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Digging deep into school culture

A culture is conceived when shared basic assumptions create a rationale for doing things a certain way. Often such assumptions are based on an identified problem that needs solving or a perceived demand that needs meeting. A solution is found and it shapes ‘the way we do things around here’.

Take education. When state schools were first conceived, there was a shared assumption that we needed to develop academic intelligence in children – our economy needed an educated workforce. It was assumed that to be academically intelligent or ‘learned’ meant being literate, numerate and knowledgeable. The skills that a white-collar worker utilised whilst seated at his desk were held to be of greatest value.

The remedy found was to design and then formally teach a standard curriculum of subjects, which comprised core knowledge and professorial skills, to all pupils and accompany this with formal academic qualifications that tested knowledge retention, literacy and numeracy. It was assumed that pupils could be incentivised to play the game through rewards if they worked hard and sanctions if they didn’t.

These assumptions gave rise to a deeply-rooted culture, in which, above everything else, each individual needed to make good academic progress. It was the driving force behind everything that took place in a school. And it still is today, nothing has changed. Whatever you do as a teacher, whether it is instructional, pastoral, creative, enriching or just plain fun, whether it is bespoke and tailored or universal and inclusive, it will always be held up against the same aim of enabling pupils to make expected progress. ‘Have you measured the impact of this learning activity? Can you demonstrate the efficacy of that teaching strategy?’ And just recently, ‘Show me the intent, implementation and impact of what you are doing.’ (The sub-text being if you can’t demonstrate a positive impact on your students’ academic progress then you shouldn’t be doing it).

These are the deep-down roots from which school culture has grown. Assumptions led to solutions which shaped the way schools were run, and still are today.

And every year thousands of students leave school with the misbelief that they are the sum of their grades. Of course they do. It is an unintended consequence of the system – or an intended one.

But those early assumptions are now proven to be flawed. Leaders of today’s industries suggest that such an unremitting focus on academic intelligence is not delivering what is needed in the workplace. Counsellors and experts in emotional well-being suggest that the drive for academic intelligence is having a detrimental effect on too many students’ mental health and creating a binary culture of success or failure. There are calls for more resilience, emotional intelligence, communication skills and creative thinking. Of course there are. The system was never designed to deliver on those things. It could have done, but shared assumptions and beliefs held by the architects of state education at the time were focused on other things: developing literacy, numeracy and academic knowledge.

At last, new shared assumptions are building – we are identifying some problems and we are reaching out for solutions, which will in turn shape our new culture. I for one cannot wait for the new architects of our education system (whoever they may be; few Secretaries of State for Education remain in the job long enough to make sustainable changes and even fewer have any experience of education beyond their own schooling) to identify the problems, find new solutions and then let these shape the way we do things in school.

If we were to re-imagine what school is for, we would probably not begin with knowledge retention, literacy and numeracy skills. This is because we would look to the future and consider what skills, attitudes and aptitudes will be required at work, at home and in the societies and communities that surround us. Problem-solving and innovative thinking would probably rank highly, if future generations are to solve the problems we’ve bequeathed to them: an unsustainable population, dwindling resources, climate change, and so on.

If we were to identify different priorities to those of before, like social responsibility, environmental awareness, innovation, how to manage leisure time, creativity and problem-solving to be important aims for our education system to deliver on, just imagine what kind of enriching culture that would lead to.

I can continue to make significant changes to the culture in my school, as I am striving to do every day. I can continue to shout from the roof tops that it is our community values, our shared ethos and our habits for learning that are the things that really matter around here. But until major architectural work is carried out in the offices of the Department for Education by persons far cleverer than me, the cultural changes I make in my school will not take root at the deepest level. They are built on other, older roots – the roots that took hold when education was conceived a long time ago, in a different age, with a different purpose in mind.

Times can change, systems can evolve, old problems may not even be problems any more, as new ones emerge, but the solutions that were found in the past still dictate the way we do things now.

 

Culture before curriculum: a learner’s reality

A twelve-minute TED talk to a thousand people can focus the mind. I was fortunate enough to deliver one yesterday at the annual TEDx event in Royal Tunbridge Wells.

Distilling twenty years of teaching, authoring and training into a short talk was a challenging but worthwhile experience. I can talk for a year and a day on what I think matters most in education, as can anyone who works in schools. But as headteacher of a large community primary school, time is at a premium and brevity is good.

Précising some three thousand spoken words into a short article now is equally challenging, but as I often say to the children in my school, challenges are good. So here goes.

