From the lips of children

It was a cold, December morning and Mrs Johnson, the Year 2 teacher, switched on the lights in her classroom, rubbed her hands and set down her bags. The heating had not been on for long and the building was old, so she wrapped her coat a little more tightly around her body.

As she unpacked the books she had taken home the previous night, she knocked a small shoebox onto the floor and remembered that she hadn't checked the curiosity box the previous day. This was an idea that had come from one of her colleagues and they were experimenting with it. She hadn't been sure of the value of it but she had agreed to give it a go. The idea was to inspire children's curiosity, creativity and imagination. Children could write a question anonymously on a piece of paper and add it to the box for the class to discuss together. So far it had led to interesting discussions about whether dogs ate Brussels sprouts and whether or not George Bush was the king of Brazil. That day, there were a few scribbled notes in red gel pen, all in the same handwriting.

"Can you put a puppy on a shelf?"

"Can you make an igloo out of a coat?"

"Do you have that hair every day? Why is it grey some days and not others?"

"What is a Greg?"

Her first reaction was not one of bewilderment but rather exasperation that Robbie was still using a red gel pen after being told a number of times to use a pencil.

Before she knew it, it was time to start the school day. The children marched, tiptoed or bombarded into the classroom and suddenly the noisy heater was drowned out by the chatter of little voices.

"Mrs Johnson?" a little voice chirped. It was little Polly, the smallest girl in the class. "My grandad died yesterday."

"Oh, I am sorry," replied Mrs Johnson.

"Why are you sorry? You didn't kill him," returned Polly.

Before Mrs Johnson had the chance to answer, a little hand pulled at her sleeve. It was Stevie, who was very interested in martial arts, violence and wrestling. He had seen that RE was on the timetable. "Are we doing the story of The Good Samurai today?" he asked swishing an imaginary sword at a group of terrified girls.

"Do you mean the Good Samaritan?"

"Oh, yeah! And the Good Samurai is the sequel!"

Mrs Johnson sighed and settled the class for the morning's lessons.

The RE lesson passed relatively uneventfully for a morning with seven-year-olds and soon it was break time. She sprinted to the staff room, gulped down some bitter coffee, burning her tongue in the process, and managed a quick "comfort break" before the bell rang.

Panting, she made it to the classroom seconds before the children returned. As usual, there were a dozen quarrels and fights to sort out before any teaching began. On this occasion, Jimmy had found a little "present" on the floor of the boys' toilets and mentioned that Josh had been in there before him. Mrs Johnson summoned Josh.

“There’s a poo on the floor of the boys’ toilets. Do you know anything about it?”

“Yes," he answered, confidently. "I think it was a dog.”

“So a dog came in through the front door, past the office, through the hall and library, into the boys’ toilets and out again without anyone noticing?”

“Oh, I mean, I think it was James.”

That coffee at break time had simply not been strong enough.

Before the children settled down, Mrs Johnson overheard Reece asking Bobby why he wasn't at cricket the night before.

“But I was!” replied Bobby.

“Oh yeah, I wasn’t,” remembered Reece.

It was time for English and adjectives was the learning point of the day.

“Adjectives are describing words. They can describe objects. Can you think of an adjective to describe me?”

“Overgrown?” piped up Jimmy. Mrs Johnson had known that she had said exactly the wrong thing as soon as she had said "an adjective to describe me", but the adjectives just kept coming.

"Fat."

"Grey-haired."

"Pregnant."

"Boring."

"Right, I think that's enough about me. I meant to say a tree. Think of an adjective to describe a tree." That coffee had not been large enough either.

At lunchtime, she took her class to the dining hall. It took several minutes longer than expected because Simone and Myra were arguing about what "No Added Sugar" meant on Simone's snack bar.

Eventually, she escaped to the staff room and made three coffees, which she drank in quick succession. The afternoon was going to involve History and Christmas cards.

Victorians had been the topic of the term and she had enjoyed it. The children had seemed to show a real interest too. This week, they were looking at Victorian fashion. There were many interesting photographs to look at and discuss. After a fantastic discussion, Polly put her hand up.

"Yes, Polly?"

"Mrs Johnson, which one is you?"

Ah. So maybe the topic hadn't been as successful as she thought.

Still, Christmas cards. What could possibly go wrong?

Glitter, glue, scraps of paper and scissors covered the floor but it was an enjoyable lesson. She decided to help Polly write the message inside her card.

“At the end, you need to write who it’s from,” she told her.

Polly grinned, nodded and picked up her pencil. “Dear Mum and Dad, I hope you have a lovely Christmas. Who it’s from.”

As the children were getting ready to leave, a green coat was found in the boys' toilets. It looked similar to one that Stevie had worn, but she hadn't seen him wearing it for a while. She searched the pockets and found a sachet of sugar.

"Stevie, are you sure this isn't your old coat?" she asked.

"Hmm. Well, it does look like my old coat. I know! I’ll go home, find my green coat and see if it’s got a sachet of sugar in the pocket!”

After the children had left, she resisted the temptation of another coffee, she marked the adjective work from earlier and decided to leave before it got much darker.

"You're escaping early!" cried Stevie, who was still swishing his imaginary sword, while waiting for his sister to finish gymnastics club.

"Not early enough," she muttered to herself as she entered her car and drove home.