SurvivingFE

Educating, Innovating, and Navigating the Madness

  • Welcome to the Chaos – I Mean, Further Education!

    Welcome to the Chaos – I Mean, Further Education!

    Hello to anyone who has stumbled upon this corner of the internet. 

    You're very welcome, whether you’re here out of curiosity, desperation, or just procrastinating from marking (we’ve all been there). I’m a teacher and middle manager at a further education college in the UK. I’ve been in FE for nearly 20 years, which sounds like a very long stretch – possibly even a life sentence – but somehow, I still feel young. That’s entirely down to my students. You must keep up with them; otherwise, you risk becoming obsolete, like an overhead projector lurking in a forgotten cupboard.

    I’m not a writer. English isn’t my first language. I’m what they call neurodivergent—a lovely modern term. Back in the day, I’d have just said I’m dyslexic with ADD. Add a side of Hashimoto’s disease to the mix, and you get fatigue, brain fog, and a daily battle with words. Writing stresses me out—spelling, structuring my thoughts—it’s a struggle.

    Maths, though? That’s my language. Numbers make sense to me, even if I occasionally switch them around. But that’s what students (and modern technology) are for, right? I’m living the dream… well, the tech dream, at least.

    Have you ever been told by your students that you use too much technology and that they’d rather have paper? Yeah, that’s me. Have you ever sent your students a talking avatar of yourself because they never read instructions for their homework, and you got fed up repeating yourself? Also me—fully animated, created in my spare time, just to haunt them.

    Welcome to my world.

    I won’t bore you with names and locations – none of that really matters, but let me call myself Miss Penelope (not to be mistaken with Penelope Featherington) Newton because Whistledown was already taken. I love that show!

    The truth is, FE is a glorious, unpredictable mess no matter where you go. Sometimes, it’s an organised mess, and other times… well, let’s say it resembles a classroom five minutes after you’ve handed out glue sticks. I’ve worked in both types of places – the structured ones where meetings are scheduled within an inch of their lives and the chaotic ones where timetables seem to have been designed by a particularly mischievous AI. Either way, it’s a ride, and I’m here to share my experiences, observations, and survival strategies (mainly involving caffeine and humour). So, grab a coffee, take a deep breath, and let’s navigate the wonderful world of Further Education together.

    P.S. Do you have a ridiculous student story or a teaching survival tip? Please drop it in the comments—I could use the laugh!

    2 responses to “Welcome to the Chaos – I Mean, Further Education!”

    1. allysonsmyth33 Avatar
      allysonsmyth33

      I can’t wait for the next blog.

      Very insightful and will also resonate wuth those who have experienced life as a teacher, aspiring teachers and those who just want something interesting to read. Written by a real person.

      Liked by 1 person

      Reply
      1. Pen Avatar
        Pen

        Thanks a lot

        Like

        Reply

    Leave a comment

  • Mock Week Mayhem

    Found on “The inappropriate gift co” website. I need one

    My dearest reader, I’m thrilled (and mildly surprised) you’re here. 🤭 Welcome back to another caffeine-fuelled tale from the trenches of Further Education.

    Let’s keep it short and sweet—because frankly, time is a luxury we don’t have right now. It’s MOCK week. That glorious period when the college transforms into a chaotic beehive, with students, teachers, and managers buzzing in every direction. Lesson plans? Forgotten. Breaks? A distant dream. Sanity? Misplaced, probably in the staffroom next to the last biscuit someone swore they weren’t eating.

    The real pièce de résistance, however, is the long-awaited invigilator rota. After only five weeks of suspense, our ever-enlightened senior manager finally bestowed upon us this sacred document. A masterpiece of scheduling that would make even the most complex puzzle look like a toddler’s jigsaw. The only problem? He seems to believe we possess the ability to be in two places at once.

    Unfortunately, despite our many skills—multitasking, caffeine absorption, and Jedi-level patience—none of us have been issued a Time-Turner. Yes, that’s right, a magical device (shout-out to my fellow Harry Potter fans) that would allow us to invigilate exams and teach simultaneously. To his dismay, we remain bound by the constraints of time and physics. 🫡

    And so, we march on—frazzled, over-caffeinated, and ever-determined. Here’s to another week of survival in Further Education.

    Until next time—may your coffee be strong and your timetables accurate.

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  • 🚽 A New Day, A New… Excitement?

