Holidays do funny things to teachers. They allow wellsprings of ambition and educational fervour to bubble up, they foment radical ideas and they result in zealous - indeed, perhaps overzealous - objectives being set for the new year. Usually, these things happen during the summer break when we’re spending our days lounging in a hammock - not during the short Christmas “holiday” we’ve all just experienced. From a hammock, anything seems possible.

I had one such Hammock Moment back in August on a baking hot day in France; children were frolicking in a pool, and brothers-in-law were keeping up a steady supply of nuts and cold beverages.

These are dangerous times to make commitments of any kind, since they are gapingly detached from the reality of the day job. I had been reading the excellent Barbara Oakley book A Mind For Numbers: how to excel at math and science (even if you flunked algebra), and felt utterly convicted for my profound ignorance of chemistry.

This had resulted from my school allowing me to drop the subject in favour of Latin at the age of 13, and my total obliviousness to all things atomic had persisted ever since.

‘Eureka!’

Archimedes-like, I sprang from my hammock, and announced to the assembled sunseekers that I was going to learn chemistry, and what’s more, I was going to do it in the full gaze of the school, following unerringly the suggestions laid out in Barbara’s book.

She would be my guide, and I would be the pedagogical inspiration for a generation. I would sit my GCSE with them in the summer, and all and sundry would be inspired by my methodological approach and consequent triumph. My daughter made a rude but possibly prescient remark about my intolerable arrogance in thinking that I could do a GCSE from scratch in a year in the miniscule gaps afforded to me by my rather demanding job. She has done her chemistry GCSE…

Unperturbed, I donned the Cloak of Growth Mindset, grabbed the Shield of Resilience, and took up the Sword of the Oakley Method. I swept to the lectern at the first school assembly of the new academic year to lay out my intentions. I had a sneaking suspicion that if I did not nail my colours to the mast publicly at an early stage, then the plan might be gobbled up by the voracious appetites of school administration. There was no turning back now.

I wanted to remind myself what it was to struggle with a new subject 

To add a twist, I exhorted the school to be my emotional and intellectual supports as I wrestled with concepts that were, to most of them, second nature. I promised not to consult the chemistry department - I wanted the students’ help; this would be a collaborative triumph. “Ask me how it’s going in the corridor,” I urged them, “Read my blog.” I threatened that I would be cropping up in lessons and asking them for help with things that I didn’t understand. “I want to walk in your shoes,” I pronounced. Someone in the third row muttered something. It was either “bravo” or “saddo”.

So as term one came to a close, how was it going? Well, the students were playing their parts superbly. Barely a day had gone by without a student or two enquiring about my progress, usually with both amusement and genuine interest. This had been stinging me into modest action. I have a list of chemists who have expressed to me their whole-hearted willingness to help, and I have begun to take them up on it as I stumble into the unknown. I am occasionally asked why on earth I am doing it, but this is hearteningly infrequent. When I am, I reply that I am trying to demonstrate to them that learning about the world is a wonderful thing in itself, even if there’s no “need” to do so.

I have enough GCSEs to do me, but I want to know at least as much as my children about the basic stuff of the universe, and the framework of a structured, well-resourced course is an excellent way into a new subject.

I also genuinely wanted to remind myself what it was to struggle with a new subject, and to encounter difficulties with academic material, which I certainly am doing - mole calculations are hard - so that I could better understand the experience of my students.

It has been a total eye-opener. I have experienced some serious challenges with time management, as well as bumping into material that I have really had to wrestle with.

‘It’s been tough’

Chemistry GCSE is no cake-walk for the uninitiated. I am haunted by my daughter’s words, and success is by no means guaranteed. I have found that, no matter how good the advice - thanks, Barbara - putting it into practice is a long way from simply knowing what one ought to do.

My astonishment when students don’t follow the wisdom I put before them has diminished considerably. Of course, we all know consciously that it’s not as simple as “input-output”, but it’s pretty good for one’s empathetic powers to experience not even being able to follow your own advice… “Little and often” is easy to say, as is “make sure you revisit the material regularly”. It is less easy to do when a governors’ meeting looms, or a pile of marking lurks accusingly next to the chemistry textbook.

Chemistry GCSE is no cake-walk for the uninitiated 

I genuinely can’t tell whether I’m going to make it or not, but it has been a huge joy to learn new things, and to have opportunities to be open about my ignorance, both with staff and students.

Several colleagues have expressed their intention to follow suit next year, just because there are things they wish they had learned, and because they see the case for reconnecting with the learning process. I will readily dip into my professional development budget to buy them a book or two and pay their exam fee if they do.

On occasions, it has been thrillingly energising to switch into totally alien activity; at other times, it has been head-bangingly frustrating not to grasp a concept with which most of my 14-year-olds are at ease.

Is it making me a better teacher? I think so, simply because of the opportunity to empathise. And I hope, too, that it is raising the level of conversation about learning in the school. Give it a try. What have you got to lose, except face?

Alistair McConville is deputy head of Bedales School in Steep, Hampshire