FE Labyrinth

Documenting a journey through the labyrinth of further education - @FeLabyrinth on twitter - email FE-Labyrinth@mail.com

An Example of College Funding Working as Intended

At half past eight on Wednesday morning a group of Ghanaian ladies are bringing their children to the nursery outside our college.  The ten of them are coming in for a day of lessons, which begins with English language, covers maths and a little science and ends with ICT.  It started with one woman enquiring where she could improve her English.  It ended with her and all her friends getting everything they could out of our college in a great example of an institution really trying to serve its community, not just making itself available.  And, crucially, it is one of the few experiences I’ve had which puts the ‘education as a business’ funding model in a positive light.   

There are many problems in FE which can be traced back, in part, to the funding model which has shaped its culture since 1992.  I won’t rehash arguments I have already made in the past, but I have linked it to poor behaviour management culture (https://write.as/fe-labyrinth/behaviour-in-fe-the-problem-with-the-solution), lack of SLT involvement in day to day teaching and the dominance of business departments such as marketing over curriculum (https://write.as/fe-labyrinth/the-business-of-business-planning ).  However, having experienced one positive impact of the “funding per qualification” system it seems only fair to write about that too. 

The broader context of this positive is not so good.  It’s a silver lining situation.  The cloud is that finance recently informed us we are several thousands of pounds below our projected AEB (adult education budget) and needed to find some extra money.  We scrabbled everywhere we could for it.  Anyone who passed an Entry Level test was practically begged to enrol on the next one up.  I’m not ashamed to admit we canvassed some of the less qualified staff (jobs ride on budgets, after all), but we didn’t have much luck.  That is, until we stumbled across a rich vein of untapped ESOL (English as a second or additional language) students.  Our English staff asked the first of our Ghanaian students if she would like to do the next level after she passed an exam and got into a conversation with her about what exactly she needed.  

It turned out her son would soon be attending school in the UK.  What she really wanted, more than being able to speak English, was to help him understand his lessons and homework here.  He would be taught subjects he had begun to learn in another language.  She wanted to know the maths vocabulary, what was taught in the science curriculum, how to use a computer to check his homework and so on.  What’s more, she had several friends in the same situation. 

We went to work finding a way to accommodate them.  We merged classes that had shrunk due to drop outs or passes.  We closed a couple of support sessions that were poorly attended and we worked out who was now free and what they were qualified to deliver.  Our staff come from such a wide range of backgrounds (and were so willing to help out and try something new) that we soon stitched together a bespoke curriculum for adults wanting to improve their English and learn how to support children through the English national curriculum.  It was a good thing to do, and that made everyone feel good.  It also helped that we could tie several qualifications to it and go some way to solving our AEB problem. 

I am certainly not arguing that the way to get colleges thinking creatively about serving the community is to threaten their jobs if they don’t come up with something. It would be nice if that situation had arisen, not out of a desire to avoid losing our jobs, but simply to do them as best we could. Perhaps it could be positive instead of negative (such as bonuses for expanding the business) in a better funded sector.  In the long run, that would get the same application without the long-term disillusionment that can set in when funding is always on such a knife edge.    However, there is clearly some benefit to local communities in incentivising colleges to reach into every nook and cranny to find out where they could help.  It forces us to go out to the community, rather than waiting for the community to come to us.  It means our staff want to help people through the bureaucracy of enrolment, rather than leaving them to figure it out for themselves or fail and walk away.  

Whether these positives match the poisonous impact the funding model has on behaviour standards, academic rigour and overall efficiency is up for debate, but I thought it time to acknowledge that some positives exist which we would not wish to discard. 

Two Stories of Violence on Campus

Does your college put students first? Great. Which ones?   Early in the Autumn term, one of our teachers left work with a long-term sickness.  We found a supply teacher who seemed well qualified and prepared, and he took over the classes.  Early on, we knew we had problems.  Students came to complain they could not understand the lessons and the tutor complained that the same students would not listen.  Leaving aside the details of the story, I want to focus on a single incident and the issues it raised.  In one lesson a girl, who I will call Kira, threw pen lids at the teacher.  My manager and I felt it was clear what should happen.  That student should be removed from college.  Their head of department felt differently.  She struggled to concentrate in the badly taught lessons, he wasn’t listening to her, she had anger management issues, etc.  Everyone defending Kira’s place on the course began with the phrase, “I’m not excusing her actions, but...” 

She was excused.  Though barred her from maths lessons, she was kept on her main course and it was unclear what (if any) sanction was put in place.  That was not the end of it.  Several months later a new student came to my colleague Mike’s class.  She very politely explained that she had changed course and been transferred to this group, and could she sit in today while the admin was being sorted out.  Mike agreed (I know, technically he shouldn’t have without confirmation, but this is FE and messy course changes happen all the time.  He was trying to be helpful).   

Halfway through the lesson the “new student,” Kira, leapt out of her chair and attacked someone.   Mike tried to separate the flurry of bites, scratches and screams and, as he did so, Kira’s nails actually flayed a strip of skin from the other young woman’s arm.  After she had been taken to A&E we learned what had happened.  It was something to do with which one of them owed money to the other over some drugs they had purchased together.  Mike was almost reprimanded.  This had happened, apparently, because he allowed a student to enter his class who was not on the register.  The union objected, rightly, on the grounds that Kira should not have been permitted to remain in the college after assaulting a member of staff earlier in the year. 

In a separate incident a student was chased out of the building and attacked by three of his peers in a shopping centre near college.  It followed an argument about his behaviour toward one of their girlfriends when he was previously in a relationship with her.  Both the alleged behaviour in the relationship and the assault were serious incidents, but when the various charges were all dropped by mutual agreement, the college leadership decided all four students should be allowed to remain on their courses.  Since the assault had taken place off site, it was outside of our jurisdiction.  This was something of a technicality, since they had started pursuing him from the college lobby. 

In the past, I have explained our tolerance of poor behaviour, terrible attendance and bad attitudes in terms of the college funding model.  For large numbers of students causing low level disruption and regularly truanting a handful of sessions a week, this makes sense.  Most colleges could not afford to enforce the kind of standards they would like to see in an ideal classroom.  Our tolerance of serious incidents like the ones above, though, cannot be explained in this way.  Although the college is big, you could count on one hand the number of such cases in an academic year.  We could easily afford to lose two or three students.  We could easily afford to say “if you throw things at your tutors, you can’t study here.”  So, why don’t we? 

