I’m excited. It’s a coup for the school. We’ve been selected to devise and roll out a new Department for Education teacher-training programme on the back of all the recent left-field professional development we’ve undertaken on virology, lateral flow testing, health and safety and being online video stars.

So, anticipating the need for our skillset to be stretched even further in 2021, we’re going to train up the first wave of OQTs: over-qualified teachers.

The Zoom meeting begins and three weary faces appear on my screen. A wine bottle is hastily moved out of view from the table where my deputy sits. My early years lead is snaffling what I assume to be a small bar of chocolate, and my special educational needs coordinator (Sendco) clutches the small teddy bear that she usually lends out to some of our more vulnerable children.

“Morning, everyone,” I chirp and the lack of enthusiasm for this extra leadership meeting speaks volumes. “So, who wants to kick off the suggestions for the content of the new five-week OQT programme?”

Coronavirus: The ever-expanding role of the teacher

There is a collective sigh and then my deputy finally gets the ball rolling. “How about training to give Covid vaccines?” she suggests.

“Yep, I got that one, too,” the early years lead chips in. “Makes perfect sense. We can set up some PTA gazebos on the playground and use the Reception class hospital play area for added authenticity.”

“Excellent,” I nod, thinking this could be a cunning way to prioritise teacher jabs. “We need a name for that training session...anyone?” 

“The Gavin session?” someone proposes. “Because he seems immune to just about everything.”

There is mutual nodding. I make a note. Week one is sorted.

“What about opthalmology?” my Sendco proposes.

I raise an eyebrow. “Interesting. Talk me through your thinking.”

“All that screen time for months on end,” she says, squinting through her own brand-new glasses. “The children’s eyes are going to be completely knackered. They’ll never be able to focus on anything further away than about 12 inches.”

“Good point,” I agree. “Same for the staff. We’ll need one of those big eye-chart things put up in the medical room. What shall we call that session?’

“It’ll be the blind leading the blind.” My Sendco shrugs, and we say no more. The PM session is the obvious name, and that’s not because it’s in the afternoon.

“What about training in Covid testing for week three?” 

My early years lead shakes her head firmly as she plops a vitamin C tablet into a glass of water. “Have you heard where they’re thinking of asking you to stick the swabs now?”

There is a moment of collective silence and I wonder if we are all on mute.

“Fine,” I finally say, and cross that one off my list.

Dealing with pains in the neck

“I was thinking physiotherapy for week three,” proffers the early years lead. “What with all that sitting still at the screen, watching so many live lessons. There’ll be lots of back strain and pains in the neck.” 

“Pains in the neck?” I echo.

“The Gove session,” we all say together, in teacherly solidarity.

“It’s a long shot, I know,” grimaces my deputy, “but for week four, what about wig-making? We know that parents are tearing their hair out at the moment with all the home schooling. So, when the kids do get back to school, there might be a proliferation of baldness.”

“I like it,” I say, running my fingers through my own recently receded hairline. ‘We’ll call that the Hancock session, since everything he says is a bit hairy.”

“I think we should do driving-instructor training for week five,” pipes up my early years lead. “With no one going out anywhere for months on end, everyone’s driving is going to be chaotic and all over the place.”

For a moment, I can’t remember where I last parked the car. “Chaotic and all over the place,” I repeat to cover my hesitation, and we agree on that week being called the Cabinet session.

“We need just one more to complete the six-week course,” I say, excitedly. “And we’ve only got seven minutes left of the 40-minute Zoom.”

“I was wondering about veterinary training,” offers my Sendco, and I wonder if she is finally beginning to lose it.

“Virtually everyone I know has a bought a lockdown puppy,” she insists, clutching her teddy bear ever more tightly. “It’s the ultimate therapy tool and lockdown feel-good accessory.”

The other three of us are still not sure where this is heading.

“As soon is lockdown is over,” my Sendco continues, and I am sure she is now talking directly to her teddy bear, “all the parents will realise how difficult it is to look after a dog once they’re back at work. They’ll be desperate to get shot of them.”

“And we can set up our own kennels on the field,” my deputy catches on and sees the potential. “We can charge a fortune and it will help to plug that huge hole in our budget.”

“Great,” I agree, doodling a large pound sign into my notebook. “We’ll call it the Rees-Mogg session, since he’s absolutely barking.”

There are less than two minutes left of the free Zoom.

“Thanks, everyone. Great work,” I say, giving a thumbs up. “There’s just one last thing to think about…” I look down at the full six-week OQT programme sketched out in front of me. “I had this idea for some leadership training on...”

All three screens in front of me suddenly go blank, 53 seconds before the Zoom is supposed to end.

Colin Dowland is a primary headteacher in north London. He tweets as @colindowland