My talk was entitled ‘Culture before curriculum: a learner’s reality.’

Much of the learning that actually takes place in a primary school happens at a sub-conscious level, beneath the surface of the visible curriculum; it is empirical knowledge, inextricably linked to how children feel, what they think and what their senses are telling them. The social encounters they have, good or bad, the things they hear, see and feel around them are programming their sub-conscious, shaping their character and forging their model of the world. In this emerging learner’s reality, they are forming preferences and inclinations, finding what makes them comfortable, fearful, ambitious, nervous, happy or motivated, and all this takes root in their mind and programmes how they will react for the rest of their school career and on into adulthood.

Primary schools are the engine rooms of education. They are the crucibles in which characters are forged. My own character was formed by the time I was seven. My inclinations, hopes and fears, dreams and ambitions, things I thought I was good at, things I thought I’d never be good at, have all remained the same, forty years later. How I conceptualise ‘Andrew Hammond’, who he is and what he can and cannot do, has not altered. I’ve just grown older.

Those who set the national curriculum for primary schools have missed how young children actually learn. The national curriculum is compartmentalised into subjects, each one delivering propositional knowledge which must be consciously read, remembered and regurgitated (the 3Rs) and skills and proficiencies that must be consciously acquired, perfected and performed. There is no question that this type of conscious learning is important and needs to be valued in schools. I needn’t worry; conscious learning yields a convenient measure of attainment and progress, which leads to sorting and ranking, so it proliferates in every school and enjoys a high value.

Sub-conscious learning on the other hand – of the type which takes root and shapes a child’s character and view of themselves and the world – is experiential, influenced by their senses, emotions and untrammelled imagination. This is the learner’s reality. It is dynamic, multidisciplinary and multisensory; harder to plan for and much harder to assess. But it is sub-conscious learning that leads to real growth. And childhood is fundamentally about growing.

These two types of learning could happily co-exist in school if it wasn’t for one factor: nothing stunts growth more than sorting and ranking.

The more we teach, test and measure in schools, the more we stifle growth. This allows a myth to take hold and become a self-fulfilling prophecy for many students: that what a child shows he knows in an exam is an accurate measure of his ability as a learner. It is not. A child may leave school with the misbelief that they are nothing more than the sum of their grades, but they are more than this. So much more. Conscious learning has eclipsed their sub-conscious growth, or even worse, shrivelled it.

So what can be done about it? In continuing to promote conscious learning should we just hope that sub-conscious learning for growth will follow on? We have no choice about teaching the national curriculum and I believe passionately that every child has a right to access a core curriculum of academic knowledge and skills, like literacy and numeracy. But not to the detriment of their own growth. We need to achieve both.

The answer lies beneath the surface, beyond the league tables and it’s called school culture: how we do things around here. It is the culture of a school, its ethos and core values, that help to shape and form a child’s view of themselves and others. The life-long lessons children teach themselves sub-consciously through primary school are impacted positively by the social norms and customs we build around them – the tone of our discourse, the nature of our relationships and the shared values we hold. Teachers are cultural architects in their classrooms.

Life is long but childhood is short and we need to stop calibrating it. For as long as measuring and testing continue to dominate education, it is to school culture that we must turn to preserve children’s natural growth. Culture is the compost in which character is grown and potential takes root. How we do things in my school is as important to me as the measurable outcomes we produce.

 

 

A New Year’s resolution: to be there.

No one, not your spouse or partner, your best friend, your colleagues, your relatives or your neighbours, will value time spent with you quite like your own children do. To them, just five minutes of your undivided attention, are worth a whole day of half-listening.

Like a lot of busy parents holding down full-time jobs, my wife and I juggle work with family and we never reach the right balance. We are fortunate to have full-time jobs and very fortunate to have four children, so I am not complaining, but we should make time because they are getting older quickly – now eighteen, sixteen, thirteen and eleven. Within the blink of an eye they have grown from little ones to young adults and within another blink they will soon be off to university, work and independent living. They will have homes of their own and I’ll still be shouting ‘dinner’s ready’ up the stairs.

I look through the family albums and I see so much we have done together. But I am constantly puzzled by how few events I can actually remember. I am there in the scene, arms around my children, smiling at the camera, sitting in our tent eating spam in the middle of a Yorkshire field, perching on a quay side eating Devonshire ice cream, or huddling on a windswept beach in Suffolk. I know was there, I have proof; our house is adorned with ornaments and pictures brought back from family trips.

