The Dark Knight

“You’ve changed things,” drawls the Heath Ledger’s Joker during his pivotal interrogation by (or – depending on your inclination – of) Christian Bale as Batman. Watching the scene, it’s difficult to comprehend exactly how far off the pace Gotham’s protector is, and as his pitiful predicament worsens and frustration peaks (“Where are they?!” he roars over and over again), it’s easy to believe the Joker’s gleeful pronouncement: “There’s no going back”.

Just as Batman and the citizens of Gotham are stuck on a one way train with the Joker up front, The Dark Knight has changed contemporary commercial cinema, whether we like it or not. Be it ground-breaking production (vertiginous sequences filmed on the unwieldy IMAX format), a boundary-blurring viral marketing campaign (which saw obsessed fans decoding dozens of websites, locating mobile phones hidden in cakes and actually being recruited by the Joker), commercial success (statistics litter the web, but notable is the proportion of viewers who have seen the film more than once) or the enormous critical aftermath of reviews and articles, the creation of this film has exposed the fallacy underpinning every rule in the summer blockbuster handbook. Were the Joker a film buff – one suspects not – he would surely have approved.

What has not yet emerged is any critical consensus on the meaning of the film philosophically, psychologically, politically and socially, or for cinema itself.

For what it’s worth, PeriodOne wants to get in on the act, so here goes …

Startling it may have been, but The Dark Knight is not without precedent. 007’s recent spectacular revival was lauded by an audience enthusiastic for a shot of moral ambiguity with their escapism. And earlier, Fight Club brilliantly portrayed the paradoxical, self-organising chaos bred of urban ennui, in effect road-testing one of The Dark Knight’s central conceits: even if we don’t break the rules ourselves, we love watching others break them. Both Mephistophelian, both irresistible, both crowd-pleasers: Tyler Durden and the Joker are separated by a knife’s edge.

However, neither of these films went all the way: Fight Club sweetened its vision of chaos with arch references to gender and sexuality, while Casino Royale’s LeChiffre was an amoral, money-grabbing villain of the old-school. Baffled and disturbed by Bond tanking whiskey or Edward Norton beating himself black and blue, audiences were reassured by these concessions. Not so those who went to see The Dark Knight: at best, it’s conclusion suggests Batman has saved the lives of Gordon’s family – a silver lining after the film’s chaos and carnage, but a pretty thin one. A more pessimistic reading of the film’s conclusion would suggest that the only a cynical plan to deny the truth to the people of Gotham has prevented outright victory for the Joker. Holy opportunistic spin-doctoring Batman! etc etc.

While the film’s portrayal of anarchic disorder is wholely emboddied by Ledger’s performance, it outsources the forces for good to Wayne, Gordon and Harvey Dent, each endeavouring in his own way to make things better. Where Wayne’s broken family history forces him to the margins, disguised and frequently unsure of his motivation, Dent follows the straight path, determined to work good through Gotham’s existing administrative structures. Having been at this game for a while, Gordon stands between: as an honest police officer he represents the city, as a pragmatist he is willing to tolerate corruption and vigilante-ism if it brings results. He is also able to consolidate the disparate approaches of Wayne and Dent. Among these three characters, we surely all find something we can relate to. And see much we recognise.

In pitting not one but three heros against the Joker, the Nolan brothers effectively create a filmic scenario through which each and every approach to making the world a better place can be systematically destroyed. You admired the Bush administration’s determination to take tough decisions, even bend rules, to make the world a better place? Then Batman’s the one for you. Prefer a more considered approach redolent of the rhetoric of the new US President? Then Harvey Dent’s your man. If you find both of these options either too idealistic or too amoral, well, there’s Gordon in the middle, expressing precisely this view. And if you have a brand new theory not yet mentioned, then please let us know about it asap. In any case, none of these approaches prove particularly effective in the film. Not one.

But then, the adversary in The Dark Knight is the Joker – a charismatic and unpredictable foe who manipulates the media, recruits supporters with apparently no effort, embodies a philosophy incomprehensible to his opponents and strikes civilian targets to maximise terror amongst the population … it’s not like he’s real, is it? Just most realistic super-villian committed to celluloid, that’s all.