I have a theory.  When we are trained as teachers, we are told it’s all about the students.  When we get a new job somewhere, we are told it’s all about the students.  When marketing produce their publicity material, they say “our college puts students first” (I think it’s a rule of college marketing teams that they literally all have to say this somewhere in the prospectus).  When governors interview for a new principal or head, they want reassurance from the candidates they will put the students first.  Of course, it is all about the students, but the platitude is so ubiquitous we rarely think about what it actually means.  The way we usually take it is: I put whichever student is currently demanding the most attention from me first.    Now factor that into the context of college leadership teams who rarely step into a classroom – their only regular interactions with students are disciplinary meetings.  That means their only opportunity to demonstrate how much they put students first is to give whichever unruly character is currently sweet talking them a second, third or fourth chance.  The same is true for governors.  I once approached one at a lunch which had been organised to allow middle managers to meet the governors and tacitly brought up the question of what exactly our standards were.  She wrung her hands and sighed deeply, then told me with the compassionate smile of a great sage that we did have to keep standards high, but we also had to put the students first. 

The problem with this, of course, is that there are more students in the college to think about than just the ones demanding the most attention.  The most disruptive, violent and dangerous students in our setting occupy the majority of our leaders’ limited contact time with the student body.  But they make up less than one percent of that body, and their continued presence in it damages all the rest, sometimes quite literally.  A second chance for the Pike is bullying, distraction and possibly a trip to A&E for the minnow.   

In the case of Kira, she would not have had the chance to abuse a fellow student if abusing a member of staff had been a red line.  In the case of the boys who committed the violent assault in a shopping centre... who knows what further developments are down the line?   

No one goes to work in a college because they hope one day to kick a student out of it, but an increasing number of my colleagues are looking around and asking each other “why are we allowing this?”  We wonder what message it sends to the civil majority when they see how accommodating we are of uncivil behaviour from a small minority.  Perhaps it gives them the impression they don’t need to try so hard.  Or, perhaps it makes them feel like we are not putting them first. 

Who needs numbers anymore? 

  This week a student dropped in to a support session looking for help with written arithmetic.  This is more noteworthy than it should be.  Whilst all our young learners need help with arithmetic, most of them believe such “primary school stuff” to be beneath them.  Besides, they say, there are barely any questions on that in the exam anyway.  They’re right.  Even in the new “rigorous” GCSE only one out of three papers are non-calculator.  However, he was preparing not for his GCSE maths exam, but for an armed forces aptitude test.  After a quick flick through his practise book I began to wish all our students had to sit this test.  If passing it were a prerequisite to studying for the GCSE, I bet the GCSE pass rate would be a lot higher.    

I was enjoying showing him how to multiply decimals when the student provided yet another pleasant surprise.  His go to method for multiplication turned out to be the column, rather than the grid method.  Why was this a pleasant surprise?  Once I saw that he was able to multiply in quick and efficient steps, I felt instantly reassured.  I was certain I could teach him anything else he needed to know. As a teacher in secondary school, I rarely met a student who could use the column method.  When I did, though, they were usually among the quickest learners. 

I understand why the grid method is taught in primary (and secondary) schools today.  To someone unfamiliar with either approach it looks clearer on the page.  It’s proponents state that it is more “intuitive” and provides students with a deeper understanding of what is happening when you multiply.  It also has the advantage of being a bit newer, and everyone likes to be doing something new.  But basically, it’s easier.  Like “chunking,” (its equivalent in the world of division) it is also painfully slow and requires only a weak grasp of place value.   

In my last two years of primary school I had an ancient maths teacher who made us spend the best part of a lesson working through pages of sums in silence.  There were multiplications in there over which my students today would go on strike.  Huge ones, with multiple steps involving four and five-digit numbers!  I derived immense benefit from it.  It takes a lot of repetition to achieve fluency in a complex method.  Solving problems at speed makes us better at them.  But you cannot solve long multiplications at speed using the grid method.  Beyond three and two-digit numbers it is just too clunky.  It is a gimmicky method, designed to get a student through simpler questions and allow the teacher to tick off that section of the curriculum.  Lip service is paid to “learning other methods later,” but from what I saw in secondary school that is rarely realised. 

Most of the people who observe and rate lessons today would issue a judgement of “needing improvement” to my primary school maths teacher.  Modern commentators on education decry such practises as a waste of time in the age of the smart phone.  But I am convinced the ease with which I later picked up more advanced mathematical topics is directly related to my fluency in written arithmetic.  I see evidence of it every day in the students I teach.  Our older adult learners arrive confident in long multiplication and short division, having had it drilled into them in their early years of school.  They have often never heard of stem and leaf diagrams or probability trees, and yet they pick up these supposedly more advanced concepts with remarkable ease.  Meanwhile, our young learners have been prepared by well-meaning professionals for a world in which everyone has a calculator on their phone.  They didn’t waste time drilling written arithmetic, they gave it a quick pass, got it right once and barely practised it again.  They moved on quickly to the skills and concepts that matter in the modern world.  But they never mastered them.  They come to us having spent five years learning about probability, yet still they cannot understand it.  Within months, the more numerate adults (for whom this is often brand new) have overtaken them. 

Our assessment as it stands emphasises knowledge that is the tip of the iceberg.  The huge body beneath the water is the ability to apply precise algorithmic steps – and that comes with confidence in number work.  You cannot teach it once and move on, terrified of going back to something you’ve already covered because you won’t be showing progress.  It needs to be practised over and over, and then constantly maintained.  It’s the key to unlocking everything else.  It just doesn’t look very exciting to the man at the back of the room with a tick sheet on his clipboard.  In FE we are as obsessed as everyone else with showing progress in lessons.  Ever with one eye on our retention figures, we are even more squeamish than schools about making students do things they don’t want to.  Woe betide you are caught spending a term making grade 3 learners practise how to add, subtract, multiply and divide.  “Why are you teaching them primary school topics?” is a question that is asked far more readily than “Why on earth can’t they do this?”  So, we continue plastering over the cracks, ignoring the fact that the whole edifice is built on shaky foundations.  Even if we get it passed by the building inspector (a grade 4 in this thinly stretched analogy) we know it won’t hold up in the long run. 