    Ah, the little joys of Further Education—today’s highlight? Working toilets. 🚾🎉

    Yes, you read that right. Not improved timetables, not reduced marking loads—just the sheer, unadulterated joy of functional plumbing. But that’s not all…

    🏆 The Clues of Something Bigger

    A red carpet has mysteriously appeared. 🎭 Students are voluntarily wearing their ID badges (without needing a full-scale hunt from security). 😲 Senior managers are striding around looking extra important, nodding at everything and speaking in hushed, urgent tones.

    Something is definitely up.

    And then, it all makes sense. A new boss is in town.

    🐓 Enter: Mr Rooster

    Here he comes—Mr Rooster 🐓. He is the big boss of the college. He descends upon our humble site like a VIP at a Red Carpet event. With the confidence of a seasoned politician, he delivers his grand proclamation:

    👉 “We are going to make our college great again!” 🎤

    Cue wild applause from senior leadership. Their eyes gleam ✨, their postures straighten, and they nod vigorously in unison. Somewhere in the distance, an administrator is probably drafting a PowerPoint titled “The Future of Excellence.”

    🚀 Meanwhile, in the Staffroom…

    The teachers? Oh, we know this script all too well. We exchange knowing glances over our caffeine rations. ☕ “We’ve seen this episode before,” someone mutters.

    A few of us casually Checked wondering if Elon Musk is lurking around, preparing to launch College 2.0 – The AI Takeover. 🚀🔎

    Cuts, cuts, cuts

    Because if history has taught us anything, it’s that a high-profile visit like this can only mean one thing…

    ⚠️ Restructure season is upon us. ⚠️

    Restructure

    ☕ Your Thoughts?

    So, dear readers, what’s the most obvious sign in your workplace that change is coming? Is it the sudden enthusiasm from management? The arrival of a mysterious “strategic consultant”? Or, like us, is it the miraculous fixing of toilets? Drop your best red flags in the comments below! 👇💬

    Stay caffeinated, my friends. ☕ Change is coming.

    ️

    Rating: 5 out of 5.

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    Pages: 1 2

  • “Miss Sunshine vs. The Education Monster: A Tragicomedy of a new teacher”

    More data is needed!

    Once upon a time in the land of Academia, a young, starry-eyed idealist named Miss Sunshine walked into her very first classroom, armed with laminated seating charts, a Pinterest-perfect lesson plan, and the unshakable belief that she was about to change lives.

    First lesson


    Ah, how sweet. How naive.

    Day one: she greeted her students with enthusiasm. Day two: she learned how to dodge flying projectiles. By the end of week one, she had received a five-paragraph email from a parent—formatted like a formal dissertation—explaining why her grading was a personal attack on their child’s self-esteem.

    But fear not! Miss Sunshine sought refuge in her teaching improvement team, those wise sages meant to support and guide. And, of course, they were deeply concerned… about whether her learning objectives were written in the correct font size.

    Meanwhile, her colleagues—seasoned warriors of the classroom—watched from a safe distance, sipping coffee as black as their souls. “She’ll figure it out,” they murmured, swapping battle stories of confiscated vape pens, TikTok-inspired pranks, and the dreaded email that begins with, “As a taxpayer…”

    The months passed. She realised that her master’s degree had not prepared her for the fine art of breaking up a hallway fight while simultaneously drafting a 40-page student progress report. The dream was dying.

    The final blow? Data. Sweet, relentless, never-satisfied data. Despite the fact that her students were transient, hungry, sleep-deprived, or simply prioritizing their career as aspiring influencers over algebra, she was, somehow, entirely responsible for their test scores.

    By the end of the year, Miss Sunshine stood in the parking lot, clutching her resignation letter with the same trembling hands that once held a fresh box of Expo markers. Behind her, the teacher shortage raged on, a self-perpetuating cycle fueled by exhaustion, bureaucracy, and an education system that valued standardized test scores more than human beings.

    And so, she walked away, leaving behind the unpaid overtime, the mountains of paperwork, and the moral obligation to shape young minds.

    But hey, at least they gave her a free tote bag during the PD day.

