Performance pay for teachers--- yet another sideshow?

Performance pay---- Here we go again!

Here we go again. Every so often the Government (usually a National Party one) trots out the old ‘performance pay option.’  As with all ‘announcements of late, the real reason for any philosophical discussion emanating from the above source, is almost certainly driven by Treasury or National Party desire to cut spending. We are seeing it in many places at the moment. Hell--- they have just cut seven military bands to save a measly two million dollars.

We have seen health cuts, defence cuts, police reorganization (using civilians to save money) and attempted cuts to our Diplomatic Service--- the list goes on. What is interesting is the ‘stick your big toe in the water,’ strategy and if it gets burnt pull it out until the water is lukewarm. I don’t know how far they are in their planning for the latest ‘Educational Sector’ proposals.

Let’s take a closer look at the idea of performance pay. If it looks like a minefield then it probably is.  I would hate to be a principal, trying to decide who to award this extra money or who to punish by not awarding it. There are so many hooks, not just within schools, but between schools.

One would think that finding a yardstick to measure teacher performance will be a trial in itself. Who is going to say that this teacher deserves an extra incentive and on what basis it is awarded? Do we look at Asttle scores at the beginning of a school year and then give those teachers in English a reward for moving the students up a level or two? Do we take raw scores in other subjects and apply some sort of measuring device or do we reward the teacher who has gained the most NCEA credits in their classes? Too bad if you work in a school which is heavily ‘banded’ and you are the unfortunate teacher at the bottom end.

 I am trying not to be cynical here. There are many reasons why students don’t achieve just as there are for those who show an improvement throughout the year. Yes, much of that success can be achieved through good teaching, but that is not the whole picture.

Schools can and do make a difference in students’ lives. The home is also a critical factor. Socio-economic factors play a huge role in how much a student will achieve. If there is a strong Cultural Capital influence in a family, then students have a head start. If the role models for success are present in a family, then it is easy to make the link between success and not failing.

Our Government leaders will talk about examples of students who have achieved at high levels, despite their backgrounds or school. No doubt Paula Bennet will use her own example, but she is on shaky ground given that the very tool that helped her has been stripped away in previous cuts.

The debate about what makes an effective teacher has some commonality. Factors like personality, teacher training, good support structures, and on-going professional development are just a few. Put the same teacher in different schools and there can be a difference in outcomes.

Our teacher unions have possibly not done enough to inform rational debate about performance pay. They are too busy trying to retain the conditions they have fought for over the last several decades. Calls for performance pay are a smokescreen. I suspect that the Government/Treasury is employing the same tactics that they have used to sneak in cuts that they were going to make anyway. We need to be careful that other changes to our conditions aren’t slipped through while our eyes are turned elsewhere. Sounds a bit like the eye in the tower in ‘Lord of the Rings’ doesn’t it? While we are fighting this issue, perhaps they will quietly bring back real ‘bulk funding.’

Finally--- is there a similarity between the struggle that Ports of Auckland workers are going through and the debate about performance pay? I shall let you think about that.

The bach---it's gone! (Coastal Yarn's begining)

I feel really strange; a combination of sadness, nostalgia and a sense of gratitude. The bach has gone. After being in my cousin’s family for more than 40 years, it has finally been sold. I may get a chance to see it and stay once more before the actual handover, but that depends on availability. I won’t be the only one wanting to say goodbye.

The bach has been an inspiration for me. The bach is where Coastal yarns began, my first published book. I remember sitting there one cold morning while my sister made breakfast and looked out the window to Kapiti Island. It loomed mysteriously in the distance, beckoning me in a way I cannot describe.

I was aware of some of its history and later found out a connection between the island and my cousin.  At the time of that visit, I was working on another book and had stayed at then bach as it was a convenient and cheap place to stay so that I could commute to Wellington to see my editor for another book---a work still in progress. Whilst the breakfast was being prepared, I began writing. I had no title and no real idea. It flowed. I put myself in the position of a man staying at the bach. He owned it with his wife and had been visiting the bach for many years and gradually his wife stopped accompanying him.  You can read the rest and the other stories by contacting me direct. (neilcolemanauthor@gamil.com)

I only wrote about three pages that morning and later in the day I visited my editor. I mentioned that I had started to write a short story and she asked to see it. She was silent while I sipped form very long white rum, lime and soda, watching the planes land at the Wellington Airport. We were in here sun room high up in the hills near the airport.