Amidst the recent talk of scrapping GCSEs, I would like to propose instead adding a new compulsory qualification.  Make everyone sit and pass the armed forces aptitude test before they are even allowed near an algebraic expression.  Call it the GCSE readiness test.  Make them renew it in year nine before starting the KS4 curriculum.  Make schools and colleges give numeracy the importance it deserves, not as a set of antiquated methods rendered obsolete by modern technology, but as the key to unlocking everything else we want our students to learn in their maths lessons. 

Why Functional Skills Can’t Be What People Want It To Be

Every now and again someone outside the world of education bemoans the lack of numeracy qualifications for post-sixteens.  There are many students, they argue, who need to improve their maths but don’t need to learn about trigonometry and surds.  They need a course on using numbers practically, something that emphasises the relevance of mathematics both in everyday life and in technical jobs.  They need something, essentially, like functional skills (FS). 

A clamour then follows from the profession that such qualifications already exist.  If only employers valued them more, we could release our resit students from doing a course which they have failed already (often more than once) and see as less relevant to them with every passing year. 

This complaint, that people do not adequately respect functional skills, often comes across as though the fault lies purely with those who will not accept a Level 2 certificate instead of a GCSE.  People should respect FS and if they don’t it is because they are ignorant of its content, the argument goes.  All we need do is raise employers’ awareness of the course.  This has been tried and has not worked.  I think it is worth considering another, less palatable, reason why the qualifications are not well regarded. 

Last year we had a student in one of our FS maths classes (let’s call him Chris), who struggled at the beginning with adding two-digit numbers.  He was not disruptive or lazy and he was making good progress in his main course.  He paid attention and worked diligently, but he found it really, really hard.  Over the year he made a little progress.  We have a couple of very experienced Entry Level teachers and they used every trick in the book to get him doing some basic arithmetic. At the end of the year he sat an Entry Level 3 exam and passed it.  We gave him a Level 1 paper to see where he was at with it, but he would clearly need a lot more teaching before he could attempt the exam. 

However, his course leader was not happy.  Chris could not progress without a full Level 1.  (For those unfamiliar with this level of qualification, Entry Levels 1, 2 and 3 come first, then Level 1 and Level 2.  Level 2 is, in theory, an alternative to a good GCSE.  Many BTEC courses require a Leve1 1 certificate in Maths and English to progress from year 1 to year 2).  We explained that we had entered him for hardest test he could pass this year.  He could try Level 1 next year after further studies (this would mean resitting his first year, or moving onto a bespoke programme doing more hours of maths and keeping his main course on the back burner).  We thought that was the end of it. 

This year we enrolled Chris in a level 1 class, only to be told by our auditing team that he was in breach of funding.  He could not do Level 1 FS, they said, because he already has that qualification.  We checked.  It was true.  He had been booked into Level 1 FS in the early summer, brought in for an “intensive maths course” (not with us), and had miraculously passed the exam.  So now he had to do GCSE.  

There is obviously a great deal to be said about the impact this will have on the student.  I want to focus, though, on the impact on the overall qualification.  In other words, the impact on all students who have fairly obtained the certificate.  Chris (and other students like him) will arrive at an apprenticeship one day having shown his level 1 FS certificate at the interview.  They will at some point set him a task requiring a rudimentary level of numeracy.  He will not be able to do it.  The next time someone comes with a FS certificate, the employer will say “go back and get a GCSE.” 

I don’t know how widespread this malpractice is, but I seem to meet a lot of students in GCSE classes who have done Level 1 FS either in school or college, yet cannot do basic arithmetic.  And I can see why it happens.  In our profession, both institutions and individuals are held to account for what results they achieve.  Combine that with informal, internally invigilated exams and you have created the perfect conditions for the erosion of integrity. 

There are grey areas here, too.  It’s not all out and out cheating.  Some staff find themselves alone, invigilating a small group of students who they know personally.  Perhaps one of them struggles to read the question and the invigilator puts a little more emphasis on certain words than they should do.  There are people who will be aware of this happening, but know that looking the other way and celebrating the high attainment figures is in their own interest, too.  And of course, once people realise this goes on in other institutions, why should they be the ones to suffer at the hands of Ofsted because of their own honesty? 

I am not making excuses for this behaviour.  I find it unprofessional and depressing.  But it is worth looking at why it happens.  We will sooner change poor systems than change human nature.  And better systems lead to a better, more professional culture.  The only way I see to raise the profile of FS qualifications is to assess them with the same rigour as GCSEs:  once a year with both internal and external invigilators.   

I once put this argument to an exam board representative.  He made the valid point that the flexibility of FS is one of its attractions and a rigid, annual assessment schedule similar to the GCSEs would make it less accessible to adults.  He also seemed to disbelieve that the integrity of the exam is a real issue in determining its status.  But employers can put two and two together (even if their students can’t).  Perhaps FS would be less accessible to some who need it were it to be assessed more formally, but nobody needs a qualification that has ever diminishing currency because it is not trusted to reliably indicate ability. 

A lifetime of target setting

One rainy day in year nine I arrived a little late to form time and discovered that my teacher had arrived early and begun an activity with the class. This was highly unusual. He was one of those old-school useless-but-wonderful types. Form time for us was a loose twenty minutes in which we chatted to whoever was next in the alphabetic seating plan before lessons started. I know the best teachers and leaders around today would decry that twenty minutes as a horrible waste of time, but I can’t help feeling sorry for its loss. Not every moment of every day needed to be measured and accounted for. Form time now is a fraught affair of hurried uniform checks, maths and English revision, money management, British values and all the bits and pieces that get dropped into the curriculum because someone stands up in parliament and says “schools should be teaching this.” It was during form time of year nine that I forged one of my most enduring friendships swapping science fiction books with the boy next to me. On this particular morning though, there would be no talk of time travel, the ethics of meat eating or evolution. I arrived to find a sheet of paper on my desk with three empty boxes on it.

“What’s this, Sir?” I asked.

“You need to write targets, Colin”

“What?” I asked the boy next to me.

“Don’t know what he means either.” He muttered.

