Teachers who can’t stand the heat should get out of the classroom. Mind you, until five minutes ago everything was calm. No one was arguing, no threats were being made and nobody was sitting under a table refusing to come out. The day was slipping uneventfully to a conclusion, which is as much as a primary teacher covering a colleague’s class can wish for.
Then we entered that treacherous time zone between tidying stuff away and going home, and things got heated.
It is ironic that fiery confrontations can often be attributed indirectly to our school heating arrangements.
Our ultra-efficient, environmentally friendly, state-of-the-art, computer-controlled, under-floor system has one distinct disadvantage. It is remotely operated by an alien life-form who is intent (for purposes of future colonisation) on testing human discomfort to the limit.
This morning the heating was set to 10 below hypothermia. I entered the classroom like Captain Oates walking into a blizzard; prepared to sacrifice myself for the greater good of human learning.
The heating is run by an alien intent on testing human discomfort to the limit
Three hours later, it was like teaching in the Waterlily House at Kew Gardens. Plants unable to survive outside of the Amazon rainforest flourished in a tropical classroom, steaming with damp children gathered in after a rainy playtime. By mid-afternoon, heat and humidity levels were at maximum discomfort, prompting Jordan to announce that he was “sweating like a pig”. To illustrate this (and to prompt concerns about childhood obesity) he removed his jumper and shirt. By the time I persuaded him to put the latter garment back on, every surface had sprouted sweaters.
And because uniforms are called uniforms for a reason, the difficulties associated with reuniting grey jumpers and rightful owners cannot be overestimated.
In some respects, a hot classroom is not necessarily a bad thing. One positive is that it can make children feel less inclined to take advantage of a cover teacher. But the line between heat-related lethargy and heat-inspired fractiousness is a fine one. By home time, sweltering discomfort has given rise to disagreements over jumper ownership, some of which spontaneously combust into minor conflagrations.
Jordan and Jeremiah try to resolve their dispute by tug of war. Efforts to establish a cooling-off period (calm words, cold reason) prove as effective as putting out a forest fire with a bottle of Evian and a damp tea towel.
I briefly consider fighting fire with fire and raising my voice in anger. But that would be like pouring oil on to the chip pan. In the end, I decide I have to let their argument burn itself out. There is no alternative. Well there is but I’m not sure it constitutes acceptable use of a school fire extinguisher.
Steve Eddison teaches at Arbourthorne Community Primary School in Sheffield
