Flatulence Symposium

Yesterday I attended a meeting of about 100 principals on the “latest” in curriculum design. I was thrilled (not) by the confusing juxtaposition of buzz-words and trend-phrases. Here’s a sample:

Retrospective connectedness
Particular strings of consciousness
Utilising a very strong quantitative team
Chunking the syllabus
Futures perspective
Assessment is merely sets of anticipated evidence
You can do without the overhead
The biggest problem with syllabus documents is that teachers don’t understand them
Notions of curriculum entitlement
Preservation of curriculum entities
Let’s not assume that we have made much progress at all

However, there was one aspect that I found very rewarding:

The principals arrived eagerly,
To receive the word,
This promised to be the most crucial,
Thing we’d ever heard.
Bit rapidly the promise dwindled,
This was a time mishap,
The information was confusing,
It’s inherent message crap.
But most excellent were the chairs,
Made from cushioned plastic,
The were a form of whoopee cushion,
A cruel manufacturer’s trick.
As people carefully shifted,
The noise cam in fits and starts,
The hall was filled with the music,
Of an orchestra of farts.
If you tried to be careful,
It only made it worse,
As you shifted slowly,
You just elongated the burst.
People who moved quickly,
Trumpeted well and great,
Those wearing polyester,
Had a sound prone to vibrate.
I was in Heaven then,
It made the time go fast,
To me the first was so funny,
And it continued to the last.
But what I enjoyed the most was,
How it made me feel,
When I peeled forth a genuine one,
With a stench that was surreal.
People ignored my genuine trumpet,
Thinking it was the chair,
Until the fruity odour came,
And put a curl into their hair.
They suspiciously eyed each other,
Their tempers a simmering flame,
But I disguised my glee so well,
That they had no-one to blame.
I ignored the temptation to continue,
I had escaped detection,
Besides, it’s impossible to,
Improve upon perfection.