Learning to be anxious: how not to teach - a lesson from the 60s

It's strange, but if I consider whether the world is becoming a better place, on a subjective level, I always seem to default to my school years. I started school in September 1966 and the first school I attended was Beckett Park County Primary in Headingley, Leeds (near to cricket ground, if you're not familiar with the place). Probably fair to say, I didn't enjoy the school experience: the whole freedom thing of the mid-60s hadn't reached that far north yet and the bulk of my teachers had spent their careers managing failure from a position of largely unquestioned authority - which was bad for them, and for the children submitted to their often not-so-tender care. By the time I was eight, I was in Miss Tipping's second year junior class. Miss T was the epitome of 'old-school'; white hair cut to accentuate the severity of her face, tweed-suited and flat-brogued, she ruled with an iron fist (backed up liberally with flailing ruler or flying board rubber). Boys were always referred to by surname only, the girls had the privilege of being called by their first name, but this was so loaded with vitriol or sarcasm the privilege was highly questionable. Along with a fair few others in my class, I went home for lunch and this entailed catching a school bus that left at 12.05; the lunch bell went at 12.00, so there was always a scramble. On this fateful day, La Tipping employed her absent-minded 'is that really the time' trick, which she deployed if we hadn't met her expected work/attentiveness rate in the morning lessons. As the clocked ticked on past the bell and we waited for her dismissal, I began to panic. Missing the school bus meant a longer walk to the main road for the service bus; I'd have less time to eat or spend at home. The panic grew and before I knew it, 'Miss' had noticed. In an irony-loaded voice she asked 'Hyatt, what's the matter?' She then took my hesitant answer as her cue for a rabble-rousing comedy routine that reduced my class mates to nervous laughter. We were eventually released. I don't remember if I made the school bus, but I can still recall - all too vividly - the panicked fear her little routine caused. She belittled me - and my childish fears - in a way I would never have done in my time as a teacher. Because if I had, I would have been subject to a complaint and faced some form of sanction; we now know that anxiety is real and stalks the classes and corridors of schools in all year groups. So, yes, in this respect the world is a better place. But accessing the care and treatment needed to overcome anxiety and depression is another story altogether. 'Miss' taught me not to be late for busses and trains; she also taught me that panic is no laughing matter.

School governor shortage - now how could that have happened?

According to the charity Governors for Schools up to one in 10 governor posts remain unfilled, a figure that rises to one in four for schools in rural or deprived areas. As a governor of over 12 years' experience, I can think of a number of reasons for this. The business of governance is time-consuming. Hours spent in committees and sub-committees, talking to teachers and administrative staff, attending courses and conferences, getting ready for Ofsted (and the box ticking and form filling that entails) calls for a high level of dedication. And that's before we consider the plethora of - often contradictory and ill-thought through 'initiatives', policy documents and guidance notes that issue forth from the DfE. Mr Gove's fiefdom has also added to the burden by now choosing to scapegoat governors in underperforming schools; academization (which I'm not sure is even a proper word) beckons for those deemed to have failed. But, then again, he's also on record as stating that many governors are only in it for the kudos. Twelve years in and I've yet to find any, but then again, I'm probably too busy being responsible for child protection and safeguarding and sitting on the finance committee to be that concerned about the honour of being there. Then again, I might just be looking for glory in the wrong place. Making sure my school provides the best possible education for its 420 pupils and makes the most of its 50-odd dedicated teachers, teaching assistants, administrative, catering and caretaking staff - and provides them with a caring and committed place of work that can continue the tradition of education that started in 1869 and has continued unbroken, with a surprising short list of head teachers ever since. That's success - and what makes governorship worthwhile.