She was impressed and encouraged me to continue. A few days later I had completed the first story, ‘Connected,’ and had come up with the idea of a compilation of short stories, based around the NZ Coastline. Thus, ‘Coastal Yarns was born. I will be re-launching it with a few additions and I will publish it myself this time. That’s another story.

It feels like I am avoiding talking more about the bach. There is a sense of pain, knowing that I won’t be able to spend time there again. I understand the circumstances for its sale, but that doesn’t make it easier. I am not sure if my wonderfully generous cousin (she never charged me anything like what she could have charged) will ever read this blog, but if she does, I would want to convey my sincere thanks for the opportunity she gave me--- staying there; sometimes alone and at others with my sister.

The bach was and always will be an inspiration to me. It is part of my psyche. It is my special place. I would not change much if it was mine. It is just so perfect as it is. It represents part of Kiwiana, unchanging and timeless. It is the way we imagine NZ the way it used to be. It makes you forget the busy highway leading into Wellington just over the rise. The magnificent hills to the East, frame the tiny settlement that has long been an escape on the Kapiti Coast for Wellingtonians and increasingly for other parts of NZ.

I hope its residents resist the urge to carve up the sections that many baches occupy--- but the inevitable march of ‘progress’ began years ago. The beach houses that resemble mansions are slowly taking over.

For me, the bach will always be there. Even if they take it away, or mote likely bring it to the ground--- it will still be there in my mind---- forever.

Thanks for Miranda, Mother England!

FIRST IT WAS Little Britain, and I am forever grateful for that. (We have all the DVD’s). Then it was Katherine Tate (I ain’t bovered!). OK, there are so many great Brit comedies and it’s hard to say which would be my favourite. I never get sick of seeing reruns. If I need a laugh, I hit the UK TV channel, and inevitably there will one of my crazy British shows on.

Lately, I am again drafted to yet new heights of enjoyment. There is a new ‘girl on the block.’ Who could possibly come even near to the afore mentioned ‘treasures?’ Well there is someone----MIRNADA!

She’s nuts, she’s funny, she’s---- well she’s like someone who represents a bit of us all. Miranda lets us look at ourselves. She exemplifies our fears, our dreams and says what we all think. If that means being non-PC, then she’s a star. I love the way she lets us in to her inner thoughts--- draws us in with those naughty eyes and makes us feel that yes--- It’s fine to be scared, shy and enjoy the little things, even the stupid aspects of our lives. She normalizes being a little mad, sad and then to take something that is way out of our comfort zone and make it alright.

She makes us feel OK about ourselves, be it physical, emotional or any other ‘al.’ She makes fun of the relationships within families, but expresses it in a way that tells us that--- many of us share the experiences she portrays in her shows; she makes it all OK---- just laugh, cry or scream.

Miranda takes the everyday and turns it into a drama; a drama that could easily replicate the events and relationships in our lives. The way she ‘talks’ to the camera is oh so Shakespearean. Her style would not be strange to an audience in the Globe Theatre, all those many years ago, albeit with a more archaic language. Perhaps her subject matter would also ring true.

I know that Miranda will never read this, but my overwhelming wish would be for her to come to New Zealand and share her wonderful wit with us.

What a dream---- I would be in the front row, taking in those mischievous eyes and laughing till I hurt. It’s been a while since that happened---- live.

Sleep Apnoea--- do something about it!

Sleep Apnoea.

I have blogged many other topics so I thought I would have a go at this one. I was talking to a friend this morning and the subject came up. How better than me---- after all--- I suffer from it.

What was it like before treatment? I remember driving and nearly falling asleep, even on the relatively short journey home from work (and I hate to say it--- to work, some mornings!). I recall having trouble with what I assumed to be ulcers in my mouth and sometimes waking up with a very sore tongue, sometimes with blood on the pillow.

