The Secondary Life of Mr Davies: Episode 2

The books should have been laid out neatly on desks in accordance to the carefully designed seating plan Mr. Davies had painstakingly prepared. There should have been a lesson starter on the board to get the pupils engaged immediately at the start to “set the tone” for the lesson. Mr. Davies glanced wearily up from the computer he was leaning over to survey the marketplace of year eight pupils bustling around at the back of the classroom, tearing through boxes in search of exercise books. He was glad he was not being observed today.

Lesson three had been a nightmare with year nine, which had left him woefully unprepared for lesson four. He knew it was on here somewhere, he’d used the PowerPoint last week with his other year eight class and there was definitely a great starter activity he could whack up whilst he tried to steer the lesson away from the cliff it was hurtling towards.

“Come on! Quickly,” he called, “Pens out! Diaries on desks! Alex! Get down from there!”

Alex, looked around and reluctantly climbed off the chair he had been standing on.

Here it was! This was it! No wait...wrong one. What about this one? Yes. Thank god. A pale blue screen flashed to life on the interactive whiteboard with black lettering outlining a short true or false quiz on river flooding. That should keep them occupied.

“Right!” He shouted, “Back of your books! You have four minutes to answer the questions on the board and then we’ll feedback.” He was certain that less than 12 percent of the class had heard his instructions. Most were sitting down talking with the person next to, in front of, or behind them. Some were still standing up searching for their exercise books in the orogeny of debris at the back of the class. All should have been paying attention. He doubted this lesson would amount to much success.

“Grace,” he called, “What did I just say?”

“Dunno,” Grace replied.

“Answer the questions, four minutes. Alex! What did I just say?” Alex stared at him blankly, “Answer the questions, four minutes.” Mr Davies hypothesised that it had taken him more than four minutes to merely get the instructions across to the class. After the 35th repetition of the instruction, “Answer the questions, four minutes,” it looked like the class were finally complying; only one pupil out of her seat, perhaps this lesson had legs. Mr Davies looked at the clock. 20 minutes in. He sighed internally.

“Can I have quiet for the register please,” Mr Davies said over the relentless din of student chatter. He waited for the murmur to subside. Nothing, “Year eight! I need to take the register so let's have some silent work until I’m done,” Still nothing, “This is a legal document! I have to get this done accurately.”

“What? The register’s illegal?” Came a voice.

“What’s illegal?” Came another.

“The register. Sir just said it was illegal.”

“Not illegal,” Mr Davies tried to interject, “It’s a legal document.”

“Sir? Why is the register illegal?”

Mr Davies brought his hand to the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath. “The register is a legal document. That means I have to make sure it’s accurate by law,” he clarified.

“I don’t get it.”

Mr Davies pulled out a whiteboard pen. “Look,” he said “a legal document,” writing the words on his whiteboard, “and an illegal document. They are different things. The register is legal.”

“Ohhh.” The penny had finally dropped. This wasn’t even the bottom set.

He suddenly became acutely aware of 29 faces staring at him. "The power of learning," he thought to himself wryly. He had to capitalise on this brief window of calm. He swiftly started to call out names, hoping that the calm would survive the register. He got about halfway through before the chatter started to resume. He ignored it. Hoping he could get to the end of the "legal-document-which-had-to-be-filled-out-correctly-by-law" before the noise became too tectonic. The register was a time consuming nuisance, in his opinion, but obviously it was necessary to make sure they were all present and not truanting from his lesson, although often times he wished a few of them would. They were all here. Hooray.

Mr Davies glanced at the clock. There was just over half an hour left of the lesson, which he had barely started. He flashed the answers to the starter on the board and got the pupils to self-assess their responses to save himself from having to mark them later. He was flustered, frustrated, and furious that he had to cram 45 minutes of learning into the next 25. Nevertheless, like a poor imitation of Jesus, he stood at the front of the room, ready to perform the miracles that he was paid so insubstantially to deliver.

Mr Davies was mad. He was prone to masochism, as he was about to demonstrate. He reached reluctantly for the worksheet he had prepared for the class. He glanced at the glue and scissors he had arranged at the front of the room ready for the cut, match, and stick activity he had planned for the class to complete. The way the lesson had been going, he knew that he had mixed all the ingredients together in his recipe for disaster. All that was left was to cook it.