    Resignation

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  • Monday Mayhem: The Observation Curse ☕🎒💻

    Monday 9am lesson observations

    Ah, Monday. The day that sneaks up on you like a student trying to hand in last month’s homework. This particular Monday, however, came with extra spice—I was being observed. 🎭

    Now, I’ve been through 20 years of observations, but this one unsettled me in a way that only an overcaffeinated teacher can understand. Maybe it was the email from the observing manager, giving me a vague “I’ll see you on either Monday or Tuesday” warning. Considering I don’t teach on Tuesday, that wasn’t exactly a thrilling mystery—Monday it was. 🫠

    The Coffee Catastrophe ☕➡️🎒😱

    Alarm blaring at 5:30 AM. I was up, ready for battle, and still trying to save money by making my own coffee. Spoiler alert: bad decision.

    Carefully, I brewed a strong one, secured the lid (or so I thought), packed it into my brand-new backpack (RIP old one, lost to the weight of unmarked papers), and headed to the station. Feeling smug for actually remembering my coffee this time, I settled on a bench, stomach flipping with nerves. Bad sign.

    Distracted by last-minute lesson prep, I almost missed my train. A heroic sprint, a dramatic leap through the doors, and—miracle of miracles—I got a seat with a table! Monday was trying to be kind. I pulled out my laptop and suddenly noticed the strong, glorious smell of coffee in the air. ☕ Mmm… lovely.

    Coffee disaster

    Then reality hit. It was my coffee. 🤯 The entire contents of my cup had leaked into my bag. My laptop, my papers, my coat, my dignity—all marinating in a sea of caffeine.

    I sat there, stunned, as my trousers absorbed the disaster. My attempt at saving money? Now, a dry-cleaning bill. Fantastic. 🫠

    WiFi Woes & The Office Invasion

    Trying to shake off the curse of the coffee, I turned to my next nemesis: train WiFi. 🛜 It spent 40 minutes realising I wanted to connect before weakly offering a signal that flickered like a student’s attention span on a Friday afternoon. Still, I managed to create a quick test for my class (because, of course, Year 13 needs more joy in their lives with exams only 9 weeks away).

    Arriving at college, I found my office wide open, courtesy of the cleaners, who seem to believe nothing valuable exists in my room. Cool, cool, cool. I sent the test to the printer—paper jam. Deep breath. Sent it to another printer—success! Maybe the universe was done with me now? (Spoiler alert: it was not.)

    Lesson Time: The Betrayal Begins

    9 AM. First lesson. Four students present. Shocking. 😑

    Ten minutes later, the rest strolled in, armed with their usual Oscar-worthy excuses:
    🛻 Traffic (you live five minutes away).
    ⏰ Overslept (set an alarm, my friend).
    🦠 Feeling unwell but magically recovered for break time.


    Fine. We crack on with a quick test to refresh Year 12 knowledge—essential for today’s topic. Immediately, one student starts quietly weeping. Oh no.

    I rush over. “Hana, what’s wrong?”

    “Miss… I don’t know any of this.”

    …Two weeks ago, they had a two-hour exam on this exact content. TWO WEEKS. My internal screaming reached record levels. Deep breaths. I guided her with some leading questions, and soon she was back on track. Crisis averted.

    Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw suspiciously collaborative behaviour. 👀

    I strolled casually to the centre of the room. “Some of you seem to be… sharing the workload. Let me make it fair—I’ll just divide the total marks by two.”

    Sheer panic swept through the room. No one cheated after that. 😏

    Enter: The Observer 👀

    Just as we moved on to peer marking (because did they really think I’d do it all myself?), the manager arrived—loudly. 🚪💥

    Students near the door jumped like they’d been caught planning a heist. I introduced him, and one student, Jack, immediately shifted his entire chair away from him. Subtle, Jack. Real subtle. 😆

    The lesson was going well. We used mini whiteboards, challenged answers, debated tricky concepts. Confidence was returning! Then came the moment of betrayal.

    I clicked onto the PowerPoint slide, ready to lead them into the next section.

    🚨 STAR STUDENT ALERT 🚨 loudly announces: “We did this last week.”

    Students throwing me under the bus


    …EXCUSE ME? 😳

    That moment when betrayal cuts deeper than a dull Year 12 experiment—it was him, my Star Student.

    I locked eyes with him, feeling the weight of disappointment. “Et tu, Brute?” I thought, as the PowerPoint slide he had just claimed we’d done last week stared back at me in betrayal. The same slide I had confirmed twice with the class.

    The room fell silent. Even the usually noisy ones knew—something just happened.

