Part of what makes me succeed as a teacher is my planning. I must admit that there was a time away from a Sunday that I rarely planned and taught from content. The day to day lessons were adequate and my students were gainfully occupied. However, there wasn't the focus on progression that I now enjoy.
Instead there was a constant sense of planning each lesson on the morning it was due.
This brought some great results. It also had some obvious failings. It was the only real option open to me at that time, though.
With a series of pressing matters of administration and the like eating my time, I am brought into the memory of what some other, younger teachers once said to me : that they worked all weekend. Today I have worked for for to five hours. I could leave what I have now and wing tomorrow.
I will, instead, plan an answer to the year eleven comparison question, make these year books and then tidy my house. In the evening I may read some more.
The sea ahead of me breaks with relentless and calm indifference on the sodden sand. It will continue to do so even as I am food for worms. I do not feel a sense of belonging but instead a begrudging acceptance, if not appreciation, of its beauty.
I am a rather cautious man. I will not easily be parted from goods once purchased. I will rarely travel any distance substantial from home. And each Sunday I mark and plan. Yet I feel myself to have a streak of adventure.
That streak runs under my shirt, both too crumpled to wear with pride as I should.
This blog has not been as I might have liked it to be. I have not listed the logistics of what I do. The truth is I have other mediums to express that, and they are somewhat more inclined to temperate practicalities.
Instead this blog has served so far to express the dissolution of my angst. I still feel righteous pangs of uncertainty. That is accepted. I wouldn't call such rises of passion something like panic attacks because I can respond to them with wry control, a smiling acceptance that these things that face me that are most worthy of endeavour have a price.
When I was young and living in a terraced house in Hull, I remember opening my door. The weather in this memory is sometimes biting cold or even embraceful warmth. It could be early evening covered in a cosy orange, or a crisp night with unseen stars looking down on an indifferent world through mucky clouds. The memory shifts. However, my sense of choice remains the same - all I had done until that point needed to have happened in order for this time and for my achievements to occur.
This is, of course not necessarily true. That is a thought that hopes to connect. It hopes to combine all that which went before. But all that might remain true is the performance of the moment, whether that is a masked kiss to an unseen lover of a lesson inspirited with the changing of lives.
The truth is this. I, like you my private reader, have made somewhat deliberate choices to become the man I am. From these choices I can pick a path that is available. But I cannot return to this point. And these experiences will not die, but will be invigorated instead by love and will and all the testing tedium of a kind that grows tired.
Two days sees the end of my year elevens. However, I have not had to wait to finish to socialise and to dedicate myself to other pursuits.
