From now on, I will endeavour to prevent this from happening by taking the old-school approach to book reading: making notes.

This begins with the book I’m looking at currently – Sweets: A History of Temptation by Tim Richardson. Only time will tell if it makes it into the 5% or so of books which I actually read from the beginning to the end, but it’s off to a good start.

Page 22 contains the following gem of actual factualness:

The sense of security that sweets can bring is reflected in the way that sales of sweets rise in times of war or economic or social unrest.

It then notes that this pattern was exactly what confectionery manufacturers of North America noticed after the terrorist attacks of September 11.

This is precisely the kind of nugget of awesomeness which I would have forgotten if I hadn’t just noted it down.

With my new and improved method, I will note a fact down, and then forget both the original interesting fact and the note which follows it, wasting comfortably over twice as much time! I am a productivity genius.

Heaven forbid a capital letter or a serif should make itself into a company's logo in the 21st century.

As part of this amazingly radical image change, which is sure to put the noses of hardcore Waterstonian traditionalists out of joint, Waterstones has a new slogan. It is – (drumroll please) – “feel every word“.

I would imagine that the marketing team wish for a full stop and dramatic pause after each word in their new tagline.

I mean, look at “feel every word”. What does that actually mean? That when you read the word “and” as a connective in a poorly written sentence of a poorly written book, your toes will curl up in irrepressible ecstasy because you bought the title from Waterstones?

Waterstones is precisely the place where you’re less likely to ‘feel every word’ of a book than anywhere else. You have more chance of feeling the words, whatever that actually means, if you amble down to an independent bookshop with a limited range, and pick up a book which a member of staff may well have ordered in themselves, and might have something to say about it.

Waterstones stores are positively sterile compared to independent book shops. You would go there because you can probably find the title you’re looking for, because it probably is a reasonably popular book. It will cost a reasonable price – probably about average. Everything about Waterstones is reasonable and average. The extreme high of ‘feeling every word’ can not be found within its identikit confines on the high street of anytown.

Put simply, Waterstones know that they’re lying if they suggest that by purchasing your books through them, as opposed to anywhere else, you are more likely to engage in textual intercourse with the book you’ve procured. The slogan is a feeble attempt to address the exact deficiency you’re met with by shopping at a standard chain retailer.

I cannot be bothered to sift through the numerous other examples of laughably misleading slogans, but I wish they were as honest as Pepsi’s slogan in the Ricky Gervais flick The Invention of Lying. It was this: “Pepsi – for when they don’t have Coke”. Spot on.

It began in about mid-August last year. My then-girlfriend had come to the conclusion that it would be a splendid idea to split up with me. This wasn’t wonderful. We’d only recently returned from a holiday together; now I remark upon by ’solo voyage’ to Tunisia, which I spent (in my re-altered memory) in my own company. Though there were imperfections in this relationship, it’s obviously upsetting if somebody wishes to call something off when you’re not of that opinion yourself.

Shortly after this, it became apparent that the new letting agents who I had decided to rent a house from were capable of being manifestly inconsiderate and unreasonable. They would throw several curveballs during the course of my PGCE year – god forbid they should extort a penny less from someone than they absolutely could get away with. One of their first moves was to charge us for about two weeks’ rent in which time they refused to give us the keys to the house. To this day, I am unsure as to how they can simultaneously charge us rent for occupying a property whilst denying us access to it.

Twice, my house keys managed to disappear from the face of the earth within my own house. In the first of these incidents, I lost just one key. It suspiciously emerged later as I disturbed a book in my mantelpiece which was stood upright. I have no idea how the laws of physics permitted a house key to remain suspended within the pages of an upright book like this. The second losing of the keys remains unresolved.

I’ve been in a couple of relationships this year, but neither has turned out quite to plan. The first was with one of the most kind-hearted people I have ever met in my life. I have a sense that the timing was simply wrong, but you can never tell with these things. There’s a feeling of horror in coming to the conclusion that, at any time in your life, you need to be on your own instead of in a relationship with a remarkably lovely person. In the second relationship, there was just a lack of compatibility.

During part of the year, one of my housemates took a profound disliking to me. This has since been resolved, but at the time, it was apparent that she thought little of me, and anything I did. This made it quite tough simply to be in my own house.

On the toughest of my PGCE placements, I had a mentor who simply seemed to dislike me. I taught in a reasonably hostile set of conditions, during which I was unsurprisingly average in my teaching, if that. The days would begin with a reminder of what I had not done. The placement ended without a proper goodbye. She left me in little doubt that she herself doubted my ability to teach. My confidence had been dented, and I still doubt has recovered fully.