It is not that I have a particularly poor memory; the problem is this: I was always there in body but seldom there in mind. I was often thinking about other things – usually a book I was working on at the time, a course I was about to run, or the familiar stresses and strains of a career spent in teaching and school leadership. But at least I was there.

Being there in body is not enough. I need to be there in mind too. I have to attend – listen, pay attention, respond meaningfully, remembering at all times that I am making memories. I have always said that a family holiday is not really for us adults; it is for making memories that the children will remember when they are older. I still believe this is true and I am pleased that the children have childhood experiences they can remember. But I should have been making indelible memories for myself too. For when we grown-ups retire from work and start reflecting back on our lives, how many of us will conclude that we should have spent more time at work and less time at home? And of the time we did spend at home, how many of us will wish we hadn’t concentrated so much on what our children were saying? Think about it, what else could possibly have been more important? How many of us would rather their memories of work were more vivid than their recollections from home? Colleagues will forget us as soon as we’ve left, but our families never will.

Perhaps it’s due to that inconvenient truth that many of us are more polite at work than we are at home. Family life does not require us to act with professionalism, no matter how much more we love our families than we do our colleagues – no offence intended, I have super colleagues! I can sustain interest at work far more readily than I can at home. When a line manager or colleague gives me instructions, I can listen intently, or certainly give that impression; but when my wife gives me instructions, she knows full well it is going in one ear and out the other. Sometimes I don’t even pretend I’m listening.

Twenty years we’ve been married – twenty years of conversations and I can’t remember any of them.

But I can attend and concentrate at work when I have to. I can chair a meeting at work and recall with reasonable clarity what was said in it. I can give a child at school my undivided attention and remember a comment they made to me months later – it is my job. But ask me what my own children said to me at lunch yesterday and I struggle to remember the detail. Why is that?

Showing and telling to an appreciative audience is an important part of a child’s growth and development, not to mention their self-worth. I know this because I say it at school all the time. Children need and deserve a captive crowd to whom they can show and tell their achievements. But as a parent I worry if I’m a cardboard cut-out audience. I smile and make positive noises at the right moments, whilst thinking about something else.

When I am ready to stop working and stop stressing about other things, when I am ready to be a fully interactive and appreciative audience for my children, they will be children no longer and that worries me. Perhaps that is the way it is and always has been for us parents. It is why grandparents are so cherished by their grandchildren.

It is possible I have done myself a gross injustice here – my wife thinks so. There have been plenty of times when I have not been thinking about work and instead have been thinking intently about my children. And that’s just the point. While they talk to me, I look at them, cuddle them, worry about them, wonder if they are healthy and happy, wonder how they’re getting on at school, wonder if they need a haircut, worry if they’re not eating enough, or eating too much, worry if anything is worrying them – and all this while they are still talking to me. Perhaps there is always a sub-text or a distraction within every conversation you have with your own children, precisely because of these parenting worries that you cannot switch off when you focus on their faces. But all they really want is for you to listen!

As another year begins, I will resolve to make space in my busy diary to stop, look and listen. I will make special effort to be there and remember.

Published in Bury Free Press, Friday 4th January 2019

 

 

Concentration of a different kind

We often hear today that children’s attention spans are shortening. ‘They just can’t sit and concentrate for half an hour, like they used to!’

I question this. Most children can still concentrate for thirty minutes, but they chop it up into five chunks of six minutes and run them concurrently. I’ll give you an example: one of my four children operates his X Box controller like a Jedi-master. I’ve seldom seen a human so deft, his eyes darting across the screen like guided lasers, while his fingers and opposing thumbs twiddle and twist with pin-point accuracy. But this is not the extent of his skill; at the same time as playing his game, he can communicate with a distant co-player through his headphones, search for cheat codes on his mobile phone, balance his shoe on the end of his toes, swing to and fro on his chair and argue with his sister.

Does he have a problem concentrating? I don’t think so.

As a middle-aged father I encourage my son to adapt to my world, whilst secretly trying to acclimatise to his. We meet somewhere in the middle.

Silence rarely exists in my son’s world; there is always white noise. It is a multimodal landscape through which he navigates with the precision of a SatNav. Conversations with him are rapid, words are used with breathless efficiency. He seeks and finds meaning quicker than I can process a question.

Does he have a problem processing information? I don’t think so.

