The fog clears and here we are.

I’m in Year 6 at a special school for children and young people with severe and complex needs. It’s all going well and we have been looking at units of measurement using the context of decorating a house that sits cosily by a gentle river.

I started the session with a fat marker and the whiteboard drawing the house nestled between two large trees. I had asked the class what else we could add to the picture and they had contributed everything from a shed, to a lamppost, to a river. I thought we should name the river so I asked for ideas.

We settled on Sunny Hywel River. They thought I was sunny, bless ‘em, so they named the river after me. It’s my first time working with these lovely children and I’m feeling a little out of my depth and not very sunny at all. I’m trying my strategies on these kids and the staff are with me. Can the children suspend their disbelief? Will they participate in this imaginative journey? Will they help me by just going along with it all? These questions are rolling around my head like peas in a tin bath.

We are now measuring the rooms of the house to find out the size of carpets that are required. The shopping list is coming together and all is rosy. There’s a hitch when we get bogged down with the concept of underlay:

“Why would you need a carpet you can’t see?” asks wide-eyed Seb.

I don’t know the answer to this because my gob stops working and I can’t seem to down load anything useful from my teaching repertoire. Eventually, I mumble something about protecting the floorboards. A support teacher who looks like an extra from Game of Thrones chuckles and nods, suggesting that I handled it well.

Seb is well into it. He has been swept along by this application of his knowledge. He’s good at measuring and is measuring up to the tasks at hand. He’s also hungry to help. Seb would be ace on DIY SOS or some similar do-it-up home-reclamation TV show. Instead, he’s here. With me. And we’re doing this house up that’s in all our heads. By a river.

Damage control

The B and Q division are reporting back costs for the work so far. We’re well within budget. Then, via the use of a fake phone message, we’re told that the river is going to burst its banks.

This is bad news for sure.

Heavy rain upstream has led to a surge in water levels. If the river floods…the house is in serious trouble. What can we do? What should we do? What should we do first?

And with that, the school bell goes and it’s playtime.

Seb however, is having none of it. And he’s not for moving. Behind his glasses, the cogs are spinning.

“Come on Seb, get some fresh air,” cajoles Game of Thrones.

“Get a break,” I offer, smiling.

Seb’s not for moving though.

“The carpet will be ruined. And the underlay,” he whispers, shaking his head.

Holding a finger in the air like a statue, he then proclaims, “We won’t let this defeat us Mr Hywel. I will think of solutions over play!”

With that, Seb turns on his heels like a pint-sized Churchill, and leaves.

Game of Thrones and I have a brew.

Seb is first back in. He enters, nodding his head, solution sorted quite clearly.

Other children return to the class as Seb delivers his response to the news of the flood:

“Mr Hywel. We need to let people know of the impending danger. I propose the creation of appropriate signage. Warnings that will deter people from venturing to the house.”

In fairness, I am stunned.

I whisper to Seb: “Don’t worry. It’s just a story. It isn’t real.” I wink, conspiratorially.

And as clear as day, he replies:

“I know, Mr Hywel. I’m just playing along.”

He follows it up with a wink. He knows that I know that he knows.

And the fog descends.

The more time I spend in teaching, the less I seem to know.

Hywel Roberts is a travelling teacher and curriculum imaginer. He tweets as @hywel_roberts. Read his back catalogue

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