To continue the trend of people taking exception to me, someone who I worked with as a representative for the PGCE cohort decided that I was a contemptuous chap in need of a public dressing-down. Though plenty of other people who knew her did not think that highly of her themselves, it’s not nice to be verbally attacked by anyone, least of all in front of other people who you actually like.

I have two new scars on my hands. One is from a barbed wire laceration caused by slipping on something. Another was caused recently when a heavy television which I was moving for someone else tipped over and landed solely on my left hand. One finger took all the weight, and the impact cut through to the bone. It was gory, and hurt rather a bit.

The other day, I was relieved of my phone and wallet by an opportunist thief or two. I can do without becoming even more financially worse off than I already am, let alone the fact that the intrusion of it all makes one feel rather uneasy.

Anyway, that’s a sample of the misfortunes of the last year. It’s not all been bad. I’ve made some incredibly wonderful friends through my PGCE course, been an officer on my college’s Student Union, found a political home in the policies of the Green Party, gained a teaching post in a wonderful school, and of course gained my own Qualified Teacher Status.

Nonetheless,  the last year has been the Year of the Pickle. I hope that this year will see me in less pickles, and will be somewhat more settled. There’s a lot to look forward to, and generally I’m in good spirits, but I’d now like to commence a period of good fortune.

As I said in my previous post, this new school of mine is characterised by its incredibly friendly atmosphere. To see everyone in one place was lovely. Although I’d only been in school for a couple of weeks, I knew how lucky I was to call these people my colleagues.

This rather pleasant development was worthy of celebration, and as the night went on, the drinks were drunk, until eventually I was too. I was by no means alone in my excess, but on this occasion had far exceeded the amount which I ought to have had. As the festivities at the tapas bar were winding up, things became a little hazy.

Upon leaving at around half-past two or so, I managed to catch the wrong night bus. Instead of heading to Enfield, I awoke at the end of the line in… Walthamstow. Keen to get out of there by any means necessary, I inexplicably headed to… Canning Town.

The fact that I was now considerably further east than I wanted to be, and that it was ten to four in the morning, had been eclipsed by a more disturbing fact. Having fallen asleep on both buses, an opportunist (or multiple ones) had kindly taken the opportunity to rob me of my wallet and my phone.

And there I was, in the early morning, penniless and unable to contact anyone, deep in the East End. By some bizarre stroke of fortune, my Oyster card had been buried too far into my pocket for the thief (or thieves) to consider it safe to extract. I could, at least, get myself home.

It took a while to get back to Enfield. A bus central, and then to Camden Town, and then to Winchmore Hill, saw me arrive back at my friend’s house at 6 in the morning. The house keys, of course, were in the wallet which my dispossesser(s) had made off with. I rang the doorbell to wake my friend’s parents, who let me in.

To their credit, they were more concerned about what had happened to me than by their rude awakening at least an hour before they would normally be up. I was still in a state of shock about it all, and found the explanation sounded foreign even as I retold what had happened. I couldn’t quite grasp that this had happened to me, but the lightness of my pockets miserably confirmed that it had done.

I headed upstairs to set about finding which numbers I needed to ring to cancel my phone and my debit card. Feeling depressed about the situation, I sought solace in sleep, and awoke an hour later to deal with the implications of my own foolishness and the criminal’s selfishness.  This included phoning my mum to state that we might need a new front door lock.

As it became apparent that I would be on hold for a long time if I wished to contact the bank, I realised I would have to ring my school to let them know I could not make it in on time, and to inform them of the situation I had to attend to. The receptionist on the end of the line was reassuring and friendly, and told me that the head would understand. This put me slightly more at ease whilst I went about tidying the mess which had been created.

The phone duly deactivated, and the debit card newly nullified, I tried not to consider that I had become several hundred pounds worse off, largely due to the cost of replacing the phone. After another quick snooze which was fuelled by my need to forget the ridiculous predicament I was in, I headed school-bound.

Knowing the school to be a friendly and caring place, I had no anxieties about coming in that day. It would make me feel better to be surrounded by decent people.

As I arrived, one of the lovely office staff informed me that my wallet had been handed in to Shoreditch police station. The police had phoned my teaching union to find my workplace (having found a card in my wallet), and found my school’s number to let me know. This is admirable; the police get a lot of criticism – sometimes they ought to be praised for the good they do.

Before phoning the station to find out how to repossess my wallet, I sought out the headteacher. I was, after all, two hours late in to school. She was supremely understanding, and everyone was just glad that I myself had not been hurt. My new colleagues were making what could have been a distinctly depressing day into one which was, at least, manageable. They had lots of kind words, which did a lot to prevent me from feeling irreparably glum about it all.