Multiply my son by thirty and you have a typical class. If each student has the same capacity to juggle quick-fire tasks, that is one hundred and eighty different things all happening at the same time in the same room. Not only can many children juggle tasks in this way, they crave the the busy buzz such juggling brings. That is not to say they should all be given so many concurrent tasks, it would be impossible to manage! But neither should we require them all to focus on just one.

Is it time to re-think the way we teach? Is it time to consider what learning looks like? Is there a difference between learning and just doing? Are educators like me teachers, coaches, facilitators or orchestral conductors?

I could try to encourage my son to focus on one thing for an extended period of time, try to strip him of his penchant for multitasking, not least for the purposes of passing an exam, but I wonder whether this will help or hinder him in the world he is going to inhabit – a world in which communication, interaction, occupation and leisure co-exist like never before.

But nothing beats a good story. He can gaze, transfixed, for hours at a cinema screen if the film is engaging enough; he doesn’t move. Perhaps this is because the film is simulating that familiar landscape in which he thrives – short bursts of action, dialogue, music and sound effects, with rapidly-changing camera angles and plot twists. Is this a clue to how teachers, the lead storytellers in the room, should hold their pupils’ attention?

How do we re-create this experience in the classroom? Should we even try? Should school be the last bastion of monologues and soliloquies from the front? Should my school be a sanctuary from the rapid race outside its walls?

Has the function of a school descended into being the place where my son learns to sit still, listen quietly and raise his hand at the appropriate moments? I don’t believe so. School is for growing minds and developing character and perhaps the optimum growing conditions in which this happens have changed.

When I was at school there was no internet, no mobile phones, no satellite television, no video games and no digital radio. The learning tools in school mirrored the leisure tools at home: books, cassette tapes, video recorders, comics and magazines, face-to-face conversation.

But the world of home has changed. Have schools caught up yet? Perhaps they should race ahead and provide a vision of what is to come?

Or is the true function of a school to be a conduit between the past and the future, anchoring children, just like my son, somewhere in the middle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

22nd Century children are here, now.

Across the country, many children will have started school for the very first time last week. Their parents and carers may have watched them toddle off, unfazed, into the Early Years playground, or fought to unpick their tiny clutches and re-attach them, like some reluctant koala, to the friendly but unfamiliar adult greeting them at the classroom door.

As we reflect on such milestones in childhood, it is worth pausing to gaze at the long road ahead. The majority of children starting school today will live to see the twenty-second century and more than a quarter of them will become centenarians. Artificial intelligence is likely to transform their future employment and may even assign the idea of ‘having a job’ to the history books. Domestic robots may run their household, manage their finances and even remember to put the bins out the night before collection; socialising will continue to be conducted mostly online, as it is already; the most favoured forms of entertainment will likely take place in virtual or augmented realities; and factual knowledge – that highly-prized and measurable commodity peddled in school since the days of Gradgrind – will be instantly available at the press of a button or the mere thinking of a question, when the answer will be dropped telepathically into the questioner’s brain by their life-long, simulated pet pooch, a descendant of Siri.

If the adult lives of the children in our schools today will be dominated by leisure time, as many predict they might be, how then are we preparing them for this new world? How are we helping them to protect themselves from information overload and anxiety or a lack of purpose and direction? How are we equipping our children with the self-discipline and creativity they will need in order to find meaning and purpose in an adult life of leisure, when robots take up the mantle of work and leave them with time on their hands?

Defining your worth by your work is a burden still carried by people of mine and my parents’ generations, and a century of antecedents before us. When I was at school in the 1970s and 80s we believed the myth that good things only came to those who studied hard in school, achieved good grades and then worked hard nine to five. The question, ‘What will I be when I’m older?’ hung over our heads and put a stop to playfulness from the age of about fifteen onwards. But ask an employee of a high-tech company today and I suspect the lines between work and play are blurred for them. Ask a creative entrepreneur and they will probably tell you that it is not how hard you work that brings wealth and opportunity, it is how you connect people together and then motivate them, how you imagine different futures, how bravely you embrace change and whether you can create solutions before others have even perceived a problem. AI can optimise but it can’t create, only we can do that.

If a revolution in education is coming, let it not only be based on what AI can do for us; let it be driven by what we can do that AI can’t. May it force us to re-discover the facets and capacities that make us human. May we redesign our schooling system so that it values creative thinking and innovation as much as literacy and numeracy.