    And yet, like a true professional (or someone running on pure caffeine and spite), I smiled, adjusted my stance, and said:

    “Interesting,” I said, smiling through the existential crisis. “Because when I asked at the start of the lesson, you all told me you’d never seen this slide before.”

    🗣️ “Alright, let’s check how much you remember then!” (Translation: I will not go down alone.)

    A ripple of fear passed through the class. My Star Student gulped. He knew what was coming. Pop quiz time.

    Revenge? No. Justice? Absolutely.

    I’m not going down by myself


    At that moment, the manager stood up and left. No feedback, no reaction. Just… gone.

    The Aftermath: What Now?

    And now, I wait.

    Did it go well? Maybe. Did it go terribly? Also maybe. Will I drown my anxiety in more coffee? Absolutely. ☕😅

    Oh, and in case you were wondering—only one student knew the answers to that slide. Guess who? 😏

  • Wednesday Wisdom: Feedback, Feelings, and a Flicker of Offence

    Long walk to get my feedback

    Ah, Wednesday. The day when Monday’s mess is still lingering like that coffee stain on my coat, and just when you think you’ve made it through the week without further drama… ping—you’re summoned.

    Yes. Summoned.

    By the observing manager.

    To receive my feedback. Dun, dun, duuuuun.

    Now, I’m no stranger to observations. I’ve survived two decades of them, thank you very much. But this was the first time this particular manager had observed me. He’s new-ish, still settling into the ecosystem that is our beautiful chaos of a campus. Naturally, I wanted to hear the verdict straight from the source—not just via the carefully-worded report that’s to be emailed by the end of the week in case I don’t want to talk (what kind of teacher doesn’t want to talk?).

    So I went. First thing in the morning, caffeine in hand, hair just about obeying gravity, and nerves slightly more steady than on Monday.

    He greeted me with:
    “How are you?”
    …
    Then again: “How are you?”
    …
    And then: “So, how are you?”

    Three times.

    Now, I’m tired, yes. But do I look that bad? Do I give off unstable “she might cry if I mention PowerPoint” energy? Or was he just stalling because he didn’t know how to start?

    I generously assumed the latter.
    I was wrong.
    Apparently, that’s his usual soft launch approach to feedback. My colleagues confirmed this with a sort of exhausted camaraderie in their eyes.


    The Moment of Reckoning

    Then came the classic ambush:

    > “So… how do you think it went?”

    Ah yes. The trapdoor question.

    I launched into my explanation, half-defensive, half-professional.

    I only teach that class once a week.

    I didn’t teach them last year.

    The lesson content was a continuation from another teacher.

    I followed instructions.

    There was a test. They answered it. We marked it. There was participation!

    Everything was going so well… until that blessed slide!
    (Which I didn’t mention because I’m not daft.)


    He nodded thoughtfully. I braced myself. And then…

    > “I really liked your lesson.”


    Wait, what?
    Say that again. In a slower, more dramatic tone.

    What?



    > “Based on what you’ve told me, I’m actually surprised at how well your students performed.”

    (Surprised?? Excuse me?)

    > “The rapport you have with them is impressive. They participated, came to the board, explained their answers. It seemed… natural.”

    And there it was.
    The backhanded compliment.

    > “It didn’t feel like it was rehearsed just for the observation.”


    Now, dear reader, let me pause.
    Because I didn’t know whether to feel immensely proud or mildly insulted.

    What did he expect, a dramatic re-enactment of “Dead Poets Society” just for him?

    Raising like a phoenix from the ashes


    Rising from the Ashes of Monday and tacking back the power

    I adjusted my chair. Composed myself. And channelled my inner department lead.

    > “Well, it is standard practice,” I replied with a smile that said, obviously.
    “I’m proud of my students. They range massively in ability, but they all try.”
    “I believe in rapport. I balance sarcasm, fun and discipline in every lesson—or else you achieve nothing… and slowly go insane.”

    He nodded earnestly, as if I’d just revealed a secret scroll of ancient wisdom.

    > “It’s just surprising,” he said. “Most people assume A-level physics students are all very bright.”

    I paused. Smiled wider.

    > “They are bright in their own ways. But this group? They’re a spectrum. And I love teaching them for that very reason.”

    Bless him.

    I explained that my class is made up of a real mix of abilities and backgrounds—but what they share is effort and respect, and that’s all I ever ask for.