So what can we conclude? It’s all pointless? Although it ends on the tight-shot showdown between Dent and Batman, the film’s earlier climax reveals that Fight Club isn’t the only David Fincher film the Joker’s been watching – his double-ferry-bombing-impossible-moral-dilemma-extravaganza is straight from Se7en’s John Doe. And this is the moment in this singularly uncompromising film where the Nolans blink. Having for two hours portrayed Gotham as a morally-bankrupt hell hole whose citizens begin rioting and shooting at the provocations of an obvious lunatic, they now suggest that a boat of the city’s criminals are happy to sacrifice themselves. It’s certainly an intriguing scenario, and in the midst of the viewing experience, there’s no time to question the validity of what is happening. But afterwards, one does wonder: assuming a degree of motivational continuity, we can only believe that both ferries’ passengers believe they are going to die (the Joker’s previous schemes have all come very much to fruition). So, what’s the motivation? As the seconds tick by, do they really believe it’s best if they all perish? Or do they think the other boat will definitely blow them up, and are thus just waiting to sacrifice themselves? Or are they just too scared to do it? Or are they panicked and not thinking at all?

Wayne, as Batman, claims to the Joker that the passengers’ refusal to press the button is evidence that Gotham is “full of people who believe in good”. Well, not really. It’s evidence that Gotham is full of people who become scared and indecisive when faced with very probable death. As you do. Although the Joker acknowledges Batman’s point, he needn’t: the Gotham citizens as portrayed earlier in the film would have pressed the button at the drop of a hat. But even if we do accept this narrative inconsistency (and we should, given the richly nuanced moral questions it allows the filmmakers to explore), the Joker has ANOTHER card up his sleeve, namely his complete corruption of Dent. This, he postulates, will sever the final thread holding the city together. Fortunately, Wayne saves the day. By killing Dent, the one man who could have saved the city, and by offering himself as a scapegoat for Dent’s misdeeds, and thus destroying any trust Gotham still had in Batman. Ho hum … at best a mixed week for the dark knight.

And what is left when the dust settles? The Gotham police department doesn’t have a good record in terms of keeping the Joker locked up – during his previous brief spell in their cells he orchestrated a triple bombing before promptly escaping. He evidently doesn’t have to be around for his minions to lay their plans. With Dent now only a memory and Batman severely compromised, what future does Gotham have? It’s clear that this is no-one’s idea of a happy ending, and it’s surely a miracle that the film got made in its current form at all – perhaps the fact that it’s very complexity might prevent the casual viewer from grasping its implications is what allowed it to end as it does.

And what about us? One might as well state it openly: The Dark Knight is far too complex to portray an unambiguous moral message. In face, without wishing to unduly patronise the cinema-going public, it’s probably too complex for many people to get any kind of message out of. My impression is that viewers emerged dazed, confused and entertained, briefly tried to work out what they had just experienced, then gave up. It’s certainly what I did. Apocalyse Now had a similar effect. However, the analysis above would suggest the film is verging on the nihilistic – what’s the pointing in striving to work good when evil triumphs at every turn? Yet this is not the message people seem to be taking from the movie. Remember how you felt after watching Se7en? It’s not quite the same feeling.

I actually think that in the final analysis, the film is positive, and it’s the Joker that makes it so. By depicting chaos so enigmatically, Ledger acts as the audience’s guide, leading us through twisted logic, dishonest reasoning and casual cruelty to the rotten heart of his character. Even as Gotham is suffering, we as an audience get to look behind the scenes at the Joker’s craft. Gotham doesn’t see him lie, but we do. Gotham believes he has planned their destruction. We see that he couldn’t have. Fascinated as we are by his charisma, willing as we are to believe he can control a vast, well-organised network to orchestrate terror, we know it could never be real. If the obvious parallels with real-world terror organisations are examined (and scriptwriters pointedly refer to the Joker as a ‘terrorist’), they don’t ultimately stand up. Yes, these groups have wreaked unspeakable horror. But mercifully rarely, at least compared with the film’s timescale. Yes, a loose network of accomplices has been able to plan terror without central planning, logistics and co-ordination. But they have failed far more often than they have succeeded.

The Dark Knight presents a ‘What if’ scenario. What if an impossible, unbeatable phenomenon such as the Joker existed? What would happen? Well, all hell would break lose. But forces for good – in different forms – would keep fighting until the very moment all was lost. Ultimately, thinking about the film sharpens our awareness that our world in not Gotham city, but that we see ourselves in its inhabitants, and we can be thankful that most of us are spared the choices they have to make.

What was that about the pen and the sword?