Having overheard us, our form tutor explained,

“You have to think about what you could do better and write that down, and at the end of the year you’ll evaluate it on the back.”

This was my first encounter with setting myself targets. I did not know that I would eventually learn to write them as quickly, absently and uselessly as tying a tie.

“What happens if we don’t achieve them?” My friend asked.

“Nothing.” Replied our form tutor, candidly.

“What happens if we do achieve them?”

“Nothing.”

See, I told you he was wonderful.

I wrote: 1. Improve my handwriting 2. Revise more 3. Daydream less. Although I got better at two (several years later in university) I never made much progress on the other two points. Luckily, I never had to complete my evaluation either. Those first targets went the same way as all the rest that followed them. A drawer somewhere, and then the bin when the drawer space was needed for someone else’s targets.

This was my first experience of a practice that is now so widespread we can barely imagine what life was like before people regularly articulated what they thought other people might want them to want, as a sort of professional ritual. I became adept at writing the twaddle that was deemed acceptable. “I will practice using the accusative in German. I will revise trigonometry. I will read more than just science fiction.” In other words, I will be in school. In the first semester of university I had to write ‘personal development targets’ which included making new friends and trying new activities (ie, being in university). In my first job as a mortgage complaints handler I set myself targets which, apparently, my pay progression depended on meeting. It later transpired that nobody cared about them and promotion depended on being able to do the job. When my boss realised that I was competent, he changed my targets to ensure that I had already met them.

When I went into teaching and started a PGCE I discovered that I would now have to inflict target setting on other people. Indeed, given the amount of lecture time dedicated to this topic (as opposed to, say, behaviour management) it seemed it would be a central aspect of my role... with a difference. This time they would be meaningful. If I believed that writing targets had previously been a complete waste of time, paper and human spirit, I was right! How foolish we all were, laughed the lecturers... How foolish we were not to have used ‘SMART’ targets! Those were the bad old days. The Dark Ages. Education had moved on. This was the decade of the smart phones, smart cookers, smart children’s toys and now SMART targets, too. SMART targets would make a real impact on our students’ lives. Why? Because they were – Specific. Manageable? Achievable (I know that’s right). Realistic, or recognisable? Timely timed something about time...”

Whatever.

I never remembered what all the letters stood for because they were obviously just five words chosen to make the acronym ‘SMART’ and in practice were no different from what I first experienced in year nine. You just had to write more and jump through more linguistic hoops. It was no longer enough to say “I will revise more.” You had to say “I will revise for 10 minutes longer each day over the next month by maximising the efficiency of my time management skills in a blah blah blah you get the idea...” Bonus points if you could shoehorn the word ‘synergise’ in.

Of course, there can be great value in writing down our personal priorities and clarifying our thoughts on what is important to us. When I started this job, I set myself some goals for the end of the year. I kept them in a word document on my desktop and regularly reminded myself what I thought mattered when admin was cluttering my day. It helped keep me focussed on a manageable set of priorities. A bit like targets are meant to do. But the difference between that and the guff I wrote in my official appraisal is that it was private. It was not written to tick someone’s box. And that makes all the difference. One of my goals was to make sure staff were teaching the full lesson rather than finishing early, which was common. To write that on a formal document would have been inviting disaster. Another was to change the culture around equipment and have the students bring their own calculator. That looked too trivial for SLT, but it’s a battle we’re still fighting and it matters on so many levels: personal responsibility, smooth running lessons, not to mention actual performance in the exam.

The problem with making people write targets, whether they are SMART targets, SMARTER targets (yes, they exist), SMARTAA, CLEAR or even PURE targets is precisely that we are making them do it and looking over their shoulder at what they write. No matter what acronyms we come up with, the practice is empty unless a person is doing it honestly for themselves. If we wanted them to get something out of it, we’d tell them to do it privately, but of course that cannot be tracked and ticked off.

So, who are targets written for if they are not written for the employee or student? In the private sector they are for HR, who need to create the appearance they are constantly adding value to employees. In education they are written for SLT and the governors. “Do all the students have SMART targets?” someone will ask in a meeting. If the reply is yes, those present feel reassured that important conversations are happening and students know what they are supposed to be doing. But what they have actually ensured is that good lesson time is wasted measuring (inaccurately) whether or not lesson time is being put to good use. It’s one of those things, like collecting meaningless predicted grades, that makes people feel in control of the unknown. A better use of their time would be simply walking into classrooms, talking to lecturers and students and seeing for themselves what is happening.

NOTE: Some people are more versed than I in the history of SMART targets. Sam Shepherd sent me a piece he wrote on it which I found very interesting (you can find it here: https://samuelshep.wordpress.com/2011/02/02/whats-so-smart-about-targets-arguments-against/).

Make Mine a Lilac One With Extra Time and a Prompter, Please   How would you like your exam served?  Blue?  Yellow?  A specific shade of green?  Perhaps you would like a room entirely to yourself, with an extra invigilator to warn you if you are drifting off... 

We recently hosted the November resits.  Hosted really is the right verb.  Every year the demand for exam concessions grows and we hire more invigilators, cancel more lessons to free up rooms and complete more paperwork to cater for the burgeoning demand of increasingly vague learning differences. 

Before I poke fun at these concessions, let me defend them for a small (perhaps tiny) minority of students.  The principle is that where a student’s ability is not demonstrable during the exam because of the nature of exam arrangements, key restrictions are relaxed to allow them to show their ability.  For example, an autistic student may be perfectly capable of completing simultaneous equations, but struggle to do so surrounded on all sides by hundreds of candidates shuffling and writing.  The problem here is not with their mathematical ability, but the way the environment plays to their vulnerabilities.  As such, it is reasonable to change their environment in order to more accurately test their mathematical ability. 

However, there is a fine but important line between this and simply giving people what they want because they find a subject hard.  I want to look at the three most common requests below and explain the problems they are creating.   

Extra Time (AKA – I have a human right to stare blankly at the exam paper for 20 minutes longer than everyone else) 

I would be fascinated to read a study of whether extra time actually results in better outcomes and I’d be willing to bet there may even be a negative impact on some candidates, especially in FE.  Overwhelmingly, the students granted extra time are those who struggle with the subject – but it is not always clear why one struggling student should have it and another not.  It seems enough that they present themselves to learner support, talk about finding a subject difficult and they come away with conditions as vague as “struggling with numeracy,” “taking longer to think about things,” or “requiring extra time to process ideas.”   

