For the ORT lovers...
This is Mrs May.
It's safe to say, when Mrs May put together her lesson plans for the 2019-20 academic year, she had not a fucking clue what the next few months were about to throw at her, even in the context of the unpredictability of having worked on the front line of education and therefore at the whim of the DfE for the last 40+ years.
No, even the Department for Education would have struggled to throw a curveball at frontline teaching staff the size of a global pandemic, although that's not to say that some of their batshit lunacy over the years hasn't come close.
Mrs May has learnt a lot over the past few months, not least to stay the fuck away from any kind of mainstream media, who if they had their way it seems would quite like the general public to take to the streets (in a sensibly socially distanced manner, of course), waving banners and flaming torches to protest at the behaviour of these selfish fucking bastard teachers. Sat at home! In their slippers! Watching Netflix! While the schools were closed! ON FULL PAY! If Thursday has been known for Clap for Carers, Mrs May is pretty certain there are large swathes of the population who would be fully behind Fridays being re-monikered as Boo for the Bloody Teachers.
In fairness, Mrs May doesn't deny that there may well be some teachers out there who are indeed using this time to sit in their slippers and watch Netflix. Mrs May can only assume that these teachers must have left the teaching profession many years ago, because fucking hell, not only has Mrs May not had time to be sitting around watching Netflix; frankly, there have been days when Mrs May has barely had time to go for a shit.
While Mrs May is shielding, and therefore working from home, Mrs May also suspects that her non-shielding colleagues would strongly dispute the oft-pedalled statement that "the schools are closed". Most children are sadly unable to go to school right now, that is very much true, but with key worker children having been in school throughout, with the gradual return of children in certain years, and with all of the staff at Mrs May's school having spent weeks and weeks attempting to achieve the impossible and create a spacious, socially distanced environment which will magically enable all of the children the Government have announced should be able to return to school to do so without risk to either them or their teachers, all within a building which is falling apart, not fit for purpose, and has been chronically underfunded for years...a process which has at some point reduced every single one of Mrs May's colleagues to tears...no, the schools are very much not "closed".
Meanwhile, Mrs May is working from home, simultaneously attempting to rewrite an entire year of lesson plans to be deliverable remotely and somehow keep a class of 6-7 year olds engaged for more than thirty seconds; set daily activities for her class to carry out; mark and provide feedback on said daily activities; call and email the parents of the children in her class; listen to and respond to their queries; keep half an ear out for the daily Government briefings to ensure they haven't suddenly flung their previously stated goal posts fifteen miles to the right of sanity, which, let's be honest, sounds like entirely the kind of thing that they might do; and, alongside her colleagues, work out what the fuck the plan for September is.
Whatever the opposite of "Netflix and chill" is, Mrs May thinks that she might be doing it.
Mrs May gets lots and lots of questions from the parents of the children in her class.
Vaseline's daddy wants to know how the fuck he explains what a fronted adverbial is to Vaseline, when he wouldn't recognise a fronted adverbial if it came up to him and punched him in the face.
Durex's mummy sends Mrs May a message to say that Durex has only been completing ten hours' work a day, that she has been standing over Durex to ensure the work is of a satisfactory standard, and that she has now sought to enrol Durex on an Open University course to keep his mind active, but that she still worries this may be insufficient learning for a six year old and could Mrs May please advise?
Brassica's carer emails Mrs May at breaking point, because no matter how many times they have told Brassica that four plus four equals eight, Brassica holds firm in their conviction that four plus four actually equals ten, and refuses to listen to any amount of reasoning or factual evidence as to why this might not be the case.
Salsa-verde's mummy calls Mrs May to say that she doesn't know how teachers do it and thinks that everyone working in education should immediately receive a pay increase to at least a million pounds per hour.
And then there are the mummies and daddies who don't contact Mrs May at all. The children Mrs May hears nothing about, however hard she tries to get in touch, and, even as she follows up through the appropriate safeguarding channels, her heart contracts at the thought of what these children might be facing, right now.
Mrs May works hours which are many times in excess of those she is paid to work, in order to respond to all of the questions and queries and requests that she gets through, trying to support her children as well as she possibly can, in these strange, strange times.
And actually, Mrs May doesn't mind doing so, however exhausted she might feel, because she understands that all of these questions are coming from parents who are afraid. Genuinely afraid, for what all of this might mean for their children, for their future.
Mrs May understands this; because Mrs May is afraid, too.