Teaching Maths - A Beginner's Guide

Teaching Maths – A Beginner’s Guide

Some sample questions taken from Maths papers over the past forty years to demonstrate how things have changed – not always for the better.

1.       Teaching Maths – 1970s

A logger sells a truckload of timber for £100.  His cost of production is 4/5 of the price.  What is his profit?

2.       Teaching Maths – 1980s

A logger sells a truckload of timber for £100.  His cost of production is 80% of the price.  What is his profit?

3.       Teaching Maths – 1990s

A logger sells a truckload of timber for £100.  His cost of production is £80.  What is his profit?

4.       Teaching Maths – 2000

A logger sells a truckload of timber for £100. His cost of production is £80.  His profit is £20.  Your assignment – using a black pen, carefully underline the number 20.

5.       Teaching Maths – 2005

A logger cuts down a forest of beautiful trees because he is selfish, and inconsiderate, and cares nothing for the habitat of animals, or the preservation of our woodlands.  Your assignment – discuss how the birds & squirrels might feel when they realise that the logger has cut down their homes for a measly £20 profit.

6.       Teaching Maths – 2009

A logger is arrested for attempting to cut down a tree on his own land, in case it may have been offensive to any groups not consulted in the application for the felling license.  He is also fined £100 because his chainsaw is in breach of the 2008 Health & Safety regulations, as it is deemed too dangerous, and could cut something.  He has used the chainsaw for over 20 years without incident.  However, he does not have the correct certificate of competence and is therefore considered to be a recidivist and habitual criminal.  He is compelled to give a sample of his DNA, and his details are circulated throughout all government departments.  He protests, is taken to court, and is fined a further £100.  When he returns from Court he finds that squatters have cut down half his wood to build a camp on his land.  He tries to throw them out, but is arrested again, prosecuted for persecuting an ethnic minority, imprisoned and fined a further £100.  Whilst he is in prison, the squatters cut down the rest of his wood, and sell it on the black market for £100 cash.  They also have a departure BBQ of roasted squirrel and pheasant, and leave behind several tons of rubbish and asbestos sheeting.  The logger is warned that failure to clear the fly-tipped rubbish immediately at his own expense is a criminal offence.  He complains and is arrested for environmental pollution, breach of the peace and invoiced £10,000 plus VAT for safe disposal costs by an outsourced regulated government contractor.  Your assignment – how many times is the logger going to have to be arrested and fined before he realises that he is never going to make a £20 profit via sheer hard work, give up and sign onto the dole and live off the State for the rest of his life?

7.       Teaching Maths – 2014

A logger doesn’t sell a lorry-load of timber because he can’t get a loan to buy a new lorry because his bank has spent all his and their money on a derivative of securitised debt related to sub-prime mortgages in the USA and lost the lot, with only some government money left to pay a few million-pound bonuses to their senior directors, and to the traders who made the biggest losses.  The logger struggles to pay the £1,200 road tax on his old lorry.  However, as it was built back in the 1970s, it no longer meets the emission regulations and he is forced to scrap it.  Some itinerant loggers buy the old lorry for cash from the scrap merchant, and put it back on the road.  They undercut everyone on price for timber haulage, whilst claiming unemployment benefit for themselves and all of their relatives. The Government borrows more money to pay more to the bankers, because bonuses do not come cheap. The parliamentarians feel that they are missing out, and claim the difference on expenses and allowances.  Your assignment  - explain how the British economy still manages to work at all, and how the teaching of Mathematics has evolved over the past 40 years.  Send the solution to Michael Gove in the envelope provided.  No crossings out.  Show all your working-out.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 12th October 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 12^th October  2014

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Bromham:

1.       The Swivel-Eyed Loon Federation (SELF) party scored an amazing success this week in the Bromham by-election for the Parish Council (caused by the resignation of the former councillor who had been caught sending disgusting pictures of baler-twine to a female journalist).  Eddie “Nutcase” Piglet came from behind in the polls to win an amazing victory, and in his victory speech called for Bromham’s borders with Seend to be closed, in order to prevent unemployed immigrants from entering the village, thus causing the spread on ebola and monster killer spiders.