Eight years of the Bush administration’s singular approach to international diplomacy has all but convinced the world that words mean nothing. A doctrine of limited and non-engagement, rigid insistence on pre-conditions and an instinctive distrust of spoken or written emollience in any form has been assiduously implemented since 2001, continuously justified by the same anti-intellectual propaganda which defended the banning of essential stem-cell research and disputed the reality of human-influence climate change.

But it was wrong. Words do mean something. And words do bring results – what the Bush years constantly promised but failed to deliver.

President Obama’s first post-inauguration interview with Al Arabiya was squarely aimed at the Muslim world and roundly dismissed the belligerent tone which we all had come to think was the way things had to be. The Bush doctrine avoided ambiguity, subtlety and tact, determined to further a limited world view based on ‘results’, ‘action’ and ‘power’. To hear a President using conciliatory language should not be amazing. But it is, as it hasn’t happened for so long. And that language is what people hear. And what people hear influences what they think. And in a global struggle to define what is right, to support ideals of freedom, choice, peace and security, it matters what people think.

Barack Obama was portrayed by Conservative America as an elegant wordsmith – the thinly disguised insinuation being that folks don’t ought to trust ‘fancy words’, that ‘smart talking’ isn’t the same as genuine integrity. That, ultimately, language should be feared, not respected: a source of subjugation, not inspiration. What kind of people activity stoke the insecurities of the marginalised and misinformed to further their own end? I can think of a few groups who have done just that, and they don’t make pleasant company.

We now see that things are different. Guantanamo Bay will close in a year. Finally. Iran’s president is being upstaged by a new, calmer, more reflective ‘Great Satan’. Finally. Science is once again recognised as the force that extended life expectancy in the western world into the eighties. Finally.

And maybe a man who is able to use words with skill and elegance can in his interviews encapsulate the conflicting interests of the Palestinians and Israelis, or the UN soldiers and Afghan poppy growers. And if those people hear these words, maybe they will begin to think differently, and just about believe that the West is able to comprehend the problems they face.

Words could turn out to be the weapons of mass destruction George W. Bush never found.

The rise of the Superteachers© (and the rumours of their imminent demise …)

The SuperteacherTM is not just a really good teacher. He or she is something altogether unique and instantly identifiable. The Superteacher exhibits levels of energy normally observed in the substance-gobbling patrons of illicit raves who’ve downed four Red Bulls with an espresso for the road. Despite maintaining levels of activity more usually associated with career-fixated worker bees, Superteachers exude the healthy iridescence of the newly promoted (they probably are), the newly in love (maybe not), or the newly intoxicated. Typical behaviours of the Superteacher include: complaining loudly of hangovers from mid-week nights out (enjoyed while non-Superteachers are safely tucked away) as they stand fresh-faced by the photocopier at 7.30am; pointing out how well they relate to certain pupils who, lacking the drive and ambition you’d expect from the spawn of Satan himself, are probably the offspring of a lower-ranking, middle-management demon; and inducing soporific levels of calm obedience in children generally more happy exploring what they perceive to be the classroom’s untapped potential as an arena of gladiatorial combat. It is perhaps unsurprising to note that the relationship between teachers and Superteachers is one typified by peculiar inconsistencies. While face-to-face interaction fluctuates between warm camaraderie and reverent diffidence, the Superteacher may often be the focus of uncharitable and generally unsubstantiated staffroom speculation. Interestingly, this speculation subsides each and every time the Superteacher in question enters.

The fact that the Superteacherhas emerged at all says a lot about how teaching is changing. It is nowadays possible to quantify a teacher’s skill according to a four point scale: we’re all either “unsatisfactory”, “satisfactory”, “good” or “outstanding”. Incidentally, whole schools are ranked using the same criteria. These incrementations of quality are directly related to the effective utilisation of a raft of teaching and learning strategies which, when mastered, constitute “outstanding practice”. Thus a teacher who delivers a lesson which differentiates content to ensure it is accessible to all learners, which sets a clear objective and then effectively tests the extent to which learning has been achieved and which keeps all pupils actively engaged throughout may well be judged as “good” rather than “outstanding”. Why not top marks? Well, for a start, the lesson has apparently failed to incorporate “kinaesthetic” learning (i.e. some sort of physical movement) and has as such failed to take into consideration the optimum learning style of probably 70% of the pupils in the class. Moreover, the lesson’s assessment of learning has seemingly made no reference to established criteria. Eh? Well, as learning and the assessment of learning are now expected to form a continuous loop which is understood and driven by pupils themselves, it is necessary to equip these pupils with the language necessary to conceptualise and vocalise this understanding. That means devising specific criteria for each grade or level using “pupil-friendly” (i.e. simple) language. If a teacher praises a pupil’s work without using this terminology, that teacher is making it difficult for pupils to understand – and thus ultimately control – their own learning. Not good, and, therefore, in no way “outstanding”.

