A Day in the Life of a supply teacher

A Day in the Life of a Supply Teacher

Phone call at 7.15 telling me to go to a school in Solihull and, I admit, I’m still in bed. I’d never been there before but had been passed it on the bus. I haven’t worked for a while as a supply teacher, but I immediately agreed to the job and began to get ready. I only had time to make a cup of tea before my wife looked up on the internet the times of the buses. Her last words were, ‘You better go now, you’ve only got five minutes’. So, I brushed my teeth, gurgled with mouthwash (because the kids are quick to complain about any bad breath) and dived out of the door. I had no change for the bus and had to get £3.30 together for a ‘Day Saver’, otherwise you suffer paying over the odds for bus travel. I had to take two buses.

I missed the bus, but got the second. The bus wended its way towards Castle Bromwich, picking up various kids along the way. I didn’t read the paper, I studied the view out of the window- the mass of cars, the general ‘rush’ to work. I then swapped buses. My second bus was more full of school uniform-clad youngsters, some reading The Sun or The Metro. In the background- at the back of the bus- black girls were arguing, but generally the mood was sombre.

Eventually, after a flurry of texts from wife to me and back again, over my whereabouts (my wife is a kind of human SATNAV) I relaxed slightly and we arrived, despite the steamed up bus windows, at The School.

The school was brand new and resembled more of a fortress than a school. Circling the school is a tall, metal fence with spikes on it; I was quite surprised not to be greeted by a hail of arrows and boiling oil. I climbed up the ramp-like entrance to the school, while small groups of school children eddied around the outer fortifications.

The school, inside, was in immaculate condition and didn’t strike me as a school at all- it had carpeted floors and glass doors which offered to open automatically if you pressed the right button. Within was a wide arc, a semi-circular desk, behind which sat the school receptionist, who was friendly and I passed her my ‘photo ID’ and my ‘current CRB’. These were magicked away from me automatically and reappeared in the same way, having been photocopied. I signed my name in the book and the time I had arrived. Prior to my name was a long list of supply teachers with the same company name as mine scribbled down. However, I noticed the dates were not today’s and realised that I was alone today.

I was beginning to feel butterflies as I hadn’t worked with English school children since March, I just hoped that the old tricks would come back to me, like saying, ‘Thank you’ when someone answers their name on the register. And I wasn’t wrong.

I made my way up to the staff room after briefly run through the whereabouts of my classroom for the day and where the dining area was and the staffroom. The lady who did this underlined the times as though assuming I wouldn’t. There was no advice or remarks about the classes I was to teach, so I asked, ‘Where can I get help if I need it?’ She answered that Mr. X was in the room next door so I could go to him if necessary. I hoped that would be satisfactory.

The staffroom was another odd shape: kind of circular, although it was pleasant and not in a terrible mess like some staff rooms I’ve seen. There were the tell-tale signs of teachers nearby, like a carrier bag on a chair stuffed with files, the familiar notice board with COVER on one section, a series of photographs of children in school uniform who required medicine on a regular basis and were to be let out of the classroom if they required such. In front of me, on a table, were the usual assemblage of staff-room reading matter- a Catholic Schools pamphlet which offered various posts, a magazine for children, or ‘youth’ with the promise, ‘Fact is stranger than fiction’ written along the top.

The bell went and I made my way down to Period 1, Year 11 RE- not my subject, but then you never get your subject on day cover. At least I had a Roman Catholic upbringing, so I could draw on that if necessary. Once I had to cover a lesson of Urdu in a school in Ilford, East London.

The first lesson went quite well, happily, because the worksheet was pitched at just the right level for this class and included a task which just about everyone could do- like ‘Christmas’ :what does it mean? It was a multiple choice task and all the pupils had to do was match up one side with another. They were able to do this because I had managed to introduce the worksheet to the class and I managed to get quiet for this (About the only occasion all day that I did). I also managed to write what was required on the board and I DIDN’T attempt to take the register straight away. (Always better to do it later once they’ve started working) Not only that but I managed not to lose my temper with girls who immediately began brandishing mirrors and eye-lash curlers and I was able to use humour to deal with this, ‘this isn’t a beauty parlour, you know’. Plus I said ‘thank you’ to students who answered me when I called their names. This always goes down well.

Why this lesson went well was all down to the worksheet and my ability to field questions pertaining to Amnesty International, CAFOD, what is a pulpit? Altar? And so on. The kids seemed interested and I repeated several times, ‘This is a Catholic school’, ‘You should know these terms’ and it seemed a fair few of them had been into a church although many more complained that they ‘hadn’t been taught any of this’?! This is a thing that school children frequently say. I was also able to ‘build bridges’, that is strike up rapports with a couple of the students, especially the boys, who always, always ask me two questions: ‘What football team do you support?’ and ‘Where are you from?’, or ‘Are you from London?’, ‘Are you a Cockney?!’ They don’t seem disappointed when I reply that I’m not interested in football. When I asked one, today, he replied, as though it was a stupid question, ‘The Blues, man’.

The second lesson came round with me really getting a baptism because I raised my voice and threw a pupil out for getting out of his seat repeatedly. I was heartened that my next door neighbour assisted me on this and threatened to phone the kid’s parents. It was clear that the particular teacher knew the child in question and the said child’s behaviour and attitude improved immediately. After I got the child back in he was fine and sat in silence near the door, doing the work! The work was- surprise, surprise! - to make a poster for display ‘describing the problems of evil’! According to the textbook there were two kinds of evil- natural and moral. Again, in analysis, this lesson worked quite well, too, because they could understand what the difference was and I began by saying, ‘I am evil’- ‘What does that mean?’