He held up the worksheet to the class. Good. A few of them were looking at him, which was a start. “I would like you to match up the names of each of the causes of flooding with their definitions. And then, I want you to… Alex! Eyes at the front! Thank you!...then, I want you to cut them out and stick them in your book. Don’t stick them down until I’ve checked them.” The final instruction was lost. He knew it. Half the pupils had already risen to collect their scissors and glue. At least they’d been listening to the rest of the instructions.

A hand shot up. Mr Davies strode over the Grace to find out where she could be going wrong so soon into the activity. “Yes, Grace, how can I help?”

“Sir, what are we doing?” Grace asked.

Mr Davies dropped his shoulders in resignation. “The instructions are on the sheet, Grace, and they’re up on the board,” he said pointing to the front of the class.

“Oh,” she said with sudden clarity.

“Alex! Stop that! The scissors are for cutting paper, not other people’s hair!” Alex smiled cheekily and returned to cutting up his worksheet. As irritating as he was, at least Alex did what he was told!

The lesson had taken on a more structured and ordered appearance. He was drowning in a flood of paper clippings, but at least all the pupils were on task, and who knows, perhaps some of them might have learnt something today despite the chaos. A lesson like this was damage limitation, you couldn’t turn it around from such a dreadful start!

Mr Davies circulated the room, checking the pupils' work. Conversations were less energetic. The pupils were more focused on cutting up their paper than leaping around, fighting or gossiping. There was a lot to be said for meaningful tasks in lessons. If only the whole thing could be like this!

“OK. What have you done wrong, Curtis?” Mr Davies asked a small boy with round Harry Potter-type glasses.

“I dunno,” He replied.

“Have a think about it,” Mr Davies prompted pointing to his error. Curtis scanned the page. Mr Davies could almost here the cogs in Curtis’s brain trying to turn.

“I dunno,” Curtis repeated. No, thought Mr Davies, it must have been the wind.

“This one should match up with this one, look. The clue is in the phrase 'overland flow,' which means it 'flows over the land.' Curtis looked blankly at the page before peeling the already stuck down slip of paper up from of his exercise book and pressing it unevenly next to 'overland flow,' as instructed. Curtis had glue all over his fingers and the upheaval had smeared a sticky black streak over the page. Mr Davies shuddered.

The clock gave five minutes left. There’d be no plenary today. Mr Davies wasn’t sure he even wanted to know how little the class had learned. I suppose he would save that for marking the “work” later tonight.

“OK. Pack up, class! I want every single shard of paper picked up and put in the bin. Anyone whose desk is a mess will not be going to lunch on time!” The threat pushed the pupils to action. They worked with a purpose he didn’t witness for tasks he’d set them. Alex was not focussed. It seemed not even food could focus that boy. “Alex! Quickly! The bell is about to go!”

A siren sounded, marking the end of the lesson and the beginning of lunch-time. The pupils started to march towards the door.

“Woah! Hang on! Back behind your chairs please,” Mr Davies scowled, “I decide when you can leave, not you! Alex! Stand behind your chair!” He slowly started dismissing them, one-by-one, calling names only of those standing behind their chairs. The final table stood to attention expectantly. “Your desk is a mess,” Mr Davies said. The pupils looked around as if to say “You’re joking right? Look at this place,” but nevertheless they quickly gathered up the debris on the desk and one of the pupils hurled them untidily into the bin.

“OK, you can go.”

“Thanks, Sir.”

“See you, Sir.”

“See you later,” Mr Davies replied as they hurtled out of the door, into the river of children inundating the yard.

Mr Davies surveyed the damage. It wasn’t quite carnage. The books at the back of the room were in disarray. In their haste to pack away, Mr Davies had failed to remember to ask the class to leave their books behind for marking. He probably had about half, maybe less, scattered at the back of the room. He wagered he would probably never see two or three of them again. The desks were clear of paper, largely because most of it had been swept onto the floor. After all, Mr Davies hadn’t mentioned paper on the floor.

Mr Davies straightened the tables and righted the upturned chairs. He made his way to his desk and fell into his chair before spinning toward his computer and clicking on the flashing envelope at the bottom of the screen. It revealed 12 unread emails. He had about 40 minutes to read, respond, and maybe eat a packet of crisps before year ten turned up for lesson five. Mr Davies sighed externally.