You know that saying, about there being an 'elephant in the room': something that everyone knows is there, but no one is willing to point out, for fear of what might happen if they do? Well, in teaching, there isn't just one elephant in the classroom, there's a whole herd of them, rampaging through the room. In this blog I plan to turn a spotlight on some of these elephants, to highlight the unspoken and sometimes unpalatable truths about our noble profession. Because if we can't be honest about what makes a good learning experience, or an effective school, and equally what makes a bad learning experience, or a bad school, then everyone loses. As the saying goes: 'Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.' There's no point in denying these truths, no point in turning our back on that herd of elephants, because they will still be there when we turn back around. Or to put it another way, just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean there isn't someone following you.

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Accidents Happen: In Praise of Risky Play - 29th January 2010

I'm really fascinated at the moment by the notion of risk in the learning environment: how we control it, how far we should control it, how we can possibly find the right balance? As a society, we're becoming more and more risk averse - the threat that 'someone might sue' has lead to organisations slavishly following the 'rules', and forgetting that common sense is often the best yard stick of all. In the snow a few weeks back, vast numbers of schools closed because of the risk that children or parents might slip over. But all this did was encourage those same children to head off to break their bones sledging down the nearest hill. Those of us who work in education have, to my mind, a duty to teach children how to be careful, how to calculate risks. And we can only do that if we allow them to take risks in the first place. Of course, these must be calculated risks. This morning the children at pre-school were using some real life cups and saucers, made of proper pottery, for their tea party. This was in the spirit of the Montessori approach, where you teach children to handle proper stuff, rather than all those plastic toys that are so risk free. But it was a calculated risk - the staff supervised them closely, and we didn't hand them a load of wafer thin champagne glasses and some sharp carving knives as well.

I went to a outdoor play meeting earlier this week, where someone from the Children's Society gave a fascinating talk about the Forest Schools in Denmark. What really caught my attention was the slide of a dead animal. The idea is that children are encouraged to bring in anything they find, and that includes roadkill, which they study and handle and just generally explore. The initial response from the group was 'ugghhh' and 'did they wear gloves?' (no they didn't was the answer). The next response was 'what on earth would Ofsted say?'. I have to admit, though, my over-riding thought was 'Why on earth didn't I think of that earlier?' Because a few months ago, there was a dead hedgehog on the lane just outside the little pre-school where I volunteer. I watched fascinated as day by day it attracted flies, which laid their eggs, which hatched into maggots, until the hedgehog eventually melted away into the ground. Now I'm kicking myself - what a missed opportunity! And how much learning our children would have got out of studying that lovely creature and its very sad demise!

During the course of my career in education, I've taken a good few risks. Sometimes they paid off, other times they didn't, but I've always aimed to give the children a measure of trust. Sometimes it works and they repay the trust you've shown them, sometimes it doesn't and things go wrong, students let you down. But that's no excuse for not doing it, because if they never get the trust, they never get the chance to prove themselves worthy. I guess the story of Flour Babies illustrates this point perfectly (go to the Lessons page for details). The first time I did this activity was in a London school, with your typical mix of London kids. And they treated those bags of flour as though they were their own, real babies, taking the greatest of care of them for the entire week. Those babies had faces painted on them, cuddly toys, blankets, names. The students did me proud. The second time I tried the activity was in a school overseas, where the students came from much more privileged backgrounds. Within a few hours of handing out the bags of flour, there was a line of sobbing girls at my door, complaining that 'the boys have kidnapped our babies'. Hot on their heels was the caretaker, not looking best pleased. 'Come into the playground now please, Miss Cowley', he said. I rushed outside, only to find the flour baby massacre taking place. But I'd do that activity again, in a heartbeat (in fact I do it again at every full day training course I deliver - you'd be amazed at how the teachers respond to the idea - not always good but definitely always interesting.)

I was looking for some quotes yesterday, about being brave and taking risks, to add into a keynote speech I'm giving shortly about transformational learning. There was a quote from T.S. Eliot which really struck a bell: "You have to risk going too far to discover how far you can really go." Yes it might go wrong/you might look stupid/the kids might think you're weird/someone might bang themselves/your classroom could get trashed (delete as appropriate) but be brave, dear reader. As Shakespeare memorably wrote, 'screw your courage to the sticking-place and we'll not fail'.