Next, a swift break and up to the staffroom after the teacher I was covering for came in and said what a good job I was doing holding the fort and getting the last class to work for me at all! I felt heartened and thanked her.

Next lesson was the middle lesson of the day and lunch followed. It was Year 9 and it was to make an ‘Information Leaflet’ on the subject of Lent. What is Lent? This class was wild and unruly and their behaviour was very poor from the off and I couldn’t get quiet to ask questions and, importantly, ‘set the lesson up’. If you don’t do this you end up with having to wander around the classroom explaining to each pair of students what you want them to do. This takes a long time and the trick with teaching in secondary school is you must get the kids working as quickly as possible to minimise disruption. This is why teachers give supply teachers lots of poster-making lessons as cover work because all children enjoy art and enjoy creating posters. It’s less hard than writing a paragraph. It’s not very educational, but it keeps them in their seats and gives you room to manoeuvre. The worst thing you can do is to talk for too long or field question-and-answer for too long. This is when it unravels very quickly.

One boy climbed out of the window and back in. I went out at this point to try and find help. He was later removed by a woman who showed up who generally ‘bollocked’ the class. Two others left of their own accord to work on the computers based out in the wide corridor. I don’t think my lapsing into sarcasm helped. I get sick and tired of children ‘gobbing off’ or acting in such a way that they put the maximum amount of volume they can into body language that says, ‘This is really trying and I hate this and hate you for making me do this’.

I tried to include a brief question and answer session on Lent in the last five minutes of the lesson, after all the work had been collected in, but it was too noisy.

Lunch followed and I made it to the dining room where kids stood in queues and a teacher held the door with his arm across it. He was very civil to me as I approached and let me through. I bought a baguette and a drink because it was easiest. I didn’t want more battles and wanted to get away from here as quickly as possible. I had had enough of noise after Period 3.

I came back to the quiet and relative civilisation of the staffroom and saw one teacher happily scoffing some kind of nachos with, what looked like, hummus. I couldn’t do anything except eat my baguette and drink my orange and didn’t want to just gawp at the other teachers, although their, relatively banal conversations, in which they repeated what kids had said in classrooms, filled my ears. A lot of teachers look worn down by the job. The men wear baggy, creased suits and look past their prime. The women are unattractive and often over-weight. I assume that they’re in the job for their mortgages rather than any over-riding concern with imparting knowledge or inspiring people. Many of the conversations were about food. It’s rare you meet interesting people, but there are a few. I usually find the English departments are the best. Sometimes you get good-looking, shapely women teachers, which makes sitting in the staffroom pleasant and an alternative to the rest of the day. I then read the paper, or studied it. Before I knew it, it was 1’O’Clock already.

Just before the big hand swung onto the 12 the teachers dutifully trooped out and we were on our way. Like soldiers going over the top our faces change. Blood flows away from the stomach, to the muscles. There’s an intake of breath. A tension.

Next lesson, Period 4- only two more lessons to go, but still TWO LESSONS!

The next lesson was a disaster with Year 8’s being unruly and difficult. It began with one girl burping in front of my face before walking away laughing. Not a good sign. I tried to get quiet to introduce the topic, which was Bullying, it was a SEAL lesson (don’t know what that stands for). I think the children just believed that these lessons were a waste of time and didn’t bother. It was very hard to get their serious attention to the topic although a few were putting their arms in the air- I was impressed. The first raised hands I’d seen of the day. I managed to get the work written down on the board and nearly all attempted something, but it was far too noisy and the atmosphere was NOT a working one. The same teacher who had helped earlier on in the day- from next door- rallied to my cause. Bless him. I had at least 5 reports to fill in before the lesson ended. The kids seemed uninterested that they would get poor reports from me. These reports are a pain because they take up valuable time in between one lesson finishing and another starting and you have to have your wits about you if you’re to cope with class change-over and getting the next class on task ASAP.

Finally, they were out and the next lot were already making an appearance- HELP! It didn’t begin well with me deciding this time to opt for standing by the door and greeting them as they arrived over getting the task written up on the board. I couldn’t do both. Outside, in the corridor, it was a mêlée: kids kept on appearing and reappearing, one moment deciding they were in the class, the next, vanishing. I was clueless, of course, being THE SUPPLY TEACHER who is on a hiding to nothing without knowledge of names. This was the worst lesson of the day. Constant noise, screams, outrage from black girls; ‘Was it me, though?!’, after I challenged them over throwing pencils. ‘I don’t know what you’re chatting’, another one of their phrases. It was a difficult topic- Produce a display that describes a moral problem with a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. Mr. X, who had nobly assisted me all day, came to my aid on more than one occasion, as did another ‘Sir’ who left without getting quiet!

It was a very difficult class and made me question the whole fabric of the system: secondary education. Is this working?, No. I envied the people who worked in offices; I envied the people on the bus on the way home- who were probably all unemployed. They were asleep on the bus! - but I know that I couldn’t work in an office and I know that I can be a good teacher, an inspiring teacher, but the nature of the system conspires to prevent this.