    Conclusion: Slightly Sassier, Slightly Smugger

    No mention of the PowerPoint fiasco.
    No “next steps” list of doom.
    Just praise.
    Mild surprise.
    And the kind of polite confusion managers have when they realise something went well without them knowing how.

    Would I have preferred a chocolate medal and a confetti cannon? Yes.
    But I’ll take this quiet, midweek victory and wear it like a badge of honour.

    Because when a manager says:

    > “It seemed like that’s your usual practice…”

    My internal monologue whispers:
    “It is. Welcome to the show.”


    Stay strong, stay caffeinated, and don’t trust a student who says “we’ve done that” without checking.

    I’ve made it

  • How to Survive Classroom Chaos Solo (Because There’s No Budget for ALS Support).

    Survivingfe

    Monday Mornings & classroom management

    Monday. 9am. The battleground is not physical—it’s mental, emotional, and occasionally existential. The troops? A vibrant, multicultural, neurodiverse bunch with enough energy to power the National Grid (if only I could find a way to harness it).

    Lesson planning starts well before the register is even opened. My thoughts immediately go to each student’s needs—and my own, which usually include coffee, patience, and a backup plan for the backup plan.

    Period 1: The Art of Tactical Teaching
    Today’s class is a full house of needs, quirks, talents and unpredictabilities:

    • ADHD (unmedicated): Must have printed notes, fidget tools, and activities that keep hands busy and minds focused. Group work is great—as long as it’s structured enough to stop wandering to the next table, sliding off chairs, or exiting the room altogether. Frequent mood checks are essential. A smile? Good sign. A scowl? Time for a quick redirection.
    • Autism: Clear, calm instructions. Extra work available if needed. Group work handled gently—team player not, but the team’s unpaid project manager.
    • Mental health challenges x5, medical needs x3: Flexible attendance, extra resources, breaks on demand, phones permitted for information access (not TikTok), and reminders that “toilet break” doesn’t mean a 20-minute tour of the building.

    Structure is king. Changes? Must be telegraphed like you’re announcing a royal event. And always—always—keep calm. No matter what unfolds, it could still be a great lesson.

    Disruptions? Naturally.
    One student offers impromptu commentary mid-lesson, another drums a rhythm on the table. I walk the room like a general on patrol, reinforcing expectations with gentle nudges and whispered clarifications.

    Period 2: Physics with a Plot Twist
    Just before the bell rings, I’m informed we have a new student joining. Five-minute warning. Delightful. He’s fresh off the international plane of education and has never been through the UK system.

    I set the rest of the class to work and turn to greet our newcomer—who, to my joy, has arrived with the entire contents of WHSmith in his bag. Fountain pen, colour pens, a full ruler set, sharpener, a rubber… a rare view, notebook with actual squares. I nearly cried.

    Note to self: restock classroom stationery again. Our board pens keep mysteriously vanishing—possibly through a wormhole.

    Back to the group. 18 students:

    • 7 neurodiverse
    • 1 with mental health needs
    • 1 with a medical condition
    • 1 new arrival with pristine stationery
    • 1 Steve

    Starter activity? Ready and prepped. I need ten minutes to circulate, make sure they’re not writing physics formulas on TikTok. But alas, half the class treats this time like a warm-up nap. I remind them—pens out, calculators ready, starter sheet is not optional.

    The Steve Saga
    He greets me every lesson with the biggest grin in history. Then sits. And stares. Philosophically. Possibly contemplating the meaning of the starter sheet. I greet him, we chat, and then, after a moment of epiphany, he announces, “A starter, Miss!” as though he’s uncovered the Rosetta Stone.

    Together, we begin the great archaeological dig through his bag for stationery and a folder. We file papers. I asked him to collect the starter sheet. I move on.  Mission accepted.

    Meanwhile, drama erupts at the back. A pen theft scandal. Baba believes someone’s stolen his pen. Zara insists it’s just Baba being Baba. Papers are strewn everywhere like educational confetti. Miraculously, the pen is found. Baba delivers an apology like he’s at a UN summit. We move on.

    Back to Steve.
    Steve has returned—with a Year 13 booklet. We’re in Year 12. He’s already knee-deep in material from a topic he hasn’t met yet. My face freezes. I glance over to the other table. Three more students have mysteriously swapped their starter sheets for the class workbook.

