SurvivingFE

Ah, Monday. The day that sneaks up on you like a student trying to hand in last month’s homework. This particular Monday, however, came with extra spice—I was being observed. 🎭

Now, I’ve been through 20 years of observations, but this one unsettled me in a way that only an overcaffeinated teacher can understand. Maybe it was the email from the observing manager, giving me a vague “I’ll see you on either Monday or Tuesday” warning. Considering I don’t teach on Tuesday, that wasn’t exactly a thrilling mystery—Monday it was. 🫠

The Coffee Catastrophe ☕➡️🎒😱

Alarm blaring at 5:30 AM. I was up, ready for battle, and still trying to save money by making my own coffee. Spoiler alert: bad decision.

Carefully, I brewed a strong one, secured the lid (or so I thought), packed it into my brand-new backpack (RIP old one, lost to the weight of unmarked papers), and headed to the station. Feeling smug for actually remembering my coffee this time, I settled on a bench, stomach flipping with nerves. Bad sign.

Distracted by last-minute lesson prep, I almost missed my train. A heroic sprint, a dramatic leap through the doors, and—miracle of miracles—I got a seat with a table! Monday was trying to be kind. I pulled out my laptop and suddenly noticed the strong, glorious smell of coffee in the air. ☕ Mmm… lovely.

Then reality hit. It was my coffee. 🤯 The entire contents of my cup had leaked into my bag. My laptop, my papers, my coat, my dignity—all marinating in a sea of caffeine.

I sat there, stunned, as my trousers absorbed the disaster. My attempt at saving money? Now, a dry-cleaning bill. Fantastic. 🫠

WiFi Woes & The Office Invasion

Trying to shake off the curse of the coffee, I turned to my next nemesis: train WiFi. 🛜 It spent 40 minutes realising I wanted to connect before weakly offering a signal that flickered like a student’s attention span on a Friday afternoon. Still, I managed to create a quick test for my class (because, of course, Year 13 needs more joy in their lives with exams only 9 weeks away).

Arriving at college, I found my office wide open, courtesy of the cleaners, who seem to believe nothing valuable exists in my room. Cool, cool, cool. I sent the test to the printer—paper jam. Deep breath. Sent it to another printer—success! Maybe the universe was done with me now? (Spoiler alert: it was not.)

Lesson Time: The Betrayal Begins

9 AM. First lesson. Four students present. Shocking. 😑

Ten minutes later, the rest strolled in, armed with their usual Oscar-worthy excuses:
🛻 Traffic (you live five minutes away).
⏰ Overslept (set an alarm, my friend).
🦠 Feeling unwell but magically recovered for break time.

Fine. We crack on with a quick test to refresh Year 12 knowledge—essential for today’s topic. Immediately, one student starts quietly weeping. Oh no.

I rush over. “Hana, what’s wrong?”

“Miss… I don’t know any of this.”

…Two weeks ago, they had a two-hour exam on this exact content. TWO WEEKS. My internal screaming reached record levels. Deep breaths. I guided her with some leading questions, and soon she was back on track. Crisis averted.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw suspiciously collaborative behaviour. 👀

I strolled casually to the centre of the room. “Some of you seem to be… sharing the workload. Let me make it fair—I’ll just divide the total marks by two.”

Sheer panic swept through the room. No one cheated after that. 😏

Enter: The Observer 👀

Just as we moved on to peer marking (because did they really think I’d do it all myself?), the manager arrived—loudly. 🚪💥

Students near the door jumped like they’d been caught planning a heist. I introduced him, and one student, Jack, immediately shifted his entire chair away from him. Subtle, Jack. Real subtle. 😆

The lesson was going well. We used mini whiteboards, challenged answers, debated tricky concepts. Confidence was returning! Then came the moment of betrayal.

I clicked onto the PowerPoint slide, ready to lead them into the next section.

🚨 STAR STUDENT ALERT 🚨 loudly announces: “We did this last week.”

…EXCUSE ME? 😳

That moment when betrayal cuts deeper than a dull Year 12 experiment—it was him, my Star Student.

I locked eyes with him, feeling the weight of disappointment. “Et tu, Brute?” I thought, as the PowerPoint slide he had just claimed we’d done last week stared back at me in betrayal. The same slide I had confirmed twice with the class.

The room fell silent. Even the usually noisy ones knew—something just happened.

And yet, like a true professional (or someone running on pure caffeine and spite), I smiled, adjusted my stance, and said:

“Interesting,” I said, smiling through the existential crisis. “Because when I asked at the start of the lesson, you all told me you’d never seen this slide before.”

🗣️ “Alright, let’s check how much you remember then!” (Translation: I will not go down alone.)

A ripple of fear passed through the class. My Star Student gulped. He knew what was coming. Pop quiz time.

Revenge? No. Justice? Absolutely.

At that moment, the manager stood up and left. No feedback, no reaction. Just… gone.

The Aftermath: What Now?

And now, I wait.

Did it go well? Maybe. Did it go terribly? Also maybe. Will I drown my anxiety in more coffee? Absolutely. ☕😅

Oh, and in case you were wondering—only one student knew the answers to that slide. Guess who? 😏