What is the difference between “struggling with numeracy,” and simply not being good at maths?  There is none.  It’s not like some people struggle with numeracy but show great promise at rearranging algebraic formulae.  But in the mind of a student who now believes they have a condition a great deal of harm has been done.  Some students (and their parents) put more effort into getting extra time than they do into actually learning the subject.  And having obtained the extra time, too often they believe that will be enough to get them through.  It never is.  Something which is supposed to help them offers instead a reason not to bother, and provides external (in their eyes professional) validation of their conviction that they “cannot do maths/English/whatever.”  When it comes to the exam itself, when many are faced with a paper they have not attended lessons or done any revision for, the extra time is usually spent staring into space. 

And then there is the paperwork.  Accompanying any exam concession is the “normal way of working” statement.  A student cannot have a concession in the exam if they do not normally have it in lessons.  But who does have extra time in lessons?  Most students are not keen on the idea, even when it is offered.  Of course, students all work at different rates, but it is often not the slowest workers we are told need extra time.  Early in the year I received complaints that members of my team were not playing ball.  Why won’t James provide a statement that Billy takes longer to complete work than other students?  I asked James and the answer was “because he doesn’t.”  We are under pressure to just lie.  Make it up.  Get something down on paper that will give Billy an advantage and pacify his parents.  Billy would have benefited most from putting extra time into learning the subject by attending catch up sessions, but he never did.  Our learning support team act as advocates on behalf of students, pushing to get them what they want, rather than gatekeepers professionally assessing who actually deserves a concession and what impact it will have on them.   

Irlen Syndrome and the Coloured Paper (AKA – I forgot my overlay again) 

Irlen Syndrome was first named (I avoid saying discovered) in 1983.  It would be interesting to examine why it has been on such an exponential rise over the previous ten years, having been relatively unheard of before then.  The relevant detail for schools is the theory that some individuals who struggle to read black text against a white background are able to read significantly better against a coloured background.  The research is divided.  Some studies find no measurable benefit to coloured paper, others find off-white backgrounds help a few people to read faster and others still find that everyone is slightly more comfortable reading against an off-white background.  I have not yet found any research to support the idea that some students need one colour and others another (if it exists, please do direct me to it).  Yet, in our learning support department the “test” for Irlen Syndrome amounts to no more than showing a student the same text against different backgrounds and asking them which one they prefer.  No one has a diagnosis from a doctor, in part because there is nothing physiological upon which a diagnosis can be made.  You may think this does not matter, that I am making a fuss and should just let them have their coloured exam scripts but there is a cost, especially as it becomes more common. 

As I wrote above, the exam concession must be their “normal way of working.”  This means once someone is assessed as “needing” lilac paper everything must be given to them in lilac.  In one of my classes last year I had to photocopy textbook pages onto three different colours of paper before every lesson.  Anything I anticipated using as extension work had to be ready on coloured paper, probably to be binned at the end of the lesson.  If I wanted to show something on the board spontaneously and could not change the background, I had to abandon it.  That would have been discrimination.  One day the print room was out of yellow and I gave my student a pink worksheet.  She told me that she “could not see it.”  You can imagine how I felt when I later caught her effortlessly reading black text off a white background on her mobile phone.  But to dispute such a “need,” even after seeing evidence to the contrary is to invite the accusation that one is at best failing to “put the students first” and at worst the sort of person who would kick Tiny Tim’s crutches out from underneath him.   

  The Separate Room – (AKA – I don’t have to go in there/do that lesson/answer that question because I’ve got anxiety) 

The final and most difficult thing for the exams office to work around is the number of requests for separate rooms.  These requests invariably come from the rapidly growing student population which suffers from anxiety (usually as diagnosed by college staff rather than a member of the medical profession).  Nothing changes a student’s behaviour more predictably than a learning difference statement that includes the word ‘anxiety.’  Students walk out of lessons because it “triggered their anxiety.”  They demand to change classes because the teacher “triggers their anxiety.”  One student was triggered by a Ghanaian teacher’s accent.  Some students skip lessons for a month because the very thought of the whole subject triggers their anxiety.  And of course, sitting in an exam hall triggers their anxiety.  For our recent exams we had to shut down lessons in over twenty classrooms for an entire week to house the students who could not cope with the main hall, and to provide them with invigilators.   

Let me be clear that I am aware of some instances in which the separate room really matters, such as the example I gave at the beginning.  But the line between needing and wanting is being pushed to the limit and the cost falls, ultimately, on students themselves.  It’s their peers’ lessons that will be cancelled because we need so many staff to invigilate.  And it’s they who will go into adult life with the belief that unpleasant situations can be avoided by simply telling people they have anxiety. 

My intention in talking about this is not to have a go at the students, but the adults (us) who are allowing this phenomenon to escalate.  It creates lots of unnecessary work and undermines what chance our students have to develop the resilience they will need in adult life.    

Honourable Mentions: 

The Prompter:  For students who need someone to remind them not to fall asleep.  It is quite embarrassing being the prompter for a student who clearly does not need help remembering they are in an exam.  I spoke to my “promptee” after the exam who said he thought I would have been helping him answer the questions.  

The Reader Pen:  For students who struggle with reading, you can now enter your English exam equipped with a special pen that reads text and plays it for you through headphones.  So, you don’t have to learn to read after all.  That is, if your college can afford it. 

My Favourite Learning Difference Statement of All Time:  Just this week, I received a message from learning support that one of our students, amongst other things “struggles with boredom and lack of interest.”  I feel his pain.  I may try that one on the quality team next time there is a marking scrutiny. 

“What is the impact of that?” A reflection on our Ofsted visit.

Last week we got the call.  I have been through a few Ofsted inspections, but this was my first as a middle manager.  I always wondered what happened in those meetings with the inspector that my head of department feared as much as we feared the classroom door opening.  They were spoken of in hushed tones and, whatever the result, someone was always crying afterwards.  Yet, I was convinced that it would be ok.  I had a lot to say about what we were doing, and was willing to talk honestly about some of the challenges. 