    How? When?

    I ask why.
    They blink.
    I ask how.
    Still blinking.
    Jerrel finally pipes up: “You told Steve not to do those questions… so we thought we had to stop too.”

    Reader, I smiled through the internal scream.

    “Let’s go through the starter together. Who got the answer to question 1?” I say, like someone who hasn’t just lived through a mini soap opera.

    No matter how carefully I plan, I always wonder what they actually hear when I speak. How do they manage to get the starter so wrong? Every time? But despite the chaos, I genuinely enjoy them. They surprise me daily, give me grey hair, and raise my blood pressure like an espresso shot to the heart—but I’m never bored. And in Further Education, that’s practically a win.

    – Miss P, master of the unexpected
    ChalkCode & Coffee: survival in Further Education

    We’ve made it

  • March Madness: The Art of the FE Sell

    Tester session

    By ChalkCode & Coffee: survival in Further Education

    It’s March, which in the Further Education world means one thing: recruitment ramp-up season. Cue the dramatic music. Colleges across the land dust off their “state-of-the-art facilities” banners, polish their “excellent staff” slogans, and rehearse their best “outstanding student experience” elevator pitches.

    Why? Because we’re all in the same rat race—scrambling for the ever-dwindling pool of 16–18-year-olds who, let’s be honest, bring in the real revenue.

    Colleges are like reality TV contestants—merging, splitting, rebranding. Managers and teachers get recycled more often than my takeaway coffee cups. We all share one unspoken goal: survive the year by enrolling enough students to keep the lights on and the Wi-Fi working.

    But demographics aren’t on our side. Families are moving out of pricey cities in search of trees, peace, and cheaper rent. So, to combat the great exodus, we throw everything at the wall—open days, open evenings, interview weeks, taster sessions. All with the same battle cry: Please come to our college, we have science labs and actual pizza!

    This year, in a dazzling display of overcommitment, we launched an extra taster session outside the usual schedule. Of course, it’s strictly for volunteers. And by volunteers, I mean managers “volunteering” because senior leadership expects it—and if we’re lucky, we can trade it in for some precious TOIL (time off in lieu, not the other kind of toil, though both apply).

    So, I did what any committed (read: coerced) middle manager would do. I roped in my trusty science techs, cobbled together a science showcase in a single lab, designed a slightly-too-enthusiastic poster, and papered the college corridors like it was 1999. I even bribed—I mean, recruited—seven of my own Physics students to be Science Ambassadors. They only agreed once I confirmed they’d get extra-curricular hours. Double hours, if necessary. Everything’s negotiable in FE.

    Now, here’s the kicker: two of my shyest students signed up to help. I nearly fell off my lab stool. A rare and beautiful moment.

    Meeting time with senior management. Aaaand—they forgot. Brilliant. Luckily, our legendary admin hadn’t. She sent invites. She always sends invites. There was a moment of panic as senior staff whispered among themselves about who would do what. Feedback forms? Talks? Refreshments? I asked about food for the volunteers. Blank stares. “You have volunteers?” Um, yes. You thought I was doing this solo? A polite panic ensued, until Admin Queen rescued us again—pizza was promptly ordered. I breathed a sigh of greasy relief.

    Timings? “Same as last year,” said Big Boss confidently. Cue confused looks from other managers: “We weren’t here last year.” It’s giving committee energy.

    On the day, we split into our subject areas and marched off to collect our fresh-faced hopefuls from the library. Of the five managers meant to lead groups, only two showed up. Classic. I collected 24 curious teens, ushered them into our buzzing science lab, and let the magic unfold.

    They were introduced to my student team, asked to jot down why they want to study A-level science, then launched into three hands-on experiments.

    Our DIY prospectus (crafted lovingly from my blood, sweat, and Canva) was handed out. It was buzzing—nervous at first, then gradually warming up. Shy students were chatting, hands-on with equipment that looked like it came straight out of a Bond film. One even said, “Miss, I’ve got this,” when I tried to help. I pretended I wasn’t crying.

    These are the moments we live for. Not results day. Not Ofsted. This. Confidence. Growth. Students taking the lead, explaining science to their peers like total pros.

    I floated around like a proud peacock, completely unnecessary. Just how I like it.

    Then came the Kahoot. Our brand-new Pro licence meant tower-building challenge mode was unlocked. They were hooked. Refused to leave. Glorious chaos.

