I shouldn't be writing this. I should be swatting up on past Ofsted reports about a school at which I have an interview tomorrow. However, having pored over a few going back 16 years, I'm taking a mini-break, with a packet of crisps and a cup of tea. So curious, so careful and sometimes so devastating, Oftsed reports are fascinating to read. They dissect, drip-feed and insinuate, ripping into the heart of schools while interlacing criticisms with crumbs of comfort - often to do with good levels of pastoral care or outstanding behaviour: the reports can paint bucolic images of happy, invisible little faces behaving well and clutching fruit as they go about their day, while being ignorant of the Inspectors' pronouncements on how their futures are apparently being stunted by poor marking strategies, below-par maths lessons and clueless school governors.
My son's school has just been visited by Ofsted. On this occasion, just the one Inspector it seems. 'A glamorous lady in a sports car' was how the Teaching Assistant manning the door of Breakfast Club on the Big Day described her. The school had had two days' notice to prepare - though mentally and emotionally of course, the staff had been gearing up for this monumentally stressful experience for many months. Breakfast Club was a like a fair-ground on acid: instead of a few lego bricks scattered across the floor and a play mat covered in bits of old toast, the place was thrumming with life. The TAs wore bright faces rather than the glassy, resentful stare that usually inhabits the faces of poorly-paid people early in the morning. And they were dressed like brain surgeons - trussed up in blue plastic aprons and operating gloves ready to combat or contain all manner of childhood ailments - from slapped cheek to injuries incurred during full-on chemical warfare . My son meandered inside, his face awed by the neat, interlocking rows of tables buckling under the weight of games, books, toys, play-dough and plates of hot buttered crumpets. It was like Milton Keynes hosting the Jubilee in 1977.
Over the last few weeks, downloading and scrolling through many Ofsted reports late into the night, until moths are beating at the lamp on my desk and the dog is pawing my knees busting for a final pee before lights out, I've grown accustomed to their rhythm and tone; the lingo has seeped into my unconscious. In my mind's eye, frantic Heads (who often put their hearts and souls into turning their schools into miniature universities offering rich curriculums, museum trips and phonics strategies that would have a deaf monkey reading Byron in 48 hours,) rush around the building we call school but they call home as they spend so much time inside it putting the kettle on and eating biscuits - straightening display boards and checking that teachers have bulging files of assessments and can explain how they are pushing on more able pupils. Certainly, parents value Ofsted and strongly consider a school's rating when deciding whether or not to buy a house in its catchment area. But inspections can sometimes, perhaps, be askew: I remember last year, ringing a local businessman who ran a successful farm-based B&B and was well-educated, close to a town I was considering moving to, and quizzing him about the local primary which had received a 'Requires Improvement' rating. He said the rating had been a severe blow to everyone involved - parents and staff alike. Both his daughters attended the school and most kids went on to the town's 'Outstanding' secondary. It was, he told me, a lovely little school with a dedicated teaching team and first-class Senior Leadership Team whom, as a result of the inspection, felt they had let down the local community. Nonsense he scoffed gaily.