Anyhow, I phoned the police and discovered (unsurprisingly) that my driving licence, bank card, and money had been taken before the wallet was discarded and then handed in. Somehow or other, it appeared to have been chucked away near the police station itself. My house keys and reward cards were safe, but my money, phone and driving licence were gone. I could at least let my mum know that the front door did not need a new lock.

I later collected the wallet after a post-school drink at the pub, which one of the TAs had kindly offered to buy me. Naturally, I ordered a soft drink. Lessons had been learnt.

After this whole malarkey, I’ve decided that returning home to be around my parents would be wise. Here I can await a new bank card, and finish the business of getting a replacement phone.

Hopefully I will have this sorted within a fortnight. Though I will be worse off, I at least remain unscathed myself. Once I’ve re-obtained everyone’s phone numbers, and have a phone on which to contact people, and once I can withdraw money as usual, this all might feel less annoying.

Alas, the crime has been reported, and the criminal(s) has to hope that the CCTV footage from the bus has not been kept. The time in which the robbery was committed is reasonably precise. Naturally, I have given the police as much information as possible, in case they decide that it is worth their time to find this presumably pathetic individual.

Learning through experience is not always the best way to learn, but I’d say that falling asleep alone on a night bus is not advisable. Especially if it’s not even the right one.

My interview was a half-day back towards the beginning of June, and as is customary for a teaching post, I was to find out about its outcome later that same day. With a mere few hours in the school, you can but make an educated guess as to whether or not it’s the school for you. I decided that I would accept the post if it were offered to me.

Back on that day, I thought it seemed about right. Certain things gave me the sense that I’d like to work at the school, but I remained wary that my judgement may have been askew. These two weeks would reveal if my educated guess was in fact the right answer, and I have been left in no doubt by my fortnight there: I was spot on.

You need a considerable amount of fortune to find yourself a teaching post in a place as wonderful as my school. It is a truly amazing place, and few who visit there would come to any other conclusion.

The school is incredibly friendly. Everyone is universally welcoming: the caretaker, the caterers, the office staff, the TAs, the teachers, the management team, and of course the children themselves. All of the staff set a wonderful example for how people should treat one another. There are few workplaces as caring as this one.

Everyone has a smashing sense of humour, and a genuine desire to contribute to those around them having a nice day. The school is supportive to everyone who is a part of the community, which is the most important thing a school can be.

I imagine that pupils and staff alike are proud to be part of the school. They certainly should be. I feel immensely proud that the team there thought I was worthy of working alongside them, and hope that I can prove their judgement right.

Meanwhile, I have a class to work with. I have met them, and they are an amazing bunch themselves. I’m looking forward to doing the best I can to give them a good education, and to help them to feel confident in their ability to succeed and treat others well.

Beginning my first teaching post is daunting, but I think I’ve found the perfect place to do it.

It was roughly a year ago now

aroundabouts midday

when I heard the sad news

That Ol’ Gordon had passed away

-

I was rather upset about it

but only until

I heard the better news

that he’d left me stuff in his will

-

To Dave

He left the sports car

To Bert

A vintage cuban cigar

-

To Bob

He left a caravan

To Alf

A portrait of a man

-

To Steve

He left an antique watch

To Jim

He left a bottle of scotch

-

But I didn’t do so well,

from ol’ Gordon being dead,

they read out the end of the will,

and this is what it said:

-

“Lastly, to you, dearest Olly,

here’s what I betrothe,

Something you’ll treasure forever:

a signed picture of Michael Gove.”

I just cleaned out my fridge,

and here is what I found,

Two courgettes – mouldy and gooey,

once green but now brown.

-

It didn’t stop there either,

I found some old cheese too,

It’s now half alive,

and has new bits that are blue.

-

When I opened the drawer at the bottom,

I got a little worried because

I found a gloopy purple thing,

but didn’t know what it was.

-

I sorted out the rest of the kitchen;

the things I discovered!

A potato growing like a tree,

just inside the cupboard.

-

And behind the washing machine,

was something not too nice,

the remains of a chocolate bar,

and a couple of dead mice.

-

And then I had a plan for next time,

just as I was looking at a mouse.

I thought “Instead of cleaning the kitchen,

I’ll just move house!”.

On my last weekday of leisure before I take up my teaching post on Monday, I sit here gleefully filling in yet another form for the beloved CRB. As ever, certain parts of it are baffling to those without an NVQ in Filling in of CRB Forms. Here’s me, with no formal training in filling in CRB forms, utterly perplexed by whether or not I am registering for the Independent Safeguarding Authority.