For it may not be the children’s arithmetic, verbal reasoning or knowledge retention skills that enable them to prosper in an AI-dominated world – computers will always outperform us in all of these disciplines; rather, it will be their tacit knowledge that shapes the life stories they write for themselves: knowledge that is not so easily verbalised or measured, but gathered via our senses, learned through observation and imitation, and influenced by our cultural inheritance and life experiences. These are the things that really matter because they make us who we are and who we could become.

As a new school year begins, what a tremendous challenge for school leaders like me: to find ways of nurturing the ‘deep-down-things’ that make us human and that will ultimately bring success and fulfilment to the children who started school this week, long after we have all retired.

First appeared in my monthly column in the Bury Free Press, Friday 7th September 2018

 

 

 

 

 

Three truths about school

This is going to be controversial: school is about hard work, discipline and respect.

In the twenty years I’ve been teaching I’ve seen a transformation outside the school gates. Innovations in technology and global communications have transformed the way we work, shop, socialise and spend our leisure time. Such changes, inconceivable when I was a student, getting to grips with my ZX81, have prompted educators like me to cry for more creativity, innovation and independent thinking in schools. We must find and nurture the tech entrepreneurs of the future. We must tailor our teaching to meet every individual’s needs; we must safeguard children’s natural curiosity and develop a joy of learning, promoting a playful attitude to work; we must place happiness and well-being at the centre of our schools. We must celebrate and protect the wonder of childhood, because it is this that will spawn creative thinkers of the future.

There is nothing here that I disagree with, and most of it I’ve been calling for throughout my career.

But buried beneath the revolution in the way we live and work has been a transformation of a different kind and it’s one we don’t like to talk about much: the slow erosion of fundamental values which shaped the ethos of the schools and communities in which my generation grew up. There were malign elements, of course, that we’re all glad to see the back of – corporal punishment, for one, or prejudice of varying, cruel kinds. But what of discipline? What about hard work? Mutual respect? It is a brave headteacher who incorporates these seemingly old-fashioned values into their mission statement, the more common trend being for words like aspiration, creativity, independent thinking or self-confidence.

I continue shouting for a playful, enjoyable approach to learning, but I’m reaching the conclusion that such a mantra assumes that everything is functioning well outside school – that discipline, respect, and diligence are all instilled at home and in the wider community, thus leaving us creative teachers free to promote a spirit of enquiry and a joy of learning in our schools.

So I dare to say again, school is about hard work, get used to it. Your independence is important, but it’s not as important as the inter-dependence that comes from mutual respect. Creative endeavour is important too, but without self-discipline it is nothing. Far from shirking responsibility or self-discipline, the great thinkers, inventors and creative artists of the past only succeeded because of their hard work and self-discipline.

If increasing numbers of children lack role models in their lives outside of school, from whom they can learn a good work ethic, a sense of social responsibility and self-regulation, then surely it falls to schools to champion these values once again.

There are reasons, often tragic, why children lack such role models at home; I am not apportioning blame. As a parent of four children, I know that parenting is difficult, there is no handbook, and the scandalous cuts in funding for social care and family support – which I saw for myself as headteacher of a primary school in a poor community with large numbers of disadvantaged and vulnerable children – have meant that many children lack direction, a moral compass and often even the most basic care.

Yes, all children have a right to an inspirational education filled with creative opportunity, aspiration and teaching tailored for them, but so too do they deserve to be told – by someone – that hard work, self-discipline and mutual respect are important. If this message is not being delivered to them at home, or through the media or modern popular culture, then it’s school that can say it, no matter how unfashionable it sounds.

Discipline, hard work and mutual respect are words that seem outdated and some may even think they threaten creativity, well-being or character enrichment. I think they underpin them.

When such qualities are instilled in students, modelled by their teachers, schools can truly take off.

 

 

Four steps to Creativity

The Proustian phenomenon tells us that our sense of smell has more power than any other sense to provoke distinct and emotional memories within us. In his novel, À la recherche du temps perdu (In search of lost time) Marcel Proust describes a character vividly recalling memories from his childhood after smelling a tea-soaked biscuit. Memories, long-forgotten, can often come flooding back to us, when certain smells are encountered again.

A whiff of bacon and egg does it for me. I am always whisked away to Weston-super-Mare, aged seven, going for a morning stroll with my Grandpa. At the end of his road, just near the sea front, was a nursing home for the elderly and every morning the most luscious smells of full English breakfasts would blast out of a vent in the kitchen wall. The seaside, for me, doesn’t smell of seaweed, it smells of bacon.