I remember---well not remembering things. I was forgetful, lacking energy, often grumpy (no, it doesn’t have to go with aging) and just wondering what the hell was wrong. To top it off, I would often wake in the night, struggling for breath.

On a visit to my doctor, I just spat it out----‘Doc---- I think I have sleep Apnoea--- I saw something about it on TV.’

He acted quickly and sent me to a private clinic. That occurred, a few days later. After seeing a doctor there and answering a few questions and a survey, they sent me home with little kit that attached to one of my fingers. I had to fill in a sheet or tick box, every time I got up; or woke. The next day I took the machine. It’s quite small and it isn’t invasive or uncomfortable and given that my sleep was crap anyway--- well, what the hell?

The verdict---? I had pretty bad sleep apnoea. That meant I stopped breathing over 400 times a night. The body does its best to ‘right this’ by sending a message to the brain to start breathing, hence all of the thrashing around and struggling. The alternative is not to wake up and die.  Not good eh? To make matters worse, my oxygen levels were pitiful. Now, I’m not a doctor, even I know that these levels should be up in the high 90% range, not the high 50% levels I was exhibiting.

I was given (paid for actually--- about $2000 all up with the testing etc.) a new CPAC machine to take home and after a bit of coaching in its use, away we went, ready to face a new future.  I call it my Crap machine, in honour of my crappy sleeping habits until then. I expected to take a few weeks to get used to the machine--- It was love at first sight on the first night.

I pretended I was under water diving and just relaxed into the cycles. For the first time in years I didn’t get up (to go to the toilet) more than a few times--- better than the previous up to eight times a night.

Things changed. I was more energetic, I didn’t forget as many things and I even started writing. Yes--- you can blame my CPAC machine. If I was a noisy talkative bugger before, then now I just don’t shut up. I have to do this or the whole world suffers. It’s much easier to get off my blog site than it is to shut me up in person.

Nearly three books later and well over a 100 blogs and 3000 hits--- I just keep on going.

There is a postscript here too. I was paying through the nose for my medical intervention and the back-up for me was in Christchurch. I mentioned to my doctor one day that I was getting a bit sick of paying out for all of this and that with retirement approaching, was there a way of getting into the system that I had been paying taxes for many years. There was and a month or so later, I walked out of the ‘State funded clinic’ in Greenlane with a brand new machine. Naturally I gave them the 18 month old one. Hey I don’t double dip.

 Now I take every opportunity to sing the praises of our New Zealand designed and made Fisher and Paykel CPAC machine. I am a new man and with the addition of a Jack Russell into my life--- well the picture is indeed a rosy one.

PS (2) I was told that I may be able to lose weight more with the CPAC machine and my increased energy levels. Please Mr Fischer and Paykel research people--- Can you make a suction option on the machine so that I can have immediate lipo-suction? That's not unreasonable eh?

HEY--- IF ANYONE WANTS TO ASK ME ANYTHING ABOUT THE CPAC MACHINE--- THATS FINE--- REMEMBER ITS A FISHER AND PAYKEL ONE--I'M SURE HEY ARE AVAILABLE IN BRITAIN FOR THOSE BRITISH SNORERS!   Shush--- I'm sleeping--- not snoring and I'm writing books with all of my new energy and over 117 blogs! 

Dear Frederica---a short story

Dear Frederica

    `Just get up, will ya!’

    God, that voice of hers really gets to me, first thing in the morning. It’s like a cross between a chainsaw and a cat. You’d think after all these years that I’d have some smart reply, but the fact is, we’ve got used to each other, like a favourite chair or well-worn slippers.

    I pulled the pillow over my ears, another failed tactic that endless failures had not changed my feeble efforts to placate her.

    `Garry--- we have to be at Tania’s by mid-day.’

    `I know Jean. Since when have I ever caused us to be late?’

    `Now don’t you go bringing that up. I know where this is leading. I’m ready now.’

