An Ofsted Inspector Calls

I dropped off my application form for the St Mary Mead school last night. I shall leave it up to fate (which I don't actually believe in). I don't like change very much. I am fiercely loyal and stubborn. I actually thought I would stay at the School of Hard Knocks till retirement, or assault by one of the junior delinquents there, whichever came first.

I had a hectic morning yesterday, and by noon I was craving half an hour in the staffroom with a mug of strong, hot tea, oatcakes, stilton and grapes. My heart sank when I opened the door and I saw Pompous Pilate, the despotic windbag, sat there holding court amongst the Stepfords. He was in full flow, talking about some teachers who have been sacked in our authority for making disparaging, disrespectful remarks about their Headteacher on Facebook! He announced he would be sending a memo out about it, and I began to wonder if the Yorkshire buffoon knew of my blog. Consequently paranoia has set in. I fear I may need to restrict access to it.

He hasn't assessed my teaching yet. I am not looking forward to it. Every teacher he has watched so far has been given atrocious grades, brutal feedback and treated to a 2-hour monologue on how to be an 'outstanding classroom practitioner'. He has justified his rather officious approach to assessment by saying he is simply doing what OFSTED would do and we must be prepared. I think he even uttered the vomitrociously trite cliche 'to fail to prepare is to prepare to fail.' He is unaware of his cringeworthy David Brent-esque cheesiness.

There was one teacher who has received a glowing report though. . . the sappy little ferret he is shagging. She is a pedagogical angel apparently: her classroom is 'Dead Poets Society' (the rest of us are more 'Grange Hill'), her manner pure Mother Theresa. Grrrrrrrr! Men. . . why do they have to be such total cliches.

I've never imagined fellatio played much of a part in OFSTED assessments. I was obviously being naive.