It’s a sunny day; my teaching partner is on maternity leave and has had her baby. It’s all good. My school is a local authority primary school at the centre of a council estate in South London. The bright morning matches my mood. I’m looking forward to teaching my children. They are true representatives of modern London, with a myriad of different backgrounds, cultures and home languages, united in the social collective of my class and school community. I love our interactions - the little quips, jokes and shared moments of learning - and watching them develop and stretch themselves. They use their unique and truly individual world views, their fascination with the possibilities around them, the potential of their existence, playing together, to solve the problems with which the world confronts them. I’ve been teaching for many years in this school and have many tried and tested opportunities ready for our teach-play-learning and I am excited to see what the children will make of them.

But those opportunities feel increasingly out of step with the way I’m meant to teach. My first lesson of the day is phonics, I’m prepared thoroughly - too thoroughly. My mood dips as I remember the pre-prescribed lesson plan and check my pre-prepped flashcards. Have I remembered the pre-prescripted mantras? I double check, and rewatch the phonics scheme video. It tells me how to sit, which mannerisms to use, advises me on how long to smile, when to speak and what to say. It’s all too much to remember. I’m in robot mode. But rather than being K9 in Dr Who or HAL in 2001, I’m a primary teacher in South London.

The whole phonics scheme was designed by external experts and sold to my school as a package that includes observations, designed to check teachers are using the materials ‘properly.’ We all dread observations, during which we have to pray that our classes stop poking and fidgeting and become little robots themselves. The outcomes are measured: the children will be satisfactorily drilled and grilled, but will they ever learn to love reading and listening? Will they discover the joy of sharing stories and characters? The ability of the written word to transport them into another internal world? Hardly. That’s not what phonics is about. Its achievements are measured numerically, on a spreadsheet. Dickens’ financially obsessed school boss Gradgrind would be proud. Knowledge is poured into their poor unsuspecting heads. Not that characters like that exist in these schemes, the highlight of which are the profits earned by their privatised providers. The scheme is entirely void of creativity: it’s their way or the highway. Individualisation, skill, reconfiguration to the needs of the cohort? Forget it. Collaboration is destroyed, collectivity undermined, and suspicion fostered by competition between teachers for the highest scores. Ok enough of that. It’s only the first 30 minutes – then I can get back to child-centred learning where the magic happens.

Time to check my emails.

The first one is from my teaching partner; her baby is gorgeous. A real cutie. The second email is from my headteacher – it’s OFSTED preparation. ¹ We’re in the inspection window. OFSTED have announced a new more punitive framework. Who saw that coming? Certainly not my union, the National Education Union (NEU). They’re permanently, determinedly asleep at the wheel, pursuing ‘social partnership’ with the Labour government, hoping for ‘constructive engagement with the minister to yield real positive results.’ Or at least that’s the story. The tragic suicide of a teacher has not abated OFSTED’s mission to pull schools into line, to systematically punish schools that fall outside the line. The email tells us all that our rooms must be constantly “OFSTED ready”. SLT will be doing learning walks - don’t worry, they assure us - they’re just checking “that OFSTED will see the best of us”. Everyone’s on edge - constantly looking over our shoulders – worried that a negative assessment followed by a support plan and capability are just around the corner. Please don’t let me be pulled up for marking in the wrong colour pen, or not marking enough, or marking too much. Children must always be attentive - no thinking time - no daydreaming - no dreaming full stop. No mistakes. Is their handwriting good enough – why are their letters not correctly formed? Do they know the “letter families”? The anonymous OFTSTED inspector will visit our classrooms as observer, arbiter, and judge. We aren’t allowed to interact: just keep a stony face and make yourself perfect in every way. But what is perfect? They won’t say. Is this living or surviving? Or not surviving.
I refresh the picture of my teaching partner’s beautiful baby girl. The third email informs me my teaching assistant is off sick - there’s no money in the school budget for cover so I will be on my own all day. The fourth demands I complete another form for some extra classroom funding; it’ll only take 10 minutes. Another 10 minutes that I do not have.

I get through the morning. It’s stressful without a second adult - not quite the morning I had planned. Lunch. I don’t have time to go to the staffroom - I hardly ever see my colleagues these days. The staff room kettle remains unused. We retreat to the safety of our rooms. It’s a sanctuary in a sense. Catch up on marking at the end of the day - can’t find a green pen. Will anyone notice if I use a pencil? It’s a risk, but I take it because of time.

On my way out a colleague tells me about an observation they had today. Their feedback was negative - 15 years teaching experience is apparently not enough. Their behaviour management needed work because two children were calling out. She let children go to the toilet in the middle of the lesson and she didn’t recite her learning objective. Well, she did, but not enough, or maybe it was too much? She can fix it for the second observation, or before the third - the final one before the meeting to discuss her support plan. She’s struggling to breathe and is considering going to the doctor.

It’s raining as I leave, my optimism of the morning drenched under a cloud of data, competition and lack of funding. Not sure this is sustainable. Ping! It’s WhatsApp, a photo of a 1 day old baby girl - there is hope.