     I pushed the pillow away and tumbled out of bed. So much for a good old sleep-in. Mind you, around here, anything after seven constitutes a sleep-in. I could hear Jean making coffee in the kitchen. She was getting quite good at making a good flat-white on her new machine.

   `Make me one honey---- I’ll be showered and dressed in a jiffy. Can you chuck some porridge in the microwave too hun? I need something sticking to my ribs eh.’

    `I hope you’re not referring to Tania’s cooking again Garry. You know she does her best.

    I took her silence for a “yes.”  True to my word, I was out and dressed and in the kitchen within ten minutes.

    `Oh Garry--- you’re not wearing that are you?’ Jean was referring to my top, a black lightweight knit I’d brought from the op-shop. I knew she hated it, but hey--- who was wearing it--- me or her?

   `Can’t you get a bit of colour into your wardrobe dear? It makes you look old or like you’re going to a test match.’

    `Ah---- I am old, sweetheart.’

    `More like you don’t care, you mean.’

    Rather than prolonging the inevitable argument, I simply returned to the bedroom and came back with my favourite cardigan, a colourful relic from the past. Jean’s face said it all, but she too knew when the game was up.

    `I suppose if you really have to, it will do, but honestly dear---- why can’t you spend a bit of money and get some nice clothes?’

    ‘What for?--- When did we last go anywhere that needed flash clothes, apart from the odd funeral--- well you know my views on dressing for the dead.’

    `Garry---have your breakfast and lets get out of here. I’ll feed the children----oops----the pets. How about we stop at that herb place for a coffee on the way through to Hamilton eh?’

     `Fine by me,’ I mumbled through the hot porridge. I liked the place jean was talking about. It had special memories for me. My mum had loved to go there on the way to “wherever,” as she put it.

     Ten minutes later we had packed the food we were taking; a whole marinated chicken and prepared veggies, along with the apple crumble I had cooked the previous evening. On arrival at Tania’s in Hamilton, we would add our lot to what she had cooked. That was the sticking point. How does one find the balance between bringing too much food and possibly insulting the efforts of our hostess, and having to put up with what we had come to expect; food that was either over-cooked, under-spiced or downright horrible? Both Jean and I considered ourselves to be good cooks and we usually avoided eating anywhere that didn’t meet our standards. Naturally this stance had its consequences--- we didn’t get invited out a lot. Tania was a special case. She had no qualms about us bringing food. In fact she boasted to her friends about our efforts.

    Over the years, we had met a number of her friends. In fact the  ”gatherings” as she put them, had become quite popular. Some of them had caught on to Tania’s lack of culinary skills and approached the occasions in much the same manner we did. Tania was a fabulous hostess in other respects. She always invited a mystery guest, some of whom leaving us wondering where she dragged them up from.

   `I wonder who she’s gonna spring on us this time,’ Jean said, as the car sped past the Waikato River near Meremere.

    `It’ll take a bit to beat the last one. Damn--- that guy could spin a yarn eh. Buggered if I believed him though.’

    A few minutes later we pulled off the main drag and entered an entirely different world. The small car park only had one car, parked in the middle, making it difficult for me to wedge my little Hyundai in.

    `Selfish bastard--- where’d he learn to drive?’

    `Come-on Garry---- lets not spoil a nice day.’

    The sound of someone laughing assailed us as we entered through the old-fashioned hallway. I admired the art-work the owner had on display; some local artists used the place to show their works. The laughing appeared to be coming from a middle-aged lady, only slightly younger than Jean and I.  She was dressed as if she had stepped into a time machine, way back in the 1950’s and then transported herself back to the early twenty first century. Floral artistry--- and then the hat. Jean managed to get to me before I broke out in obvious laughter. Luckily the owner of the establishment came to my rescue.

    `Come in--- Nice to see you again. I hope things are going well for you. You’ve arrived just in time for the date scones. They’re still hot.’

    `You’re on,’ I replied, thankful for her timely offer.

    `Just go on through then--- I take it you want a flat white and tea for your lovely lady?’

    Jean almost purred as we found a seat facing the herb garden. We were followed through onto the deck by the lady. She sat at the next table, eyeing the extra seat at ours. Jean kicked me ever so lightly under the table as if to say----`go on---- invite her to join us.’ The look she used to back up her plea, did not give any room for argument. I gave in.

    `Would you like to join us?’ I said in my best manner.’

    `Oh---- so kind of you. Most people try to avoid me. Yes I will join you.’

    `I’m jean, and this is my husband, Garry.’

    `Frederica---So nice to meet you. It’s a beautiful day. I always stop in when I’m travelling to Hamilton---- breaks the journey up wonderfully and I can’t resist a nice cup of herbal tea.’

    `It’s the date scones that do it for me,’ I said, as the owner approached with a tray and the coffee, tea and dripping scones.

    `Mmmm--- don’t think the butter will do you any good,’ Frederica said condescendingly.’

    `What the----‘  I didn’t finish as yet another kick cut off my reply

    `Yes---- he will have to take an extra turn around the bay when we get back to Onehunga,’ Jean said.

    `All that butter will clog your veins and you don’t look like you need it if you ask me.’ This woman was treading on thin ice. Like I didn’t know?

    By way of rebelling, I deliberately took another swipe at the extra butter accompanying the scones and added to the already over-the-top mixture and then manoeuvred a huge mouthful of scone, butter and jam into my waiting mouth. Frederica looked the other way, clearly trying to ignore my gluttonous behaviour.

    `You know what the doctor said,’ Jean intoned. I ignored them both and completed my task and then looked at Jean’s scone to emphasise that I wasn’t finished. `Don’t you dare!’ she almost shrieked.

    Frederica’s tea arrived--- no scones for her. It was then that I noticed her make-up. One could only use the word---layered. Jean was watching my face, as she knew something I didn’t and also to pre-empt anything unsavoury from me. Too late.

    `Yes--- I suspect I need the scones and butter as much as you need a good make-up artist,’ I said, glad to be able to reply to the lady’s taunts.

    `Well I never,’ Frederica harrumphed. `I think it’s time I left. I shall go to my friend Tania, in Hamilton. At least there, I know I shall be treated with acceptance.’

    `Is everything alright?’ the owner said, approaching the table with extra water for jean.

    `It will be,’ Frederica said haughtily. ‘I’m sure I have plenty to look forward to. I’m the mystery guest at a soiree in Hamilton at my friend Tania’s place. I bid you all good bye.’

    She gathered her handbag and headed down the corridor to her car, casting one last glance towards me.

    `Strange lady,’ I offered.

    ‘You are not the most observant are you dear?’ Jean said. `That was no lady, if you know what I mean, and I think she’s headed to exactly where we are going--- Long day ahead, eh?’

Are you nuts, Queenslanders? Watch the 'gravy train.'

Are you nuts, Queenslanders?

Yes, we all saw ‘it’ coming----, but to the extent that you no longer have a viable opposition party to balance the excesses of a headstrong new government? Do not realize that you have cast yourself back into the days when a former New Zealander held the reins of power in your state and wielded a form of power that took you many elections cycles to see the light?

Do you really believe that your new leader will rule and be ‘humble?’ I guess time will tell and whether the lessons of history will in the end make you see that unbridled power is indeed something to be frightened of.

I look back over the last few years and wonder at the reasons you dumped Anna Bligh so unceremoniously. Your discomfort for many of her policies must run deep, or is there something else that has led to her massive demise?  I suspect that Julia in Canberra must have some bearing on the disastrous result. Julia will be cringing behind closed doors in Korea. The possible nuclear scenarios she has gone to discuss in Seoul must pale in significance compared to the results of any Federal election, if held now.

For Labor, I wonder what they are thinking today. They did have a clear indication via the polls over the last year or two that the worm had turned. Waking up today must be truly traumatic. The rump they are left with in the Queensland Parliament, will seek out a new leader, but it may take many election cycles to rebuild. It is a pity to see Anna go; indeed I hope that she finds a way to hang in there, albeit in the next election. Is there anyone else who would happily step into the swamp---?  To be jeered at from Government benches. Oh yes, despite the new leader’s machinations about being humble, it won’t take long for an errant MP or three to start crowing.

What is more scary in the new Parliament is the possible direction of the new Government. Big business will rule and so many of the gains so hard fought for over in the last twenty years will be ‘mist in the wind’.

‘Workers,’ who turned their backs on Labor, will see their rights slide away and then turn into a flood. By the time they rue their decision to vote for the new Premier and his party, it will be too late. It will be their children who will have to ‘re-fight the battles, to stem the flow.

Then again--- don’t we say that get who we deserve?

It didn't take long eh! I see that the gravy train has left the station In the Queensland. It will take a journey throughout Australia, wherever there has been a landslide victory agaisnt Labor. I'm not saying that Labor was exempt, but the fat cats just can't keep thier lips out of the bowl when it comes to claiming what they believe they were born to 'inherit.'
Come on my Aussie bros--- are you going to let me get away with my outrageous assertions?

My neighbourhood has gone!

Why?!  My school, my home, my friends-----all gone; some dead, others just disappeared. What have we done to deserve this? At first it was noise in the distance----then the sounds turned into explosions. We couldn’t sleep at night. My brother and I crept in to my Mum’s room. Dad had gone. Mum said that he had business in the next suburb, but she has this strange look on her face.

 The last time I had seen that look was when my uncle was taken away by these policemen dressed in black, with their faces hidden. Why did they do that? My Aunty looks so sad all the time now and my cousins cry every night. Mum and Aunty went down to the police station, but they can’t find Uncle. The police say they haven’t got him and told Mum and Aunty to go away. I saw the big guns. That was six weeks ago and now Mum has to give my cousins food.

I went to school three weeks ago, after the holidays, but it was all broken. The windows were all gone and most of the classrooms were wrecked. The students all stood around for a few hours along with three teachers. Where were the other teachers? Mum said it would be fine and that it was a mistake.

That night on TV, a lady was talking about ‘terrorists’ and about how they had turned our city into a death-zone. I asked my Mum what that meant. Her face was grey and her eyes looked like they did when grandmother died. My other older brother kept his face away from us. He wouldn’t answer our questions. That night he left the house. I am sure he took one of the big kitchen knives, because Mum couldn’t find it the next day. We haven’t seen him since.

Over the next few days the sounds got louder and louder. Soon it felt like the house shook every time we heard an explosion. Mum made us all sleep in the cellar. We took our blankets and some food and water. I felt a little bit safer there. The next night our neighbours asked to join us in the little cellar. They brought their two children and we played games until quite late.

Next morning, we climbed out of our cellar and we saw something terrible. In the street outside our broken door, there were three bodies, one of them the son of one of the neighbours. Mum quickly made us go back inside. The adults tried to hide their conversations from us, but we knew that they were very worried. Just before we jammed the broken door shut, I saw men running. They were being chased by soldiers. Every so often they stopped and shot their guns at the soldiers chasing them. As the soldiers ran past our house they threw something into the shop across the road. Hard things hit the wall of our house and we only just stumbled into the cellar, before the roof of our house started falling. Mum screamed, but we were not hurt.

The next day, Mum and the neighbour decided to go out to look for food. They didn’t come back. We are getting very hungry and thirsty. We don’t know what to do. We are getting frightened, because we are all alone in the cellar.

Before the men left, weeks ago I remember hearing them talking about the ‘President,’ and how he didn’t care about the people. I even heard that the President’s men had blown up the Mosque. Dad had said that there were people in there when it happened. He also talked to my uncle about Egypt and Libya. I don’t understand what he was talking about. Those countries are a long way from Homs. I wonder if he wants us to go to those countries now, but who will take us if our parents don’t come back?

Why do the President and his soldiers hate us? They must do, or they wouldn’t be trying to hurt us. My little sister won’t stop crying and the neighbour’s kids look sick. Where is the doctor? Maybe the President has killed him too. Why doesn’t God help us? I say my prayers, five times every day. I want to sleep—maybe I won’t wake up. I wish someone would help us.

ISHTAR---9 YEAR OLD GIRL--- HOMS