An incredible thing happened last week. The General Teaching Council of Scotland sent its members an email informing them that the fees had been increased by £15, from £50 to £65 a year. And suddenly the world of social media went ballistic with rage. Apoplectic teachers unleashed a firestorming mix of criticism, disbelief, abject disappointment and dejection. They were unhappy at a 30% increase in the fees despite their own meagre pay awards decreasing in value compared to the rise of living costs in the wake of Tory austerity drives. They were angry at reading about how 5 key employees of GTCS all earned above £70000. They were angry at forking out the same cost despite some being part time and being offered no option for a monthly direct debit (one of the excuses given was that it was only an extra £1.25 a month). They were angry because not everyone even used the GTCS professional update system and those that did, didn’t rate it very highly. But also, many were angry because  they simply didn’t seem to know what the GTCS actually does. The GTCS had carried out legitimate consultation and had passed the fee increase with a committee board with teachers in the majority. But that didn’t matter because 1000s of teachers had completely missed it. The only regular engagement that most teachers seem to have with the GTCS (beyond professional update and perhaps achieving professional recognition in and area of teaching) is the wee pint sized magazine that lands on their doormat 5 times a year.

Swept along by this tsunami of discontent I organised a wee snapshot survey using Microsoft Forms on our national Glow network. I wanted to know just how many teachers felt the same way. In a matter of hours the survey hit capacity at its maximum of 5000 responses. Here is a summary of the responses. A full version of the survey is here.

It’s not a positive read. Now, the survey itself is deeply flawed in its architecture (I created and posted it in the space of about a minute before the 9am morning bell) but the manner in which it was pounced on seems to suggest a general malaise within the teaching profession far beyond a ‘mere’ 15 quid. What are we upset about? Well, I can only speak for myself but I’m sick of the continual top down approach to improvement and change since the introduction of the National Improvement Framework. Top down and politically motivated changes are sadly common place in education but the last year has seen a rapid redirection of core educational values. These include the unstoppable momentum towards the death throes of standardised testing and the statutory centralised paternalism of the Governance Review. Matched with vast cuts in local council spending, cuts in support staff and a complete inability to recognise and include teaching grunts (like myself) in the process. Consultations were held during school days (which teachers can’t attend because we are working or there is no supply – and there is no supply because we made supply teaching a second class profession a few years ago. Wow, did they get that wrong!) and Glow Meets were organised (despite the fact that streaming video is often a nightmare for school networks and some LAs don’t even use Glow). 

National agencies like the GTCS, Education Scotland and SQA (now, I’m primary but I can tell from Twitter that they’ve not been greatly popular either recently) just can’t seem to engage effectively with their core followers. And the more they dictate, the less we listen. Teacher Leadership is a key driver of the NIF (and there are currently some marvellous efforts from people like the Scottish College of Educational Leadership to raise the bar on this front, and the GTCS’s heart is certainly in the right place with regards to this too) but I just don’t see it on the ground. It’s taken 15 of our Earth pounds to shake a teaching profession, perhaps guilty of sleepwalking into the abyss, to realise the extent to which we may have reluctantly lapped up these changes and constant criticism of our skills and professionalism in the wake of PISA and SSLN results, to say WHIT!? NAE MAIR O YER SHITE! We had reached a tipping point.

There was a hell of a lot of pride mixed in with the indignant outpouring on (predominately) Facebook. I shared and felt their pain. These are teachers who in the same breath were helping a student teacher in the next thread with ideas for their first P7 class or sharing fantastic Robert Burns inspired artwork. We love what we do and given the right rules and conditions of engagement we will share and magpie our skills and ideas to the best of our ability. Professional update happens everyday on Facebook and Twitter. 

It will be interesting to see what happens next. I hope the GTCS are listening and stop offering futile excuses like ‘it’s only an extra £1.25 a month’ and ‘many other professions pay much more.’ I actually have a high regard for much of the work they do. But the magazine is unnecessary, the professional update section of My GTCS is paper exercise that no one else sees and the Chief Exec’s salary of £95000 does not reflect an educational culture which is supposedly about ‘equity.’

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Tell your tales, set yours sails, you’re on your way

In January 2001, I left my job as a projectionist at the Cameo Cinema in Edinburgh and set off for the bright lights of Bottrop, Germany to work as a British Council lingua-assistant in a Grundschule (primary school).

I played this song by The Guthries on repeat before I left.

It was a transformative experience. Overnight I became the exotic teaching legend of Herr McLauchlan (not my own definition). As soon as I returned I started the Primary PGCE at Moray House, Edinburgh and the rest, as they say… I have loved my job from day one, and in all honesty have never looked back. Although, I still miss the lazy endless days of watching and discussing films from dawn until dusk.

But another turn is further up the road.

I recently got married and I am moving to China.

It’s a mental sentence to absorb but I do like saying it out loud. People either guffaw out loud thinking I’m joking or just stare awkwardly in disbelief. My partner is a journalist with the BBC and has got a new job in Beijing. In March of this year the family unit is moving out to start a new chapter. I’m giving up my job and becoming a house dad for a bit. I’ll write about the marriage bit another time.