In an environment with so many complexities, potential pitfalls and – lest we forget them – extremely unruly youngsters, it’s not surprising that most of us just about hang on and manage to deliver a combination of “good” or “satisfactory” lessons, pulling the odd “outstanding” out of the bag as occasion demands. Anything more is superhuman, and this is where the Superteachers come into the picture.

However, their reign of terror is reaching an end. Whisper it only, but we’re on the Superteachers’ case. Non-Superteachers the country over are quietly supplying unbelievable, awe-inspiring teaching with none of the tiresome self-promotion and staggeringly insincere self-deprecation of their superhumen brethren. Wielding kryptonite white-board markers, the non-Supers are the John McEnroes of pedagogy: the Superteachers may be James Bond, but we’re John McClane; and (reaching as always to football as the only really effective metaphor for life) if their flair, talent and consistency makes them Brazil … well, we’re probably England. And on our day, no-one can touch us …

Beyond the Neighbourhood

I think that the critical establishment has an irrational dislike for the band Athlete. Beyond the Neighbourhood is their third album and I don’t see how it can generate such hatred. Especially as non-music-critics actually DO like it: Athlete have shifted units without heavy promotion or tabloid bluster. But their reviews are terrible: have a look at review compiler Metacritic’s rating. I suppose my soft spot for Athlete could be equally irrational: I drive through their area in Deptford each morning and can’t help but admire them for sticking around and building their studio there rather than following every other successful London musician to cosy Primrose Hill or cooler-than-thou Camden. The fact remains that these are tunes which offer interesting and unassuming little sketches of the hopes, fears and jolts of happiness everyone round here feels. They just don’t write it on the album cover like Keane did. And something about Joel Potts’ delivery makes repetition of lines like, “I’m away with the fairies” or “I wanna take you home with me tonight” forgiveable and endearing. The songs reliably make you smile. I’ll pay eight quid for that any day.

Achievement

I’m terrified of the moment when my form slips from their current halo-wearing status. To this end I’ve been instigating a Friday afternoon ritual where we sit in a circle and do some kind of activity vaguely aiming to instil a sense pride and responsibility for what we have achieved so far as 7B. Last week was bullying. Yesterday, the more prickly issue of reacting appropriately to the achievements of others and ourselves.

In pairs they were given a set of possible sentences they would (honestly) like to say to a friend whose test result was better than theirs. Each pair then screwed up their chosen statement, threw it into the middle of the circle and grabbed another from a different pair. The statements ranged from ‘Well done – you deserved it’ to ‘It’s not fair, I’m better than you!’, and – luckily – 7B were generally honest and most pairs chose statements closer to the latter than the former. We repeated the process imaging that this time WE had scored highest and thinking about what we would say to the unlucky runner-up. With a similar range of statements available, every pair but one admitted that they would console the unhappy loser with a sensitive: ‘WHO THE MAN!!!’

As well as the amusing experience of 22 eleven-year-olds reveled in the unveiling of their collective inner b******d, the more serious goal of this enterprise was to acknowledge how difficult it is to deal with disappointment, especially when that disappointment can be directly correlated to another’s success. To my mind, the only way to prevent the inevitable baiting of high-achievers in a form is to accept that none of us are immune to feeling resentment towards others, or to the urge to crow about our achievements from the roof-tops. The problem is, kids are too often told that they shouldn’t have these feelings; that the feelings themselves are wrong.

