A Short Time in the Life of a Teacher

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A Short Time in the Life of a Teacher!

I begin the week by getting up. This is the part I hate the most. I wake up, my breath stinks, my hair covers my face like a mop and I look like I have been run over a few times! No problem, I’ll soon sort that out!

My alarm clock shocks me into a conscious state – it is horrible; it reminds me of the school fire alarm and it is just as loud too! So, not only am I very wide awake but I am dying of a cardiac arrest! Yes, it’s Monday morning and no, it is not a terrible dream; so I throw off my covers and crawl out of bed.

My room is small but snug. I like it like that. The terracotta walls are warm, the bed is a fresh white and my dressing table is a lovely pale wood, which is very hard to come by. I like things to be minimalist and tidy, there is nothing lying on the floor and my dressing table consists of a mirror and hairbrush, I’m not one for make-up.

As my eyes adjust to the light, I can already tell that it is a pleasant day, the room has a stimulating feeling to it, which is different to any other day, where the sky is overcast and the sea is crashing over the wall outside of my window.

I get washed, run downstairs and cram all that wonderful work that I did last night into my bag. Then I throw on my leathers, jump onto my Honda VTR 1000 sp-2  (the most amazing motorbike in the world!) and I’m off!

I have a bit of a passion for motor bikes, I always have. When I was younger I used to cycle to school. I always wanted a motor bike but I was obviously too young at the age of fifteen and when I got to eighteen, the bike was too expensive to insure. Now I have my bike and I am the biker chic of the century, to be honest, I feel very superior to the people I whiz past when I am on my bike and they are sitting in their dreary cars!

It takes me half an hour in the morning with all the traffic, I can weave in and around all the cars but I still have to wait at the traffic lights, which seem to change red every time I come close to them! There are a lot of people on their bikes in the morning, I do not know why there are so many, I recognise everyone and they all know who I am. Every day I wave or nod to the same people and they return the gesture. It is a friendly feeling when you live in such a small place.

Before I know it, I am at school. I take my black helmet off and stare up at the massive building. It is ugly on the outside but at least it has a story to tell; that is what I like about old buildings, they always have a great history to them. I park my bike by the side of the huge granite stairs that I have to trundle up before I can get to the doorway. When I arrive at the giant door I turn the handle and the door swings open on its own accord, it is so heavy that I have to use all my weight to close it again. Once it is closed I lean against it, facing the inside of the school and breathe in the air which has not yet been moved by any one except for the school cat and the janitor.

No one is here; seven thirty in the morning is a bit too early for most of the students and staff. Most of them will still be in bed until eight o’clock! I like the school when it is empty; it has a nice feeling to it. I sometimes imagine that it is my house and that I live here all alone, that it is my mansion. The illusion is broken when the janitor strolls past me, “Good morning Taisie!” He remarks cheerily. John has been here since six this morning; I cringe to think what time he has to rise!

My form room is on the second floor, so I spring up the staircase that leads from the main entrance. I love the staircases here. The banisters are intricately designed with beautiful patterns and the deep red mahogany shines as the light bounces off it from the tremendous chandelier that hangs from the ceiling.

The stairs twist upwards to the second floor. I walk down the corridor and take in the wonderful feeling of the quiet school; in an hour there will be young ladies screaming down the hallway laughing and gossiping about what they did on Friday night. Now, the only sound I can hear is that of my feet padding down the stone pathway. The walls echo at every sound I make but the feeling of being totally alone is welcomed.

My door has a solid brass handle; it is freezing cold and my hands seem to invite the refreshing feeling of something cool after wearing black leather gloves. As I twist the handle and open the door, the hinges creek. I feel a blast of hot air as the box that is my classroom gasps for a breath. It is always hot in my room but that is the price I have to pay for having a classroom that over looks the tennis courts and swimming pool. I do not mind though, I spent most of my time in the drama studio, English is the subject I teach less of at the moment.

I dump my pack on the floor and run off to the staff changing room to exchange my leather gear for my trousers, shirt and Jacket (not forgetting about my shoes but did you really want to know that?).

After I have organised my books and plan for the day, I force myself to go to the staff room.

I hate the staff room. Don’t get me wrong, I like to socialise with all my colleagues but sometimes I can have more of an intelligent conversation with my pupils. I feel that I am the only member of staff who actually cares about my students. I am fed up of listening to an assemblage of adults who think that they are far superior to the rest of the adult community just because they are teachers. I sometimes wonder if any of them care about the students’ welfare – after all, they’re “just part of the job.”

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When I was at college, I wanted to help. All the way through school, I wanted to change the way people thought about teachers but now I realise that I am fighting a losing battle. I am the only one who does not expect the “ladies” to be perfect. I think about their future, I treat them as individuals and talk about them in a positive way, I want to help them and not just treat them as “another case I have to deal with every day.” They are not just a student body, they are individuals and I am ...

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