2.       The Bromham Theme Park narrowly avoided closure this week, after a last-minute financial bail-out by Bromham Bank.  Fans of the themed tractor rides, mangel-throwing competitions, and Wiltshire’s only dedicated in-breeding centre, were relieved that their days out were to be saved.  The Park’s three employees were also so relieved that their jobs had been saved that they went to The Wounded Ferret to celebrate, and the Park was subsequently closed for the rest of the day.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Stripes Of The Prisoner

Stripes Of The Prisoner

Among the dark shadows of the jungle,

Out of the sun, in the heat of the day,

I sit near the cooling, swirling stream,

And rest my aging bones, as is my way.

Advancing years have not been kind to me:

My old, unsteady limbs creak and groan.

There are no younger ones to comfort me.

I spend my time here ever more alone.

My inscrutable stare is fading fast,

Like my beauty, and my ev’ry dark stripe.

Soon I will fade into the background,

And there will be no more of my type.

You were afraid of me once long ago,

But now I’m the one that’s afraid.

Death waits around the corner for me:

A price that’s soon to be paid.

My looks are my downfall,

My fierce beauty inspires your greed.

You just have to have me:

I can supply one of your needs.

My fur is my curse, my tail a collector’s item,

My nose, my ears and my paws,

Everyone wants a piece of my action

My eyes, my tongue, even a slice of my claws.

I’m worth more dead than alive;

My very rarity is my value,

But there are so few of us left now,

That I have to be protected from you.

These last few forests must be my home,

A “Reserve” for we creatures called game,

But the fear and the respect have faded:

I’m a prisoner in all but my name.

Your children will not see me or my like,

Our image a strange forgotten sight.

The flame of our existence,

No longer burns in the forests of night.

So look upon me whilst you can.

There’ll be no more roaring jungle calls.

From this point there’ll be but a silence,

Except the sound of a single tear-drop, as it falls.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Pencil Case

Pencil Case

The bag sits upright, straight and packed

Books and folders ready-loaded

Alert and standing to attention

And the new pencil case

Shiny, patterned, yet under-stated

Its gold-bright teeth tightly zipped

Sheltering its treasures

Inky felt-tip pens of every colour

A set of HB pencils

Graphite honed to finest points

Compass and protractor

And plastic rulers all aligned

With pins and paper-clips

Sorted and snuggled down

With sharpener and eraser

Ammunition for the new campaign

No broken points or shavings

Nor dusty detritus gathered

Or cluttered in its depths

But clean, tidy, fresh, prepared

The very mirror of my mind

Open, hopeful, positive

Ready for another start

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Fruit-flavoured Gins (and Vodkas!)

Recipe for: GINS (fruit-flavoured)

Ingredients:

• 1-2 lbs sloes, bullaces, damsons or plums (or sour cherries) – see below
• 6 oz sugar
• 1 tsp vanilla extract
• 1 litre (or more) of gin – the cheapest you can buy

 Method:

1. wash the fruit, but no need to stone
2. prick every fruit with a fork & place into a clean demi-john
3. add the sugar & vanilla extract
4. cover with the gin
5. stopper the demi-john with a bung or air-lock
6. shake the demi-john vigorously until the sugar is dissolved
7. place demi-john in a cool dark place, label with contents & date
8. shake the contents every few days for the next 3 months
9. when the liqueur is ready, remove the fruit (depending on what it is, this can be eaten in small quantities as a VERY boozy sweet with cream/ ice-cream/ yoghurt)
10. filter the remaining contents through several layers of muslin & a funnel into another demi-john.  You may need to do this more than once, until you have a fairly clearish liquid.  Try to let the liquid drain through itself, rather than squeezing, as this will help to keep the liqueur clear rather than cloudy
11. then decant again into sealable bottles. 
12. label the bottles

 What else you need to know:

1. traditionally, the fruit is picked in August/ September when it is fairly ripe, and the resultant liqueur can be bottled in time for Christmas (sloes are best after a frost, but this is not vital)
2. the liqueur will keep for years, and improves after a year or two
3. if a sediment forms in the bottom of the bottle(s), it can be re-filtered & re-bottled
4. fruits with a hard stone work the best.  I’ve used apples, peaches, pears, black-currants – they all work OK, but sloes are the very best.
5. Works equally well with vodka!

Walking At Avebury

Walking at Avebury

Dark and dreary December afternoon,

Weak, slanting sunshine that begins to fail,

Walking around the circles at Avebury,

Amid sarsen standing stones in shadows pale.

Light snow covering the lonely landscape,

Earth is robed in its ghostly cover,

The jagged monuments standing starkly,

Embracing the silence, like a lover.

Most of the visitors have now departed,

The pub and the car parks all deserted,

Rushing home to New Year’s Eve festivities,

Whilst here is soon to calm reverted.

