The male of the teaching species is undergoing a metamorphosis, a curious kind of mutation that almost makes me believe in evolution. Statistics show that the teaching male is an endangered species; fewer men now enter this profession. In the natural world, it's said, creatures evolve new characteristics in the fight for survival. I may be witnessing this in my own staffroom.
When I was a girl, male teachers wore tweed jackets, slacks, brown shoes and biros more colourful than Joseph's dreamcoat. These men had style; they even wore tweed jackets and slacks to school and suits on important occasions.
But some Big Bang, some chance event in educational genetics, effected a transformation from proper dress to trendy jeans, opennecked blouses, bracelets and jumpers. New Teaching Man is a mobile manifestation of what I tell my girls every man is after.
The process of evolution, I'm told, generates novelty and uniqueness. A particular colleague, despite advanced years, wears jeans, jumper and heel-less shoes. Is he Homer Simpson in drag? I use him as a model to teach my girls that dress defines character. This person is a dinosaur in denim, a Desperate Dan trying to be trendy. There is something Oxfamish about his notion of haute couture.
A concerned mother told me the other day that he must be on drugs. He writes silly words like `flying', `soaring', `gliding' at the end of essays. One foolish girl, who keeps a journal, relates to him the highs and lows of her erratic romances. He wrote, `This is better than Eastenders', at the end of an entry.
I was shown an essay written by a Leaving Cert student last week. At the end of a paragraph the girl asked: `What do men think we are made of? He had the cheek to write in the margin: `Sugar and spice and all things nice'. He should confine himself to grammar, spelling and syntax.
Worse: I hear that he then began to ramble about gastronomical metaphors men use to describe women: dishy, honey, tart. To cap it all, he dragged in animal metaphors as well: moocows, hens, birds and chickens. He thinks he has a fine line in irony. But I know better.
That horrible man, Richard Dawkins, wrote a book I dare not read - The Selfish Gene. He should do something useful such as studying the geriatric gene inhabiting my staffroom.
God was surely on a career break when this man was created. I wrote to the Minister for Education to demand that he be given involuntary early retirement. They say he has a suit but I know the kind of place that would suit him.