    Round two? Smaller group. Same vibe. More chaos. Abdi got tangled in a slinky. Clara soaked her sleeves showing diffraction. John ran out of distilled water. Steve might have broken… something in biology. No idea what it was. Tiara’s tablet lost sensor connection, but she fixed it like a legend.

    Group three was full of chatter and questions. Another Kahoot—this time with monsters and submarines. Why not? Science is supposed to be fun, isn’t it?

    By the end, we were all exhausted—but oh, so proud. I marched my student army back to the library, handed them over for feedback and final goodbyes. My feet hurt. My voice was gone. But my heart? Full.

    Because this is what we do in FE. We graft, we improvise, we smile through the chaos—and sometimes, we even get pizza.

  • A Sick Day… or Was It?



    Welcome to another episode of “ChalkCode & Coffee: Survival in Further Education” – otherwise known as “When Teachers Try to Take a Sick Day but End Up Running the College from Bed.”

    It all started innocently enough. I waved my white flag at 4pm on a Sunday, surrendering to the flu gods and texting my manager with the classic: “I won’t be in tomorrow, can you cover my lessons?” He’s a science teacher – or so I thought – but then he’s also claimed to be a maths teacher before. A man of many talents… just never available ones. Predictably, within the hour he responded: “Sorry, I’m already covering other lessons.” Of course. I wasn’t exactly counting on him. I’d already uploaded the work on Teams, sent apologies to students and planned to spend the next 24 hours drowning in hot lemon and self-pity.

    But alas, FE life doesn’t let go so easily.

    Monday morning, after a flu-riddled, sweat-soaked night, I opened my eyes – and my Teams notifications – to chaos. My students were loyally waiting outside the classroom. Messages flooded in:

    > “Miss, are you coming?”
    “We’re here, where are you?”
    “Is this a test?”



    Apparently, none of them saw my message on Teams, even though it was the same chat we always use. Classic. I began the slow, feverish task of replying one by one: “See my earlier message…” But oh, that was just the start. Soon came the questions:

    > “Where’s the resource?”
    “Do we have to do it today?”
    “Can you summarise the video for us?”
    “When will we get our test results?”



    I was forty minutes into what should have been my absence, and already wondering if I could ghost them all like a dodgy Tinder date. Then came this gem:

    > “Miss, where are you?”



    I stared at it for a full minute before deciding, No. Let them wonder.

    Just as I was drifting back to flu-induced slumber, a call comes in. My manager:

    > “Hi, have you seen my email?”



    No. I’m sick. That was my reply.

    > “Can you just quickly check?”



    Why did I even respond? Why didn’t I fake a coma?

    Anyway, curiosity (and managerial guilt) got the better of me, and I checked the email. He’d been tasked with inviting parents to a parents’ evening – and wanted me to check the times. Fine. But as I scrolled, I noticed he’d missed three teachers entirely. So now, in my pyjamas, head pounding, wrapped in a duvet, I was coaching my own manager through admin.

    Who is the manager here, honestly?

    It’s now midday. My phone buzzes again. A student, bless her conscientious soul:

    > “Hi Miss, I’m sorry you’re ill – but when will you be back?”



    I don’t know, child. The flu doesn’t give ETA updates.

    But wait – another flood of messages. They can’t open files. They don’t know where to look. Some want exact return dates so they can get their test results. One student even asked:

    > “Can you just tell me what to write so I can finish it quickly?”



    Ah, the sweet, naive belief that I’d summarise a whole lesson for them while battling the flu and basic existential dread.

    Then finally – a message from a student who’s also off sick:

    > “Miss, I wanted to know when you’ll post another lesson.”



    I replied, “When will you be back in school?”
    She said, “Not sure, I’m sick.”
    Me: “Me too.”
    Her: “Ok Miss, so in two days?”

    Because clearly we’re now on matching recovery timelines. Solidarity, I guess.

    So yes. I tried to take a sick day. But Further Education doesn’t do out-of-office. It just laughs in your face, wraps you in a blanket of unanswered messages, and then politely asks if you could please manage the college timetable from your deathbed.

    Stay caffeinated, comrades.
    We suffer, so the registers may be ticked.

    Why do I check my work messages?

SurvivingFE

Educating, Innovating, and Navigating the Madness

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