Michael Glenfieldof St Andrew's College in Booterstown, Co Dublin, describes the ups and downs of teaching his first class
Sitting quietly in the corner of the Preps classroom at Wesley College in south Dublin, I could feel my heart thumping in my chest as the pupils filed in. As their teacher introduced me - "Class, this is Michael; he will be with us for the next week" - I smiled and waved limply, wondering how she could be so blase about standing up in front of 25 sixth-class students, each a potential volcano, ready to erupt into messing, riotous confusion or even tears.
I read through my list of tasks for the day: give an assignment on a notable historic personality, find a few pictures on the internet for a forthcoming Irish class and, horror of horrors, prepare and deliver the day's maths lesson on VAT.
How could I, a humble transition-year student on work experience, be entrusted with such a vital part of a child's education? What if they didn't understand? What if they fell about laughing at this paltry excuse for an educator? What if they decided that they didn't want to learn today, thank you very much? What if, what if?
Perhaps my biggest fear was that, after an exhaustive explanation of the ins and outs of VAT, all 25 of them would be nonplussed, and my nascent teaching career would be halted before it had even begun. What if I failed to communicate clearly? I would be overcome with embarrassment and be unable to help anyone, in my attacks of leaden stomach, spinning head, dry mouth or even fainting.
The lesson drew closer, and the butterflies in my stomach seemed to intensify into 20 raging gorillas fighting for supremacy in the region of my gall bladder.
As the bell rang, telling the campus that 11.20am was upon us, I knew that the hour of my inescapable first foray into the world of teaching had begun.
Standing in front of the class, I picked up a board marker and wrote, in block capitals, the hallowed letters: VAT. Nervily picking my way through a forest of figures for five minutes, I concluded the lesson without much conviction. Turning around to face my audience, I asked, in my best teacher's voice: "Now, does anyone have any problems?"
The multitude of exchanged glances answered my query. Just 10 minutes earlier this would have been a disaster, enough to "stagger humanity and turn the moon to blood", to quote Bertie Wooster. Instead of swooning, however, I merely picked the nearest student and, bending down to see her notes, proceeded to teach.
Reviewing the day on the long journey home, it dawned on me that I had jumped the first hurdle. I had been told that good educators repeat themselves, so no shocker that I, a novice, had been obliged to reiterate the details of VAT until understanding, amazingly, dawned.
Despite being scared witless and apparently pushed to the boundaries of my ability, an overwhelming realisation hit me like a pile of corrections: no other job would do; teaching is what I must do for the rest of my life.
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