is mightier than the sword, or that is at least just as sharp. Teaching blunts you. The daily routine of turning up, going to meetings, hearing the same things said about the same ideas and the same strategies for improvement of outcomes and behaviour, just wears one down.

It’s been a while since something has grabbed me by the philosophicals and dragged me around the playground. My reason d’être is no longer to become entangled within that wonderful web of wonder (learning and thinking), but rather to survive on a lesson by lesson, day by day, week by week basis.  Could it be said that I am dead in the wool? Am I suffocated by the endless drone of my own voice, inoculated by the constant urgings for my charges to be quiet long enough to pick up even a morsel of something?

Last week, Tuesday, I was told that it was pointless to attempt to teach Year 8 as Stephen Hawking had predicted that the end of the universe would happen at 1.45 pm. It was five-past-one when I started the lesson and I took the chance of finishing it with a quick jaunt through the character of Miss Havisham for whom the clock had tocked many years earlier. I strangely became entwined in this rather disturbed spinster’s psyche and felt that my time was productive even though a number to the students were insistent upon the end getting nigher and nigher.

“Okay, it’s ten-to-the-hour now. I think we’re alright.”

“But it’s not ten-to in America.”

“But Hawking wasn’t an American.”

“He was…”

There are certain arguments and standpoints that a reasonably intelligent person can’t argue against. Proud ignorance and blatant disregard for the obvious truth are some  of them.

The class that I have in mind are corralled by a number of individuals who believe that it is their right to argue the toss with anybody in authority. Being still a supply teacher, and not a proper one, I am an obvious choice which means that I battle each and every day over the most minuscule of instructions. I have to say things slowly over and over again for them to take any notice. It’s like trying to train a tribe of howler monkeys on a karaoke night out.

And yet, I am not properly affected by the howling belligerence of youth nor the seemingly pointless process that school has become. I am just here doing a job, keeping kids relatively occupied, letting their blunt attrition not wear away at my need for thinking. 


Whatever I use for whetstones is still working….


One In The Eye For Me.

Outposts of Reason and Sanity…

Read After Burnout

images-133So, reinvention as a History teacher, a teacher of History; the learner from history. That will never be the case.

My wife is concerned by my blog. According to her, employers will check my social media accounts for inappropriate thoughts. I know that she is right, but firmly believe that the practice is wrong. It’s the Thought Police stuff of Orwell. It’s the blue-print, the rule book, that every dictator employs to win over the adoration of their subjects. In my new adventure, I am teaching about Hitler’s rise to power and Elizabeth 1’s success at holding on to power. They both used the same tactics – secret police, intelligence networks, suspicion and distrust. For those who wished to survive, it was important to keep stum! Don’t let anyone know your thoughts. Thoughts are bad and ought to be kept to oneself; that’s why they are called thoughts as opposed…

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How To Write Well…(without mistakes)

This post is not about me telling you how to follow my profoundly vain-glorious advice about writing. No, we all write and we can all learn from others. 


This morning’s post results from a sports’ article reporting on an FA Cup Semi-Final at Wembley. The game took place  swathed in late afternoon sunshine and was contested by my favourite team, Manchester United, and Tottenham Hotspurs (I just love that name with it Shakespearean connotations).  For spring drama, this was a breeze back to the earliest days of my footballing memories. United and Spurs both stalwarts of the stylish game, both capable of turning schoolboys into followers of this eleven-a-side religion.

Now that my playing days have long-past the yard-arm of credibility, I take pleasure in writing. As I write, my beloved United have become a rather dreary version of their former-selves whilst Spurs have increased the stylish ante.

But when it comes to style, it is difficult to match the extract that I read this morning whilst crawling from my Sunday slumber:

In those moments there was something a little sad and tender about Pogba’s futile attempts to gallop back, head bobbing frantically. A little later he was outnumbered on the left, robbed and then nutmegged by Kieran Trippier, to huge raucous jeers. But he turned his afternoon around with a fine hand in the equaliser, pulling himself up to his full height and bringing to bear the full weight of that wonderfully easy talent.

First Pogba overpowered the un-overpowerable Mousa Dembélé on the left, fishing the ball out and romping away, spotting the run of Alexis Sánchez. A lovely dipping cross zoned in on the Sánchez forehead, an irresistibly fragrant, lilac-scented, rose-petal-strewn invitation to nod the ball into the net, which Sánchez accepted.Barney_Ronay,_LBarney Ronay.   The Guardian 21st April 2018


I thank Barney for that piece of sports journalism which lifts the game to the same levels that my now rose-tinted spectacles often attempt to do. 




Cutting The Grass…


It is finally done.

The grass has been cut and its after-smell lingers. I do feel a sense of achievement.

And to cap it all, the sun is shining upon my work.

If you dream of mowing a lawn, it suggests that you will have great luck and happiness in life once you get rid of people or old habits that no longer are positive influences.

It also suggests that once you get organized and bypass obstacles, you will have good luck in finances and in academic pursuits.


I borrowed this from the website below:

Many thanks…

Fried Day…


End of the week.

Grass still needs cutting, but my wilderness of a social life lit up with a few beers last night. As far as I am concerned, grass needs to grow.

Now, I am about to mount my trusty steed and cycle into my place of work (fully lycraed) and full of bon something or other in French, but I can’t think of that right now.

"I think maybe we've evolved TOO much - I"m having second thoughts."