… and the stats are in.
My blog has been visited circa 20,000 times in 2015 – a number with which I’m quite impressed. Thank you for your continued support and readership; it really does make a difference to know that someone is actually reading what I write.
I hope to be a little more regular in my postings next year – I hope you’ll join me and enjoy what I have to say in 2016.
Thanks again!
It’s the numbers Christmas party. After a year of being added, subtracted, multiplied and divided by millions of schoolchildren, bothered by accountants and misused by politicians, the time has come for them to share a few drinks and let their hair down …
Twelve and Six were lurking in the corner, spitefully passing judgement on their peers. Seeing number Thirteen, Six turned to Twelve and whispered, a little too loudly, “he’s a bit odd.” “She’s a bit top heavy” sneered Twelve as Three over Two sauntered past. “Ooh, look at Sixteen” sniped Twelve. “He’s such a square.”
“I’m fed up of that pair taking the mick out of us” complained Three to Five, “Let’s get even.” “Yeah, let’s” agreed Five, so they added together.
The drink continued to flow. Some numbers got more jolly, some more maudlin. Romances blossomed, some ended.
“You’re so irrational” cried Eleven at her boyfriend, before storming off into the night. “It’s just the way I am” shrugged Root Two, before knocking back another shot. (Root Two would eventually wake up three days later, with only a vague memory of the events of that night. He resolved to change his ways and in the new year he squared himself and lived a predictable, rational life from that moment on.)
Minus One had been collared by the big boss, Number One. “Why are you always so negative?” He questioned.
Fourteen was a happy drunk. Arms round Two and Seven he persisted in telling them: “you are my prime factors. I love you guys.”
Root Minus One was all on her own, upset, again, and crying into her glass: “Why does no one ever notice me? It’s as if I’m imaginary.” Whilst Three + Two i was holding court,showing off to a group of admiring small integers: “No one understands me, I’m so complex.”
Fifteen looked longing on at a small group, containing Six, Twenty Eight, and Four Hundred and Ninety Six. “They’re so cool, just so, so … perfect” she sighed, to no one in particular.
Eight had always been rather full of himself. As the evening wore on he drunk more and more, droned on to anyone and everyone about how important he was and, shortly before midnight, keeled over onto his side, and became infinity.
At this point, Zero spotted a fight between the Prime and Square numbers. He tried to divide them but this just led to all the numbers vanishing in a puff of smoke.
Regular readers will know that, in addition to maths, I like my sport and, as age diminishes my already limited ability, I find myself increasingly taking to pitch to officiate rather than play.
Although it is some fifteen years or more since I qualified as a football ref., I have kept myself abreast of the laws of the game through watching Match of the Day, listening to Six-O-Six, but mainly through reading “You Are the Ref” books.
Those of you of a certain age will remember these comic strips that were published in the newspaper: in the course of a few hand drawn frames you were shown an unfolding series of events leading to an incident on the football pitch, before posing the question: “You are the ref. What decision do you make.”
As the years have unfolded, the scenarios, by necessity, have become a little more outlandish, a little more unlikely:
It is the last minute of a thrilling and closely contested cup tie. The scores are level when Manpool’s star striker picks up the ball on the half way line and begins a mazey run. Just outside the penalty area he draws back his right leg and unleashes a terrific strike that sees the ball rocket towards the top left hand corner of the goal.This might be the moment that sends Manpool to Wembley to contest the final.
But Evercastle’s goalkeeper has played a blinder all afternoon and is moving confidently to his right. Perhaps he’ll tip the ball over the bar for a corner?
But, just as the ball is six yards from the goal, a golden eagle, that had escaped from its handler during the pre-match entertainment, swoops down and attempts to grab the ball with its talons, puncturing the ball which drops from the sky and bounces limply over the goal line, having wrong footed the keeper.
Manpool leap for joy to celebrate the goal. Evercastle surround you to complain. The golden eagle flies off into the sunset.
You are the ref. What do you do next?
I think we could have a similar series for teachers, but based on real examples:
You are working with your Year 11s, having a go at a past paper for the first time. You are sat at table helping a girl solve an algebra problem. When finished, you turn to her neighbour who asks you if her answer to a different question is correct. It is.
The first girl has been watching this, and she had got a different answer. “Bollocks” she exclaims. “I’ve got that one wrong as well, then.”
Swearing is, of course, against the school rules.
You are the
refteacher. What do you do next?
The above happened to me the other day. I know what I did, but what would you have done?
Why do people climb mountains in Winter? Or go hill walking in Autumn?
Those that do will tell you that it is for the challenge, the fresh air, the excitement. For the companionship if walking as a group, for the solitude if climbing alone. And, most of all, for the stunning views.
They lie.
On my (admittedly very limited) experience it is invariably wet – ranging from merely uncomfortably damp through to bone drenchingly soaking. Its cold, miserable and physically hard work. The most exciting part of the day is unpacking half your ruck sack to reach your limp, slightly stale, cheese roll that has been squashed flat. And the fog. They never mention the fog before you set off. “It’ll be great” they say. “The views from top are magnificent. You can see all the way to Narnia” they promise.
But when you’ve slogged to the top of the hill or mountain all you can see is your hand in front of your face. Because you are shrouded in fog. Or perhaps your are in the clouds. I’m sure the geographers could distinguish between the two, but all it means is that you can’t see anything. And that you are enclosed in more dampness.
So why do hordes take to the hills? Why do they do it?
I have a theory. It’s not for the views, or the exercise or the excitement. No, it’s for the pint in the pub at the end of the day.
Every trek into the mountains always finishes with a pint in the snug, warming yourself by a roaring fire whist resting your aching limbs. And all power to your elbow. That pint will taste so much better than had you just rolled off your sofa at the end of East-Enders and wandered around the corner to your local. The pint is exactly the same, but what has gone before, what you have endured, alters the experience.
And half term is like that pint in the snug of the pub after scaling the heights of some windswept hill. It’s Saturday morning, but this Saturday morning is so much sweeter than a ‘normal’ Saturday morning as I’ve earned the right to the next week off. The first half of the Autumn term is always busy, and somewhat of a culture shock after those long, lazy days of the summer holidays. At times, it has felt like I’ve been slogging up a hill, shrouded in mist and unable to see beyond the next few hours.
So whatever your plans for the break, enjoy the metaphorical pint that is the half term holiday – you deserve it.
Cheers!
To be fair, successive governments have been pretty successful in raising the profile and importance of Maths as an A Level and it is the most popular A-Level with circa 11% of 2015 entries being A Level Maths.
But this is not without its problems – as pupils and parents recognise the value of Maths A-Level some students opt to take it who, perhaps, shouldn’t. It has gained & retained its status as the gold standard of post-sixteen qualifications as it is hard, and not everyone can do it.
Which makes it all the more important that, early in the lower sixth, we “weed out” those that are going to struggle with the subject beyond GCSE.
A colleague had identified a student in her class who had elected to do maths, despite only scrapping a B at GCSE and was already floundering in the first few weeks of term. Keen to get some assessment data, she set her class some work to do in small groups of three or four. We’ll call our student “Tom”, because that is not his name.
Having observed the students undertaking the task, she then spoke to her pupils individually to ascertain their own role in the group work.
On asking Tom what his contribution to the task had been he answered, with complete honesty and a little pride:
“I lent them my calculator”
Thankfully, a few days later, Tom himself came to the conclusion that maths wasn’t for him and he has now enrolled on an A Level course more suited to his skills and talents.