The meeting began with a discussion of the data.  We had obviously prepared for this, and started by showing that our achievement in maths and English was just above national average for the sector, a big improvement on the years before.  This was a mistake.  Were we so lacking in ambition, so complacent about low sector averages, that we were willing to accept such appalling success rates?   

“Well, no,” we replied.  We have all sorts of plans in action to improve things further, but for some years now we have been accustomed to the national average as a benchmark.  We made that comparison for them, not for us. 

“So why are you talking about national rates?”  She asked.  “This isn’t about other colleges, this is about you.” 

We were dumbfounded.  There was only one reason to talk about national averages.  There is only one reason anyone ever talks about national averages.  Ofsted.  It is Ofsted who started comparing everyone to the national average.  It was Ofsted who initiated a Sisyphean bid to make all schools better than the mean.  And so, for Ofsted, we prepared data making the comparisons we knew they would draw.  No one gave us the memo that said “stop doing that, it will now be used as evidence you lack aspiration.” 

We drew her attention to the value-added progress rate of our students, which is low but positive.  She appeared momentarily surprised that the sector as a whole has negative progress for maths.  Then she tried to tell us our data was wrong as negative progress was not possible.  I watched in amazement as my manager explained to her, as tactfully as possible, how the value-added figure was reached.  Flustered, she fell back on her previous insistence that it was “not good enough to be better than the sector, because the sector is so low.”  

We tried another tack and began showing her our plans for this year.  We led with a new assessment policy focussing on mastery of the basics rather than exam cramming.   

“What’s the impact of that?” She asked. 

“We’ve only been doing it for half a term.”  We replied “We’re at the stage of ensuring it’s implemented consistently.” 

“So, you’ve done no analysis of its impact?” 

“How would we analyse impact after half a term?” we asked. 

Silence 

“Well let’s look at the next policy.” She said, with an air of tiredness, exhaustion even, at so stupid a question. 

We introduced a new homework policy for maths.  “Impact” is the new buzzword I thought, and led with that.  I showed her that in the first half term almost 80% of students had done some homework.  Don’t compare this figure to what you’re used to in secondary.  Getting maths homework off drama students is about as easy as getting mathematicians to dance at a disco, and a lot of colleges have effectively given up.  This was a huge improvement for us and, I thought, a demonstrable impact.  She looked over her glasses at me and said with a smile, 

“So, what’s the impact of that?”  Her voice dripped with such derision that it was almost a rhetorical question. 

“Well,” I said, “What I am showing you is impact.  We have a new policy, we have done a lot of chasing up and engagement with homework has gone up dramatically.” 

“Yes,” she said, now removing her glasses, “but what is the impact of that?” 

“You mean, what is the impact of them doing homework?” I never thought I would have to explain to an Ofsted inspector why students doing homework was a good thing. 

She nodded with the smile of a patient teacher, whose weakest student is finally beginning to understand. 

“I hope the impact will be improved knowledge of maths and better results...” 

“So, you don't know if it’s had any impact at all.  That hasn’t been very successful has it?” 

She began to move on to another point, but I could not resist pushing her on this. 

“Sorry,” I said, “but just so I know for next time, how would you demonstrate that students doing homework has had an impact?  What would that evidence look like?” 

“Well...”  She had a similar look on her face to when my manager explained mean progress scores to her, “well...”  She thought a little longer, “Look, you don’t have to do anything in particular to show the evidence.  We’re not asking for folders of evidence.  If something is working your students will just be full of it,” once more in her stride, she threw her hands up in the air in a gleeful demonstration of a student being full of the joys of maths homework. 

“But why do you think the policy is not working?” 

“Well, it’s not working is it?” I could feel my colleague's irritation transferring itself from her to me as I pressed her. 

“Why is it not working?  I want to understand what you have seen that tells you it’s not working.” 

At this point she finally talked about the only observed maths lesson.  One maths lesson.  In a college which has at least 20 taking place every day.  And in that one maths lesson, she did not see or hear anyone talking about homework.  The teacher did not explicitly refer to it in her planning. So that was it, it wasn’t working.  Never mind that I could show her the actual homework.  Someone had to say “my, that homework I did last night really had an impact on my learning,” in front of her or it had not happened. 

The meeting went on in more or less the same vein.  Our principle was sanguine about it, and apparently did not much care what the inspector thought.  Her own theory was that she did not understand the sector, or the data, and compensated for it with aggression.  It meant a lot to have her support, and I can only imagine how we all would have felt if we had not. 

We came out ok.  We got a reasonable grade.  Other areas got a reasonable grade, too, some of which I know have serious flaws which went unnoticed.  In the end, she just said “yeah it’s all ok” without really analysing or understanding anything.  I got the impression she thought her job was to make us all as miserable as possible, before benignly telling us to carry on as before. 

This experience, and stories of similar experiences from colleagues, is why I cannot yet get excited about the latest noises coming from Ofsted.  Yes, they are saying all the right things.  They don’t want to see obsessive, useless data gathering.  They want to see workload being tackled.  They will no longer narrowly focus on outcomes.  When I listen to Amanda Spielman talk it sounds wonderful. 

The problem is that it won’t be Amanda Spielman who comes to inspect my workplace.  It will be someone else from Ofsted, who may or may not be interested in the latest debates.  Who may or may not have nodded off during their last CPD session.  Who may or may not have gone into the inspectorate to escape from their own woes in the classroom.  Of course, there are great inspectors, too.  But it’s luck of the draw whether you get one or not. 

It is why I am particularly worried about Ofsted looking for “integrity” in schools.  How will integrity be measured?  Will it be obvious?  It may be, to diligent, intelligent and experienced inspectors at the top of their game.  What about the other ones? It won't be long before mediocre schools are training their staff to show integrity and, sometimes, fooling mediocre inspectors.

The question Ofsted needs to ask itself about any new policies is not just “What will the impact of this on schools and colleges be?” but, “What will this look like when it is interpreted and applied by the least interested, least competent members of our team.”  Because somewhere, in someone’s workplace, it will be.

Behaviour in FE – The Problem with the Solution

Behaviour management is a huge topic. I don’t intend to write here about the basics which are, increasingly, widely agreed upon (at least among school leaders – I know this is a controversial area in the education community, particularly in universities, but I think school practice is moving steadily toward a more disciplined approach). I want to explore the question of whether these basic principles (consistent standards, swift sanctions, fairly applied) can be implemented in the current context of FE and, if so, why they are largely not.

