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Public or Private: It’s my life, not anyone else’s!

This week, on Wednesday I was part of a short film made for the BBC Teach webpages. It’s about workload and nothing I said in the filming was particularly controversial or shocking.  Spoiler alert: I work longer than my contracted hours and I think all the people in the film felt the same.

The possibility of the TV thing came up in the summer holidays when I found a tweet asking for participants. So I called and chatted and then ended up in the car, driving through Central London with my family in tow. It was a very odd day, but a very interesting one. But I remember a niggling feeling on the drive home: what if I’d said something or done something that would get me in bother. It was a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach, so on the way home and for a few days afterwards, I spoke to the long-suffering Mr Dr Ross and replayed scenes in my head, hoping I’d dropped a clanger. What flavour of clanger I may potentially drop, goodness only knows; I really am quite boring!

I got an email last Friday saying that the films were coming out and I went into a bit of a tailspin. The tailspin centres around these bad boys: the teacher standards. It’s part 2. On page 14. It scares me. For no tangible reason in my currently-very-boring life.

Part 2 scares me.

Where does that fear come from? I don’t know. I’m quite boring. I do drink; that’s no secret. I do ride my bike; that’s no secret. I have a kid; that’s not big online because it’s his life not mine to publicise but it’s no secret either. I am a Christian; again public domain. I research stuff. It’s all public knowledge. I swear a bit (maybe more than a bit sometimes!). Again, not a secret but not for the classroom either. And generally not online because my mum doesn’t need to read it, so I don’t write it these days.

So what am I scared of? I’m human and I make mistakes. Lots of them. I get things wrong and I get things right. The teachers standards allow for that of me. My school allows that of me. The long-suffering Mr Dr Ross allows that for me and the doglets tolerate my many foibles. So now the show is out and I’ve seen in real time that I’ve not got myself in a pickle and done something daft, I can smile and engage with the fact that: