At this time of year, mainstream schools are winding down. Year 11 are out ‘on leave’? having completed their GCSE exams; Year 13 have officially left school after their A Levels and are hopefully not drinking themselves to death in San Antonio. And any school with any sense has sent Year 10 out on work experience and re-timetabled the whole of Year 9 for post-SATS sex education/long-term PE projects.

Special schools are different. It’s Annual Review time.

One child with a Statement of Special Educational Needs requires as much planning, preparation and assessment input as an entire? class of? mainstream schoolchildren. Every single learning activity in every lesson, covering every subject, must be personalised. That means that even where a child, coincidentally, is working at precisely the same level as a classmate, they still need significantly different targets, learning outcomes and activities just to make sure that the Individual Education Plan really is “individual.”

Each child needs these targets, outcomes and activities to be planned for every subject, duly referring to achievements and progress records,? and then? sent up the LEA food chain before being “proposed” to parents in the Annual Review itself, after which it is all redrafted to reflect parental input and (hopefully) signed off in time for the start of the academic year in September.

(No doubt some of the regulars at ASDf? are crying with laughter at this description of the Annual Review process, but trust me – it can be done this way.)

So far this week, a colleague and myself have teamed together during our free time and completed 7 of these drafts – using the assessment data pieced together when the whole school spent 2 weeks performing the very peculiar special-school versions of annual tests.

We have 35 to go.

We were just finishing our meat & steamed veg (Little Madam has been doing another healthy eating project at school) when Little Nutter bounced up to me with a book.

“Dory Time!” He announced. “Norby dinner!” and my steak was pushed away from me. I then had to read the story to him one word at a time, with him repeating each word as I pointed to it.

He’s never done anything even remotely like that before. I think it would be churlish of me if I was to complain about my steak going cold.

Personal pronouns Dead easy. Everyone is a ‘he,’ including Mummy, Little Madam and the dog.

Interactive games Even easier. Rock always wins – because rock can bash the scissors and the paper (and the opponent if necessary.)

Etiquette No problem. All situations can be dealt with by the use of a simple phrase: “Can I have some more please?”

Manners These work on a sliding scale. The more attractive the female, the more? useful good manners are.

Toys These fall into two groups: “mine” and “broken.”

Diplomacy A simple phrase: “No! You’re wrong!”

Personal hygiene First soap up with a bubble blower, then rinse off by standing in front of the sink with your finger stopping the tap.

World peace “I don’t think that’s very kind!“

The treatment for sciatica is considerably more painful than the condition, especially when the local physiotherapy department measure you at 6’5″ and 15 stone, and send you to be treated by the prop forward in the hospital rugby team.

He greeted me with “Right little fellow, let’s have a look at your back…”

I found the crate of wine that Darling Wifey’s mother had hidden. And I put it onto the winerack.

Just looking at it sustains me through the week. And at the weekend…

But this morning, as I was pushing a muddy puddle round the kitchen floor with the mop, I snagged the wine rack. And it’s too horrible to describe.

Three dead. Including both chateau bottled clarets.

I’m bereft.

Yesterday Little Nutter barfed at school, and they slapped a 48 Hour Order on him. No school for two days.

Darling Wifey had to collect? him yesterday, as I was miles away in Leeds watching my students collect a hatfull of medals at the Disport Final. So today it was my turn.

And there is nothing wrong with him. He is just as healthy and perky as normal. So what else can you do but have some father-son quality time?

I did think of popping across the Pennines to see Mr Busyknitter? and T, but four hours in the car for a one-hour pub lunch without alcohol isn’t what I would consider a sensible day – and Little Nutter doesn’t travel well, either.

So instead we tried a few experiments: we made little rockets with vinegar and alka-seltzer in 35mm film cases and toilet roll tubes. Then we moved on to my air pressure rocket (which Little Nutter broke) and an elastic band powered aeroplane (which Little Nutter also broke.) And on the way to lunch he investigated my satnav (his teachers said he was getting into maps) and broke that too.

Lunch was at the all-you-can-eat buffet at Pizza Hut, where? there was an embarrassing incident involving a pepperoni pizza and half a dozen office staff all being called “Norby Boy” and having their garlic bread confiscated (thank heavens they had already noticed his unusual behaviours – I’m not sure they would have found it quite so funny otherwise.) Then one of the staff was forced to put? most of? the balloons back in the drawer and only inflate blue ones.

There was an audible sigh of relief when we left.

Right now he is on the climbing frame, wrapped up in four towels, playing with his balloon.

?

**Edited to add**

He has just broken my glasses.?

A couple of weeks ago Little Nutter wanted to know how the toilet cistern worked.

So today we had a plasterer in to replace the kitchen ceiling.

And this meant that we had to find a house-sitter for the day; Grandma volunteered.

Grandma arrived? over? an hour? late, having already upset Darling Wifey, and then proceeded to ” be helpful.” So now we can’t find a damned thing. And my new crate of wine? has been hidden, and I can’t find a single wine glass anywhere in the house.

So mine’s a Council Pop, thanks. Cheers.

Since becoming a special school teacher, I have made a point of re-educating career SEN staff. Parents, they need to realise, do not have their advantages: they did not choose to take on their caring roles; they have no training; they have no multiagency support (unless they fight for access to it); they have no legally protected breaks; they have no holidays; they have no support staff; they have no resource banks; and finally, even if they are not mentally or emotionally capable? of fulfilling? the task they are given, unlike SEN staff they still get the job.

As a friend pointed out recently: parents of SEN children did not choose to become militant. They had no choice – that is what it takes to get the minimum statutory entitlement actually delivered.

Then I sat through a parents’ evening at my school, and met something different:

• the mother who wants her severely non-verbal ASD teenage son to “fit in” in the pub and the workplace, and blames the professionals for not delivering
• the professional, ethnic minority father who doesn’t have a clue what his daughter’s abilities and disabilities actually are, but still wants to blame someone else for his disappointments
• the ordinary, working class mum, who doesn’t actually understand the situation, but fervently believes that the only way to get “the best” for her child is by attacking other people who care and work hard
• the parents who are still tearful and confused, after almost two decades, as their grown up son prepares to move into a hostel
• the overindulgent mother who has endangered her baby boy’s health by appeasing him with his favourite foods for fifteen years
• the overwhelmed alcoholics who need so much themselves that the needs of their child? simply cannot be considered
• the SEN parents whose rights were protected so efficiently by social services, but whose needs were never considered? because they were too expensive, and so were left unsupported when they produced their own children

Sometimes the people we are working so hard? to protect are our own worst enemy…

I had a rough night’s sleep last night – Little Nutter didn’t fall asleep until about 2:30 and Tiny Flirt was awake from 3:45, although he? was incredibly charming.

Eventually, by about 5:45, I had persuaded him to go back to sleep… or so I thought…

I jumped into the shower at about 6:15, and went downstairs at about 6:35 for my coffee. Tiny Flirt was sitting in my favourite chair, with a cup of apple juice and a banana (and my mobile phone next to him – crucial clue that I missed, there…) smiling beatifically at me and saying, “I’ve been a good boy.”

Then, this evening, I got a message from the lovely Jasmine: had I sat on my phone at about 6:30, as I had called her?

I think Tiny Flirt fancies her!