I started teaching in a school with a vague, shabbily enforced behaviour policy that usually amounted to hanging sole responsibility around the teacher’s neck. It was an awful NQT and second year and I would have left the job had the school not suddenly, and radically, changed for the better. Despite Ofsted grading its behaviour as “good,” staff insistence to the contrary spurred SLT to address the issue. They created a new post and, finally, one person was responsible for ensuring consistency across the school. The appointee was dynamic, to say the least. He could have been a member of the Justice League. His superpower was being able to drop in to every year nine class across the whole school, every day. Midweek, he used to sleep on a crash mat in the sports hall because it was easier than going home. We all expected, and signed up, to a year battling to raise standards. However, the implementation of the new policy was so incisive, so uniform, that we saw results within a month. By Christmas of my third year it was like working in a different school, and from what I gather things have continued to improve.

This experience, along with reading the likes of Tom Bennett, Doug Lemov and Old Andrew (unsure of real name!), as well as the work of Katharine Birbalsingh at Michaela, got me thinking in a completely different way about behaviour management. Whilst it’s undeniable that some teachers are naturals at class control and others less so, I believe almost all can teach effectively in a well-managed environment. The crux is, it needs both firm leadership from the top as well as all staff buying in and pulling their weight. And that’s where we come to vocational FE. I have heard a lot of people comment that the same principles should apply, “because people are people.” You’d think so, but colleges are not schools. There are some problems with policing clear boundaries, both at the classroom and college level. Here are some that I have encountered:

1) Consistency – Different courses have different expectations of their students. There are public service courses, for those joining the Police and armed forces, which demand nothing less than exemplary behaviour in all lessons. At the other end of the spectrum are programmes designed specifically for students who have not finished secondary school, for reasons you can imagine. The former would be kicked out over behaviour which the latter are congratulated for. “Well, they should all be held to the same high standards,” I hear you saying. I would have said that before working in FE. But it’s not that simple. One of the reasons colleges exist is to keep students who have failed everywhere else in education. Maybe they’ve been allowed to get away with murder for the last five years in school with low standards, and maybe that’s not right, but it’s happened. The college’s job is not to insist on such high standards in the first three weeks that the students we most need to reach think “screw this, I’ll just go on the dole and sell pot.” It is no longer compulsory, but they are not yet adults. Some students need the water to be brought slowly to boiling point, or they’ll jump out. Others need the heat from day one. Sometimes, these different groups will share a maths or English classroom. For teachers of such classes, unravelling a behaviour incident and dealing with each strand in a way that satisfies each department concerned becomes a Gordian Knot.

2) Get funded or fire someone – A member of my team told me a story from before my arrival. A student in his class had been disruptive and insulting all year. He followed college policy, involved parents, escalated (after much effort) to a meeting with the head of department and the last step (following an aggressive confrontation) should have been for the student to be removed from the course. The last step was a problem. Said student may have been a nightmare in maths, but was one module away from completing a construction course with distinction. Had he been removed, that department would have lost the funding. So, the issue was swept under the carpet. As you can imagine, my colleague’s enthusiasm for following the behaviour policy was somewhat diminished.

That’s a common experience, but before judging those heads too harshly, consider why they do it. Applying the ultimate sanction is like cutting off your nose to make a better learning environment for your face. If your department isn’t bringing the funding in, it is going to shrink, and the margins are not generous. A strict adherence to the college behaviour policy could see one of your team made redundant. What do you do? You can argue that principles should trump pragmatism here, but most people don’t think that way, and the system as it stands incentivises heads to turn a blind eye.

3) Time is the fire in which we burn – and it burns even more quickly in college. Imagine you ran a school which took in students from the whole surrounding region, each of whom had absorbed different routines and standards over a course of years from their previous establishments. How long would it take you to mould them into a cohesive student body, who understood what was expected of them and knew how to behave? Even if it took you no longer than a month, you would have lost 13% of your teaching time before the whole cycle started again, with new arrivals from outside and old students leaving. The turnover is rapid. Some stay for three years, some for three months. Some come in five days a week, some for a single afternoon. They are often educated across different sites. How do you create a culture in those conditions? I know my college does not have the answer. Perhaps another does.

Where all this leaves me, personally, is more or less where I was as an NQT. Of course, I’m not an NQT anymore, so it’s not that bad for me. I have enough experience under my belt to get by. But I know things could be better, and I really feel for new members of the team. We try to create a microcosm of our own in maths and English, but we are battling against all the problems I identify above. There are things we can do to help each other. We can separate the worst offenders, we can phone home, we can do a lot. But we don’t have the final say over anything and there is no common rulebook or ultimate authority to appeal to.

In an alternate universe, I can see a college making the following pitch to the government: Keep our funding locked, independent of the number of enrolments, for five years. Let us do what we need to, in order to make a great environment. Let us spend a year or two with lower student numbers because people get cheesed off at being told what to do. And then see if the college gets a new reputation. See if, after a few years, student numbers go right back up because now every parent within traveling distance wants their son or daughter to attend the college that ensures they can learn.

I don’t know for certain if that would happen, but it’s a moot point. No college could afford to take the risk under the current financial pressures.

Grouping for a smooth start in maths and English – what we did and why it all went to hell in a hand cart     In my first week as a maths teacher in FE, I was amazed at one thing above all else.  There were no registers.  At all.  Attendance to class in the first weeks (or months in some cases) was recorded by passing a piece of paper round and collecting a list of names.  These were then bundled up and handed to a fraught looking manager, who added them to a disordered pile that just screamed “never going to be looked at.”  What about safeguarding?  What about chasing non-attenders?  People shrugged.  This was how it was.  When the fire alarm went off one day in September I panicked, realising I did not know the procedure.  I dashed outside with my list of names, eager to find the spot where they were lining up.  I couldn’t find them anywhere.  I later discovered they had all gone to McDonalds.  The place to be for staff, upon hearing the fire alarm, was apparently Costa. 

About a month later, electronic registers magically appeared on my desktop.  I could not understand why this did not happen sooner.  When I took a job as a section manager, I resolved to ensure that all maths classes had electronic registers from day one.  Everyone laughed.   