As I tried to emphasise to my form, the stuff they feel is OK. In fact, it’s good insofar that it demonstrates ambition and determination. But the trick is to manage their emotions in a way which shows respect for others and respect for themselves. Having all seen each other’s secret thoughts about achievement, I hope they found this easier to understand. Time to get back to polishing those halos …

A full day …

I remember catching a glimpse of my teacher’s timetable when I was at school and being amazed at how little he actually taught. There were mysterious free periods all over the place, sometimes two or three in one day. It made me quite indignant when I compared it with my own non-negotiable full-time commitments as a pupil. Now, on the other side of the teacher’s desk, I see things differently. Once a week I teach a full day and it is a back-breaking enterprise. For a start, six hours of teaching means probably two hours of planning and maybe an hour of marking (if you’re lucky). Plus there are all the things you don’t get done – responding to emails, keeping up with admin, liaising with colleagues, planning the other 15-odd lessons to be taught that week. These things impinge upon the days before and after the big sixer like tremors indicating the approach of an earthquake and the aftershocks experienced in its wake. Nevertheless, in the middle of a six period day, you actually tend to feel pretty good. The body’s adrenaline pump is on permanent full throttle, and you know that behaviour incidents cannot be allowed to happen, as the necessary administrative follow-up would have to be put off until the following day, which will undoubtedly bring its own fresh challenges. So I think many teachers produce their best work on these hectic full days. When it’s all over however, you hit the ground like a stone. After accompanying 7B down to the main gates at the end of the day (they’re still brilliant, God love ’em) I found myself slumped at my desk desperately trying to put together lessons for tomorrow, and unable to complete the most basic tasks. And this will affect the quality of my teaching tomorrow, making it more strenuous, making me more tired, and so on. The key is to approach these full days with an unflinching acceptance of one’s fate, together with an acceptance that they must be planned well in advance. It’s too easy not to think about them until the night before, and therein lies the trap. Of course, I would have done that on Friday had I not been sat with colleagues moderating media coursework for over five hours. As one newly qualified colleague who used to work in advertising has confirmed, the notion that teaching is an easy option is one you believe at your peril.

Some helpful advice?

The summer holidays, now a distant memory, have already taken on the patina of old, worn film in my head. The sepia-tinted, yellow haziness lends the memories a nostalgic air (though surely nostalgia normally takes more than a fortnight to kick in?) Now we’re back to weekends as islands of slightly bewildered calm in an ocean of action, reaction, planning, evaluation, communication and all the things that make a teacher’s week what it is.

After a honeymoon period of two and a half days, what teachers euphemistically term ‘behaviour’ has returned with a vengeance. For the three newly qualified teachers (a term universally shortened to ‘NQT’) in my department, it came as a shock. And I found myself in a situation I’d privately (and embarrassingly) been looking forward to for some time: finally NOT being the least experienced in the department, and being approached for advice rather than desperately seeking it. Having awaited this moment with some anticipation, and having myself so often sought the advice I was about to dole out, I was disappointed that the stuff I heard myself saying was all deeply pedestrian. Anyone with any teaching experience will know the drill: “Clearly state your expectations!” “Consistently apply sanctions!” “Chunk up lesson content so the kids don’t have time to misbehave!” And the old chestnut: “Catch them being good!” All effective strategies of course. But at the moment of truth, embattled NQTs will often discover to their horror that these supposedly devastating pedagogic weapons are just plastic toy replicas of the real thing. As the experienced teacher down the corridor blasts any ‘behaviour’ firmly into submission with a dazzling array of measures designed to shock and awe, the NQT rolls out the big guns only to find that though they produce vaguely realistic gun sounds, they only actually fire elastic bands. And there’ll probably be plenty of those flying around already. Shock and awe? More like duck and cover.

I think that our advice to new teachers should focus less on what to do, and more on how to do it. The most effective managers of behaviour at our school do exactly the same things as the NQTs. They just do them with a level of confidence, conviction and belief that is simply undeniable, and that is what makes the difference. Unfortunately, as a piece of advice: “You need more confidence, conviction and belief!” is not particularly helpful. But emphasising that there is no silver bullet, and that inexperienced teachers are doing exactly the right things, and that these things will work if the teacher believes in and cares about the children … well, let’s face it: that’s pretty useless too.

So in the end, the advice I gave was no better than the advice I received: keep trying; it’s going to be OK. It’s not often that the modern, emotionally literate person gets to deliver a platitude of quite such inexcusable meaninglessness, but as I turned and felt the heat of the NQTs’ baleful stares gently drying the back of my shirt (let it be noted that I’m no behaviour hot-shot myself), I didn’t feel that bad. Even in the most supportive department with the best colleagues in the world, you’re on your own as an NQT. Time to sink or swim.