It’s not a long section, but I’d hate to have to fill in the whole form again because of an unawareness that I actually do need to register for it. As with most problems, I figure that the solution is to Google it, and Google it I did.

The first message on the homepage of this ISA thing is to inform the reader that the Vetting and Barring Scheme – which is by and large the only thing the ISA seems to do – has been halted by the coalition government’s plans to reform the CRB checking procedure into something less ridiculous. With that in mind, I’ve put a big fat ‘X’ in the box saying that I’m not registering for the presumably-soon-to-be-defunct authority.

For all of the coalition’s evils, I can’t say I disagree with this one. Stoopid CRB forms.

In some ways this is alarming, but then again, there are presumably plenty of murderers out there. As we know, there are plenty of people in possession of guns, which is troubling as well. I would hope that people are not living in fear that he, or a different nutter, may pop up from behind a bush and start firing wantonly at members of the public.

What does surprise me is that he has successfully managed to go missing in the UK, with a full search operation aimed at tracking his location. There are many missing persons scattered about the UK, some of whom will sadly not be alive and others who will simply remain off the radar, but few are tracked so intensely and suddenly after their last known whereabouts.

Much is made of the ’surveillance state’, but its omniscience cannot be that comprehensive if an armed and dangerous man cannot be found within its rather limited confines. I would imagine that it is difficult to evade capture if you are being sought so urgently and so publicly.

You have to wonder where he has got to, and if he will actually be able to leave his current whereabouts, without irredeemably exposing himself to the network of cameras which theoretically can monitor him. He’d need a fairly comprehensive disguise to escape the scrutiny of fellow UK residents also.

Surely it is against the odds that he has remained unreachable for this length of time. I would imagine that his capture is imminent, for if he remains on our “sceptred isle”, there’s not a whole lot of room to hide in.

When Labour were in power, they promised that schools would be able to rebuild and refurbish their premises to provide the high level of education expected of them. Under the coalition government, they have been told that it would probably be impossible for them to do so.

A document was produced listing the schools which would not be able to proceed with redevelopment, causing those happily omitted from it to celebrate. As it emerged, this document contained many errors, and the celebration from some schools would turn out to be misfounded.

This error, which Michael Gove had responsibility for, rather angered some people.

The anger is understandable. Many schools need the funds to rebuild or redevelop facilities which cannot cope with the demands placed on them. Alongside other cuts to essentials such as the provision of Teaching Assistants and the financial implications of NOT becoming an academy, this is disastrous news for many schools.

One MP in the House of Commons was particularly angry. Tom Watson, Labour MP for West Bromwich East, was particularly so. In a verbal onslaught in front of a packed House of Commons, he responded to Gove’s apology by labelling him a ‘miserable pipsqueak’ at the top of his voice. It’s worth a watch.

As regular readers of my Gove-related posts (and those unfortunate enough to hear me talk at them) will know, I’m not a fan of Michael Gove’s policies. I believe the academies plan would be harmful to state schooling. I believe that choosing not to extend provision of free school meals is a mistake. I believe that a return to ‘the basics’ is a near-jurassic way to view the priorities of primary education. On this occasion however, I will defend him.

Anyone in a position of authority should be responsible, and accept that they are a role model for others. Michael Gove, being in charge of education, must be particularly angelic in his conduct. In apologising for an error he made, with sincerity whilst others jeered at him, he did something which was difficult but correct.

Tom Watson acted in a way which set a poor example. He raised his voice in order to point and jeer his insult across the Commons, in a way that a playground bully might wish to humiliate their victim in front of their peers. This is a dreadful example, and teachers would expect pupils to behave in a more respectful way from the very start of their schooling.

The speaker duly asked him to retract his comment, which he did only out of ‘deference to the speaker’. Frankly, he should have done it out of respect to the insulted individual, who deserves to be able to work without being childishly mocked. I am astounded that a man of Watson’s expertise would consider this acceptable.

A pupil in school who attempted to resolve a dispute in this way would spend a considerable time afterwards comtemplating his actions, and living with the implications of acting in such a way. Maybe we need to send a letter home to Mr Watson’s parents, or consider that he should spend his next few breaktimes reflecting on his behaviour.

With honourable restraint, Gove said that he understood Watson’s passion.

By all means, if Michael Gove’s policies are ill-advised (and I rather think they are), they should be scrutinised and deconstructed. However, if he makes a mistake and apologises for it, we should have the good grace to accept it and continue with the important task of building an ever-improving state educational system.

The next few years will be tough for all of us involved in state education, and we need to reserve our energies for constructive criticism and exemplary practice.