Truth is, I can’t wait to leave. I’ve been at my current school and house on and off for nearly 10 years. It’s the longest I’ve lived or worked anywhere. The past decade was broken up with a year spent travelling the globe, an 18 month stint as a Development Officer with Education Scotland and a year as an Acting Principal Teacher. I’ve wanted a change of school for a long time, purely because this is a good thing and also because my usual period of living and working anywhere has never been longer than 4 years. Since last June I have applied for lots of promoted posts and had 8 interviews. I was unsuccessful at each and every one of them. I’ve had glowing feedback and been told often I was a close second, which is flattering and soberingly uncomfortable in equal measure, a bit like being told you are only good enough as boyfriend material! It’s a funny old process / ordeal to put yourself through. You feel like part performing monkey (I have amazing answers on the NIF), part fraud (all this stuff I said I did, how good was it really!?), part charlatan (whenever I wear a suit to school, fellow staff assume I am either at a funeral or a job interview) and part reject (here we go again, this is the one, chin up, big smiles, think of your family, this is your day…) More about this another time.

I don’t believe in fate and I hate it when people try to comfort disappointment by saying something was just never meant to be. But I do believe in opportunity and just going for things when they come along. I’ve always been thankful to be in a profession that is flexible and adaptable. I still love being a teacher more than anything else I know, other than being a dad. I’m genuinely not sure what is different about being a husband yet. Too soon to tell on that front! But I can’t wait for a fresh challenge. And I can’t wait to leave.

Days are getting longer
The season’s almost here
It’s the season to leave
but there’s no time to grieve.

I’ve not set any grand goals for blog posts, book reading, album playing for the year ahead. Life is too unpredictable and I’m not sure we genuinely need to set ourselves goals all the time. I’ve been looking backwards (sometimes in anger) for too long recently, cursing my luck and my steadfast inability to change my course. Now I’ve got a reason to leave I feel confident and self assured again. It’s not about the credentials or the salary. It’s all about the challenge and the next steps. It’s a magical world if we want it to be. Let’s go exploring.

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SCRUBBERS!

Being a wee brother is both a curse and a blessing. There is a 10.5 year age difference between me and Neil. Growing up, Neil and Colin were more like gods than mere mortals to me. They arrived back from mysterious far away cities, like Dundee and Edinburgh, fitted out in long trench coats, attitude and humour that influenced and guided my tastes in music, book, films and life in general. I still had the feeling they both looked upon me as but a wee boy of nine – wide eyed and gullible behind the NHS specs.

But then that’s understandable. I was supposed to be a dog. As children, mum had told them that if they wanted to have a dog then they would have to save up for one. Diligently they started emptying their loose pennies into a giant and empty brandy bottle. Only when they had saved to the top of the bottle would they be able to go and choose a dog.  And, as the legend is told, it was just as the coins were finally beginning to make their way up the long neck of the bottle, and all thoughts started to dream of long walks throwing sticks in the park that mum announced she was pregnant  –  with the little sister they always wanted. That’s right; the next thing on their want list after a dog was a little sister.  What hope did I have?

Actually, I could not have been luckier to have a big brother such as Neil. His influence on me always has and always will continue to be completely immeasurable.  Where do I start?  He bathed me as a baby.  He bought me my first Asterix book.  He shaped my musical tastes from an early age.  A compilation tape from 1989 single-handily converted the whole of Turriff into avid fans of The Stone Roses and Happy Mondays. He introduced me to Bruce Chatwin and Raymond Carver but also Alisdair Gray, James Joyce and Graham Swift.

Many times as an impoverished student I found refuge gently cradling his toilet bowl following a heavy night of drinking, yet another rock n’ roll history lesson and an early morning lecture from the philosopher Bill Hicks.

He nurtured my passion for curry with trips to Khushis and the hallowed Formica tables of Kebab Mehal.  There he would do mysterious and cool things like order dishes that weren’t on the menu. Normal people didn’t do these things. Only big brothers. And gods. But I didn’t believe in gods.

I remember the day he left for Ireland in that famous tomato soup Ford Escort estate. Every inch of it was packed full of stuff. He was crying as he drove away from the front door of my flat in Arden Street – which I remember thinking was unusual.

When looking for a comforting space, my memory keeps dragging me back to my last proper visit to Ireland 5 years ago during the Easter holidays. For a couple of the days it was just going to be the 2 of us as Moe was flying to Copenhagen for work. This made me a little nervous. Neil can famously be a little bit grumpy from time to time but the drugs and treatment were sadly making him ultra sensitive to noise, smells and things not being done the way he liked them. I opened and shut doors in the house wearing kid gloves and listened to him sagely in the car as he told me off for not using fourth gear at the correct time and reprimanded me on the dangers of crossing my hands when turning the steering wheel.

The day I return to was wet and miserable. Dreich, as we say in Scotland. But Neil was more energetic that day and he suggested we watch a movie. His friend Boris had gifted him a copy of the film, Withnail and I.  Neither of us has seen it in years. Good choice we both agreed. For those of you who know the film  – a grimy bittersweet tale of 2 struggling actors in the 60s – it was as funny and downbeat as we both remembered. A perfect compliment to the grim weather outside. Neil said Withnail and Marwood’s slum living habits reminded him of my student flat. He had a point. We didn’t quaff the finest wines in humanity but we did scoff two very fine magnum ice creams that Moe had kindly left in the freezer for us. And we talked. We talked about student days, books, films, music and nonsense. And it was great. And for a few hours I forgot that there was anything wrong with him. From the angle I sat looking at him in the room – he didn’t even look ill.

Then he complained that he had perhaps eaten the magnum too quickly and wasn’t feeling too good.  I watched uncomfortably as he slowly and stiffly arose from the couch. The spell was broken. But in my eyes he was still my big brother and still a god.

I feel unusual, I think we should go outside.

(Today marks 5 years since cancer took his life)

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