CPD ain’t what it used to be

  
I blog this whilst attending a course. I am singularly disinterested in anything that has been said. The course is on something I know how to do already and have actually done before but if my school wanted to waste their money and pay for my cover WHO AM I TO ARGUE? 

Unfortunately, it’s no fun. Normally I make a friend from a school and we are bezzies for the duration. Hasn’t happened today. I nearly made a friend but she has a buddy with her from another school who actually pisses on anything I say. It’s a ‘she’s my mate’ thing. So I’ve given up. Any other time I’d argue it out but who is this woman with her shit ideas to me? No one. Not worth the aggro. 

God I used to love courses. When I was an NQT I used to go to those plush ones held in Central London hotels with three course dinners and bloody biscuits and pastries at every opportunity. I can understand why I couldn’t keep going on these courses, I would have had a heart attack, but they were great. Massive packs of resources, memory sticks (wow I was impressed the first time that happened – I love memory sticks), laminated resources, the free pens and paper. These days it’s all on the cheap at someone else’s school, after school so I am brain dead and resentful. I’d come back from my great day out, it’s only right to go shopping afterwards and meet up with old friends you haven’t seen in a while too, full of new ideas and exciting activities for my classes to do. We all benefitted. 

But now I dread courses and ‘in house’ training. I am disillusioned with CPD being ‘done’ to me. I like getting up, moving around and being given lots of different things to do otherwise I fall into a coma. Sitting, being talked at for five hours (today) is not my idea of learning. I would never expect my students to put up with that kind of thing. Right now I am fighting to keep my eyes open. 

I am right at the front. I have an overwhelming urge to pull the plug on the projector under my nose to stop this slow death by power point. I am sitting on my hands. 

Wow! A video! Definitely from the 90s. Teachers TV. Remember that? Ahh! The good old days. The hair styles in are amazing and the shirts! Jesus, people have got better looking since then. Did we all used to look that shit? That’s how I used to feel about footage from the 80s. The 90s -the new 80s. 

I wish that person at the back would stop asking questions. The answers are so obvious! Why does the trainer keep saying ‘Good question’? It is NOT a good question and actually your response borders on religious discrimination. 

KILL ME NOW. 

The feedback sheet! My chance to let them know what I think. The problem is it’s asking me if I now know this and that. The thing is, I do know this and that but I knew it before I got here. Even the feedback form doesn’t want to know what I think.

Nearly over. I’m slowly and secretly packing my stuff away, hard to do when you are sat at the front. But I’m doing it anyway. I wonder how much this guy is getting paid for today? By the amount of paper I’m having to pack away he must have spent it all on photocopying, hope he’s claiming expenses. 

It’s over! We all clap, like idiots. We can stay for an hour to ask questions? I consider it on my bolt out the door to the wonderful world of my car. Safely inside I say all the stuff I’ve been wanting to say all day, been holding it in, feels good to swear it out. 

Needless to say I leave the car park in a trail of dust. I can’t wait to get back to school, maybe I might just make last lesson. 

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