Here is what I did (this paragraph may be of niche interest).  I downloaded from the college database at the end of enrolment week a list of all students and what courses they were on.  I ran a report of prior maths qualifications and then merged the two lists, eliminating anyone who had achieved a grade 4 or above.  We then asked departments to confirm what time they were sending each of their study programmes to English and maths lessons, and I drew up lists of who would be attending at what time and what they had already achieved.  I then filtered the students into the appropriate courses and sets, ensured we had enough rooms and teachers, then printed lists of who should be where on the first day.  This took an entire week of working in the evening after my children had gone to bed, but it was going to be worth it.  They wouldn’t be laughing on Monday when we had registers from day one. 

Except they were laughing (albeit good naturedly), because it all went to hell in a hand cart by second lesson.  The problem was, things changed fast.  One vocational area over-recruited and spilled out into two maths sessions.  One area realised they were understaffed when someone quit and had to merge two groups into a single slot.  Some students had lied (or forgotten) about their prior qualifications.  Construction had their placements changed and moved the days people were attending.  And when I stood up in front of 130 students who turned up for maths at second lesson and read the names on my list, about five were there.  I had no idea who the others were.  I ran around college that day pushing students into rooms like those train conductors in Tokyo with the white gloves, whose job it is to ensure that wherever the passengers end up, it is not lingering on the platform.  “Make a list of names,” I announced to the team, through gritted teeth, “and pass it to me at the end of the day.”  In other words, we were back at square one. 

I am still convinced it does not have to be like this.  After all, there was one success story to cheer me up.  First lesson, IT.  Everyone who came was on the list.  Within 10 minutes they were in their maths classrooms learning order of operations.  That was because IT stuck to the slot they committed to, and when things changed and they had to change the timetable, they prioritised keeping maths and English lessons as they were. 

Part of the problem is the way maths and English are seen within the business context of college.  As a department, it does not bring in money (for young learners).  It’s just something students have to do, and often don’t want to.  Even some of the vocational staff do not always see the point in it.  During those early few weeks, when funding will dictate whether the college keeps all its staff next year or not, nobody is that worried about what is happening in lessons that are seen as an adjucnt to the main programme.  It’s the complete reversal of what you come to expect in secondary school, where subjects like PE, RE and art complain of being treated as peripheral, and losing their lessons to maths and English “intervention.”  However, if the problem is going to be solved (and really, it must be), then change needs to be led from the top.  The whole college needs to appreciate that a smooth start in maths and English cannot happen unless everyone is working from the same timetable, and that this is worth trying to achieve.  After all, the students don’t go away thinking “that was a mess, but everything else has been well organised.”  The just think, “that was a mess.” 

Does tech have a role to play in FE? 

Years ago, near the end of term one as an NQT, I was worrying out loud in the staff room about my coming year nine lesson.  To give you some idea of why I was worried, my very first lesson with this particular group involved swearing, jumping across table tops and one child mummifying his entire head in a roll of Sellotape before running into the corridor to see what he could stick himself to.  In retrospect, this was a class which should never have been given to an NQT, but there it is.  Lumbered as I was with foolish ideas about behaviour management, I never quite got control of them, although I did manage to avoid a repeat of the mummification incident.  Every time their lesson approached, I felt sick.  I was talking about this in the staffroom, and a kind colleague suggested that I give myself a break from planning and poor behaviour.  “Have a laptop lesson,” he said, “Get them on Mymaths and say they can play the games on there if they finish all the work in time.”  It sounded like a great idea.  It wasn’t. 

Leaving aside the issue of whether there is educational value in such a lesson, my colleague was coming from the view of someone who controlled their class.  Perhaps in those circumstances it constituted a break.  For me though, the lesson degenerated into the patrolling of minimised screens containing online games, some of which were highly inappropriate. And that was after we spent fifteen minutes getting everyone online, swapping laptops out when they had a key missing or the wifi was broken or someone from year eleven had changed the keyboard language to Japanese for joke.  By the time I had taught for a few years in secondary school I had no interest in the laptop trolley.  Even when my classes were behaving themselves it seemed at best like a waste of time.  It never worked as a form of homework either, as the excuse of limited internet access was too easy to use.  And, for some children, it was a reason rather than an excuse. 

However, despite my instinctive distrust of edutech, I find myself increasingly interested in its potential application in FE (although not in the form of initial assessments, as anyone who read my last blog will be aware).  This year I am experimenting with a new software platform to encourage our students to do some work outside of the classroom.  If it goes well I’ll write more about it and specify which platform I’m using, and I am optimistic so far.  But why should it be different in FE?  I often hear people say that “people are people,” so the same principles must apply.  I think the context of FE dramatically changes some of the principles.  Many of our students have large gaps in their timetable when they are not in lessons but are hanging around college.  We have a huge library full of computer rooms.  They don’t need to come from a wealthy family with more than one computer at home and high-speed internet access to do work on a website.  They often want to do extra work outside of lessons but don’t know how to go about it.  They come and collect past papers, but when they find they have half an hour to spare can’t remember where they put it.  Or they come for extra work and when they try to do it, get stuck and don’t move on.  Or they buy a revision guide and just read it without practising, unaware that is an exercise with almost no value.  The great advantage of them having just one URL to go to, an easy username and password, and a simple task to continue with, is that it removes from the process the decision making of what to study next and how to revise.  Just log in, on your phone, in the library, wherever, and do the next unit.  The keen students have already done more work outside of lesson that they had this time last year. 

There is another point to make as well.  In school we spend five years slowly taking them through the whole curriculum.  In college we have eight months to cover two key stages of work and prepare them for an exam.  It is not enough time and the only way some of them will get through is by doing extra work independently.  “Independent work,” is a phrase that might set off alarm bells if you are a secondary teacher.  It’s the sort of thing terrible INSET days are made of – discussions about how to make our students become “independent learners in control of their own education.”  In FE, though, that is exactly what some of them want to be.  There is a world of difference between a thirteen year-old who wants to impress his mates by doing something even sillier than wrapping his head in Sellotape, and an eighteen year-old who wants to be a nurse and absolutely must pass his maths this year in order to progress.  I hope by giving tech tools to the latter, they really can become independent learners.  I’ll let you know how it goes!