Flitting from school to school on a weekly or sometimes daily basis gives supply teachers the opportunity to see crucial differences that can determine the kind of education our kids receive. 

One of the many factors that goes into this complex calculus has come to my notice recently: the physical architecture of the school buildings.

One school I taught at recently – let’s call it school X – was a prime example of how not to design a school. Not unless you want to actively promote chaos, random acts of violence and regular trips to the local minor injuries unit. School X was built in the 1970s, presumably at a time when no one paid much attention to the impact of design on how children learned and behaved. 

Instead they built enough classrooms, threw in a sports hall and a few cupboards to store the textbooks, and hey presto! Job done. But not well. 

In my experience of roaming many a school hall, how one is built can have a significant impact on what happens within those walls. 

I’m not talking about some mystical Feng Shui notion of pointing all the whiteboard projectors toward the rising sun or ensuring space for the Chi to flow freely around the detention cubicles. It’s more about just sensible, functional design. 

The main problem at school X was the number of pinch points on stairwells and in corridors which, during times of heavy traffic – every breaktime, lunchtime and lesson changeover – became unpleasantly clogged. I say unpleasantly, because the effects of this were far more invidious than just having to queue for a bit. The mass of gangly teenage bodies all trying to squeeze into a small space with multiple points of entry but only one narrow exit, was a recipe for disaster.

Teenagers are still often rather clumsy and uncoordinated, so even unintentionally they’ll bump into each other, whack each other with flailing elbows or stamp on each other’s feet.

Then there’s the more intentional abuse of these narrow spaces by students taking advantage of the opportunity for mischief combined with anonymity. Some of the less emotionally literate teenage boys will use the situation to express their repressed sexual energy by rubbing up against the unsuspecting girl in front of them in a manner that’s entirely unwelcome. And I’ve witnessed Year 7 children carried along in these human rivers, washed out at the other end red-faced, in tears and devoid of bags, glasses or shoes. 

All because somebody didn’t think to make the corridors half a metre wider.

Then there’s school Z. In school Z, the communal spaces are wide, the ceilings high and the entire building has been clearly designed with a little more thought to the end users. Not only are there no horrendous human congestion issues, but the design seems to create a wholly different atmosphere.

The feeling of space and light, as opposed to the dark cramped conditions in so many schools, rubs off on students – the atmosphere is one of harmony and order rather than simmering menace.

It isn’t the architecture alone that generates this entirely more pleasant result, of course, and it was bolstered in this case by the enlightened approach of the school management to make the most of the designer’s gift. Students are given free rein to use the building during breaks and lunchtimes, rather than being herded into the dining hall or outside, regardless of the weather. The outcome is that students sit around in small groups, chatting or eating and occasionally even working.

I know that many schools fear that by allowing the student body to take ownership of the school buildings it might lead to some kind of insurrectionist revolt, but from what I’ve seen it just makes them feel like they have a stake in the place and that can only be a good thing. 
 
The writer has recently taken up supply teaching after 20 years in a full-time teaching job