Trips to Weston were always a sensory adventure. After serving in the war as a bomb disposal expert, my grandpa turned his steady hands to chiropody and his surgery was inside the house. The unforgettable smell of phenol and salicylic acid would always greet us in the hallway after my Nana had opened the door with a beaming smile.

But the most memorable part of our weekends in Weston wasn’t the chemicals or the bacon or the seaside. It was my Nana’s old wooden button box – a large, rectangular open tray with a handle across the top of it. It was divided into several felt-lined compartments and each one housed the most extraordinary delights you could imagine. Shiny blue ones, pearly white ones, two holes, four holes, leather toggles, great big brass ones, tiny red spherical ones. Some so small you could imagine an elf sewing them onto a shirt, others so large they must have fallen from a giant’s duffle coat. And then there were the military ones, my favourites, with emblems and crests and royal coats of arms. You could only imagine the places they’d seen, peering like eyes from the tunic of a sailor.

How I loved that button box. I’d spend hours rifling through it, listening to the clickerty-clack of the little buttons rattling in the tray, running my fingers through them like sand on the beach beyond the nursing home. Watching the colours as I blended them all together into a multi-coloured, chunky soup. Laying them out in rows and creating patterns across the floor. Threading them onto string and making my Nana a necklace or my father a pretend wristwatch. Button men, button roads, button food and button jewellery. How could anyone resist their enticing appeal?

If you want a definition for what creativity is, then you need look no further than your grandmother’s button box. I have thought a great deal about why I was so transfixed by it – why hours would pass unnoticed while I was so absorbed. They call it being in ‘flow-state’ these days. I’ve often mentioned that button box when delivering CPD training in schools and it’s astonishing the number of teachers who smile and nod their head. It seems I wasn’t the only one who liked playing with buttons. There is a common fascination in childhood for sorting, shaping and creating.

I know now what I was doing during those trips to Weston. I was engaging in pure, unfettered creativity and I believe there were four distinct stages to it.

Firstly, I was using perception. I rifled, sifted, flicked and clicked. I swirled them around and studied all the colour combinations and varieties. I studied them with great care and interest. Their differences intrigued me – so many variables in one wooden box. I used my senses to get to know them all, see and feel them, hear them clickerty-clack in my hand, become familiar with all the constituent parts of the creations that were to follow.

Secondly, I made connections. I loved nothing better than dropping them over the carpet and sorting them into different categories, coloured or plain, two holes or four, round ones, toggles, odd shaped ones, plastic or metal. There was something very pleasing and therapeutic about the practice of sorting them into groups. I remember, years later, I found myself working in a petrol station as a student. I used to tip the packets of cigarettes all over the kiosk floor just so that I could sort them out again (it broke the monotony of a night-shift). Their different coloured designs pleased me and they stacked up so well together – making an ideal Jenga substitute during quiet shifts.

Back in Weston, there then followed a really exciting stage in my work with those buttons, the synthesis stage. I blended and connected and combined those buttons to create original designs and products, from sculptures and collages to roads, figures and jewellery. These were different every time and I was proud of them. They meant something to me and those buttons allowed me to give vent to my imagination in a physical way. The button box was a palette and I was the artist, synthesising the elements together with imagination and vision. It didn’t occur to me that there was a wrong way or a right way to build a button man, or a button chain – so I wasn’t afraid to ‘have a go’ and just see what I could make. It was the same with Lego – a construction toy with which I am still besotted even now. Back then, of course, I would grab any pieces I could find from the giant tub of crusty blocks and knock up a vehicle, spaceship or hobbit’s hovel from my imagination. Now, as an adult, I mindlessly follow Lego kit instructions and call it therapeutic.

After the synthesis stage came the final part, the presentation. This was the much anticipated ‘tadaah’ moment, when I ran into the kitchen, grabbed my Nanna, pulled her by the hand into the front room and said ‘Tadaah! What do you think, Nanna?’ A rapturous response always ensued. Nanna’s arthritic hands were misshapen and twisted but I knew she had once loved playing with those buttons as much as I did and my elaborate designs never failed to bring a smile to her face.

The four stages of my button work were of equal importance, though I didn’t realise it at the time. All I knew was there was a procedure to it, a kind of ritual that I always followed, enjoying each stage, and especially the last.

Perceiving, connecting, synthesising, presenting – you need all four stages for creativity to flourish in schools. My book, Teaching for Creativity, is about how to plan for each one in your classroom.

Teaching for Creativity is the second title in the Invisible Curriculum Series, published by John Catt Educational. Click here to view it.