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You Can't Fatten a Pig by Weighing It - 15th January 2010

Yes, I admit it, I just couldn't resist any longer: this Blog entry is going to be about Ofsted. (For those of you outside the UK, this is the Office for Standards in Education; for those of you teaching in the UK, this is the Office for Stress and Eternal Damnation). Now, here's the thing: I've always felt rather sorry for Ofsted inspectors. Let's face it, it's not the kind of job you set out to do when you're a child. Imagine, you're ten years old, and you're thinking of a vocation, a career choice, a major life decision about where you want to go and what you want to do. Shall I be a doctor, a nurse, a vet, a teacher, a fire fighter, an astronaut? No, I know, I've got it, I think I'll be ... an Ofsted inspector. That way I get to be really popular and teachers will be ever so grateful when I tell them how to do their job.

And here's another thing: the poor loves never get to see all those magical moments that happen so unexpectedly when you're working with children. That lesson you planned on the back of a fag packet, which weirdly captures their imagination and suddenly they're running with it, flying with it, finally grasping that tricky concept you've spent so long trying to get across. Those magical moments that never seem to happen in your carefully planned lesson, with its five pages of explanatory notes, its finely tuned starter activity, its deliberately chosen and lovingly differentiated resources. Or, in other words, those dull, safe lessons that teachers do when there happens to be an inspector in the room, because they're terrified of taking risks, of making mistakes.

Yes, there is something to be said for having some kind of inspection system. It can help parents make a choice about which school they would prefer their child to go to (I'll be dealing with this notion of 'choice' in an entry very soon). It can help struggling schools get more support, and it acknowledges the dedication of those staff who do things well. But if you're new to teaching don't be fooled - hard to believe I know, but there was an inspection system in place before Ofsted. Except it was a mostly supportive approach run by locally based inspectors, who knew their local schools and the circumstances in their local area. What really concerns me about the current system is the total lack of trust in education staff as professionals. The balance seems to have tilted so far in the direction of mistrusting us, that you have to have evidence to prove every last aspect of what has happened in your classroom. Instead of just focusing on helping children to learn and develop, spending time with them and enjoying the job, you have to record every last detail of what you've done. Because that way someone has the evidence they need to make a judgement about you. Yes, the ever present threat of Ofsted does help to keep schools and other settings on their toes. But just look at the quantity of paperwork and stress required to achieve it.

I'm currently involved really closely with my local pre-school on a voluntary basis. And as I watch the staff playing with the children, who absolutely adore them, it really warms my heart. But what's this? Suddenly they stop playing with the kids. They dash off to grab a camera and take a photo; or find a sticky label and write a few notes. That way they can grab that vital evidence they need to prove that they're doing their job, to fill out those profiles that record every step of a child's progress. "Please!" I want to scream, "Don't stop playing with my child to document the fact that you're playing with her and something great happened. Just play. Just enjoy the moment. Just do what you think is best. I believe you. I believe in you. You honestly don't have to prove it."

But they do. And it's partly my fault. I've never been in a management position before. I've never had to worry too much about what Ofsted did or didn't say. I'd always rejected the promotion ladder as an option, because I wanted to stay in the classroom. But now I find myself in the very odd position of actually caring. Because as Chair of the Committee, I want us to get a good Ofsted report next time round. Now, most of what I do at our lovely little preschool is motivated by wanting to improve things for the children and the staff, rather than trying to improve our inspection grade. But in the back of my mind, I want us to get that public approval, that 'good' or (whisper it) 'outstanding' that makes parents sit up and take notice. I hang my head in shame for even thinking that way, I'm drowning in paperwork to provide proof of all the great things we do, but there it is: I actually care what Ofsted think.

And for that, Ofsted, for that, DCSF, I curse you and your lack of trust.

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Consistency - The Holy Grail of Head Teachers - 5th January 2010