Interfering

I think every teacher fights to control the urge to interfere. Sitting on the train, the conductor’s phone rang (apparently his better half was called – he had downloaded a humorous ring-tone featuring a klaxon and a voice repeating ‘Warning: It’s the wife!’). As he conducted the conversation at maximum volume I didn’t feel guilty about eavesdropping (it would in any case have been impossible not to), and listened as he reprimanded his daughter who, it emerged, had punched another girl at school. He then spoke to his wife about what to do with their little girl. It was a touching conversation between two clearly loving parents who were doing their best to do the right thing despite the fact that the father figure was on a late shift marshalling people on and off trains in Docklands. And, as always, I had to resist the urge to tell him how impressed I was that he was supporting the efforts of teachers to help his daughter. Absolutely none of my business, quite obviously. And yet you still feel the connection because you have had countless phone calls with parents in exactly the same situation about daughters with exactly the same problems. Teaching connects you with everyone, either directly or indirectly, because wherever they are, kids need their parents and teachers to work together. And when you see this collaboration happening, you know that somewhere a teacher cares enough to make the call and hopefully set in motion a chain of events which might eventually go some way to setting things right. And that matters.

The Experience Deficit II

Can the vicarious observation and analysis of experience be effectively substituted for experience itself? Comments on PeriodOne’s experience deficit posting from erudite practitioners would suggest yes, they can. And I agree – after all, this has been going on for some time. I think that the difference now is in the speed at which this observation and evaluation has to be performed, and the critical situations that are at stake. Someone beginning, say, a core head of faculty job with two years’ experience (which is eminently plausible) is not going to have had time to conduct the process of watch, adapt, try out, evaluate, develop. The individual will certainly have learnt a great deal over the previous 6 terms, but she is still starting a job that 6 or 7 years ago would have only been taken on by someone with a least twice the experience. Inevitably, many of the new head of faculty’s decisions, reactions and strategies are going to have to base themselves on something else. Call it a style, a philosophy, a hunch, whatever: the thing motivating the actions of the inexperienced leader is going to be intangible: intellectual, maybe emotional. But not the product of experience, be it real or vicarious or observed. And when questioned on a decision, there’s not going to be any firm answer: no “it worked for me when …” or “I’ve taken it from when …”. I know this because it’s how I feel: my meeting contributions are often justified with a rather weak-sounding, “Actually, it’s my next assignment topic”. Or even, “Er, because we learnt it on the PGCE”. Such explanations don’t go down well. But what guides successful inexperienced leaders when they are faced with a situation they just haven’t seen anyone else deal with is what defines them. And in the ruthlessly pragmatic world of education, having the confidence to develop and nurture a philosophy with which to guide oneself is becoming essential. Without it, the inexperienced leader risks steering a chaotic course plotted using individually valid but mutually incompatible ideas hastily gathered as a newly qualified teacher. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that our philosophies are already guiding us. We just need to figure them out so we can better support each other.

The proud tutor

Either my year seven group have entered the school in a rich vein of form, or they’re genuinely lovely young people, as they have so far yet to set a foot wrong. Of course, it’s only been a total of five school days, so we’re hardly out of the woods, but so far 7B are ahead of the curve in terms of their behaviour and their achievement in lessons. Two young gentlemen, under gentle but steady pressure from their form tutor, even took part in auditions for the school musical. Watching them valiantly duke it out with the older, more experienced pupils in the hall, I realised how proud of my form I have already become. I have taken to vainly bathing in the reflected glory of their successes (both pupils will receive small but essential roles) in a manner familiar to competitive and proud parents the world over. And it’s a new and heady experience: seeing your own enthusiasm, beliefs or convictions filtered through the brains of 22 youngsters and presented back to you in the form of merits, excellent pieces of work, or even the surprisingly convincing Nuu Yawk accents of two year sevens auditioning for Bugsey Malone. There’s nothing better in my professional experience to date. But I suppose there’s another side to all of this. I’m clearly willing to attribute every success my tutor group achieves directly to my own input. Fine. But will I be as willing to accept responsibility when one of my form wrecks the learning of others during a lesson? Or viciously bullies another pupil? Or violently assaults a member of staff? Ultimately, our pastoral duties can only extend over the school day, and the millions of individual experiences our tutees are party to when they leave and before they arrive will always outweigh our tutor time chats and activities. So, for the time being I can smile and quietly enjoy the fact that 7B are ahead of the pack. But I sure as hell better be there for them when things start going wrong. And can I – or any of us – really guarantee that for the children in our care?