In the weakening light, my mind plays tricks,

And imagines ancient figures walking,

Carrying out some ritual practice,

Whispering, gesturing, and talking.

Slowly, the place returns to ancient times.

Peopled again, the circle starts to fill,

And my eyes are drawn to the deep South-West,

And the brooding bulk of Silbury Hill.

Silhouetted against the darkening sky,

Stands the giant earth-work, the great mystery,

A monument built by many thousand hands,

Speaking to me still from beyond pre-history.

And the avenue of stones, leading away,

Stretching off beyond my current sight,

Through the chalk-land, into the far distance,

Disappearing, almost, into moonlit night.

Perhaps towards Stonehenge, or the barrows,

Across the Downs, through the deserted land,

With some deeper meaning or purpose,

That we still cannot understand.

Did these shadow people build these ancient structures,

And did they move the earth to make this massive ditch?

What is the purpose of these megaliths?

Is there a symbolic meaning rare and rich?

Are these stones placed exactly where they are,

In a circle of precise refinement,

Because of certain heavenly signs,

Which required a particular alignment?

I watch these unknown men of yesterday,

Creating such things with roughened hands,

Carving out this place of mysteries,

From the cold and unforgiving lands.

Their ceremonials mean naught to me;

As I watch the graceful gestures of their priest.

I hear the chanting, musical singing;

The fires burn bright, and they fall to feast.

Is this rite about the living, or the dead?

Are they looking back, or to their New Year?

This solstice-time pagan celebration

Must have a purpose which to them is clear.

Such great gathering of tribal men,

Of crops, of seasons, of death and of birth.

To propitiate their shadowy gods,

Or worship the Sun, the Moon or the Earth?

But I cannot ask – they are only ghosts;

Their figures disappear from present view.

My mind comes slowly back to current times,

And I view the archaeology anew.

By now, the place is dark and desolate.

I shiver against the penetrating cold.

I turn away to take my journey home,

And reflect on these great people of old.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Boys Will Be Boys

Boys Will Be Boys (The Spirit of Adventure)

Long, lazy, summer-time, school holidays,

Feeling frowsy in the long dry grass, so bored.

Waiting, languidly, for things to happen:

The itch for excitement that cannot be ignored.

It’s time for adventure, or some trouble:

Thrills don’t just come, so need to be sought out.

They all wanted to be a part of it,

None of them by cowardice caught out.

Who’s leading, who’s following, who’s daring?

Who’s going to be involved quite fully?

Who’s pushing who to make the first move?

Who’s the scaredy-cat, and who’s the bully?

It’s become a matter of honour to go,

No-one wants to appear the baby child,

Egging each other onwards to the place,

Three boys, scared to hold back, running wild.

The house stands deserted and forlorn,

Behind its barrier of tangled wire,

Its broken windows like empty sockets,

Tumble-down, decrepit and so dire.

It’s a simple target to be raided,

Undergrowth to keep them quite hidden,

Forcing down the old, broken back door,

Past where it says “Entry Is Forbidden”.

Plaster has fallen away from dirty walls,

Damp, mouldy, a smell that’s musty,

Broken floor-boards, glass everywhere,

Mouse-droppings, filthy and dusty.

Here was once the lounge, now long deserted,

A kitchen with many pipes hanging out.

They don’t think about the people who lived here,

Too busy exploring, and running about.

Here is a place with possibilities,

A secret space for a ghoulish game.

No limit to a child’s imagination,

Or the ideas that are in the frame.

A new head-quarters for their gang,

A pirate’s cave, or hidden treasure,

A robber’s den, a secret hideaway,

To torture their enemies at leisure.

But what if someone already comes here?

Beggars, or thieves or a filthy tramp?

How can it be made safe and secure?

How to establish their own camp?

Rooms up above must be inspected,

In case someone else is hiding there.

Their voices fall into edgy silence,

Gathering below the bottom stair.

The youngest one is pushed up to the front,

Nervous and trembling, fearing the worst,

The older ones standing right behind him,

Bullying, taunting, making him go first.

He wants to decline this stupid challenge,

His fear is building, and he feels like crying,

But the others will not let him stop now:

He cannot get away – no sense in even trying.

Then, too soon, it’s spinning out of control,

They threaten him with torture, calling names.

Challenging him, shoving him forward,

It’s gone beyond their normal childish games.

The mood has turned quite nasty,

And the laughter has faded away.

They prod him and push him upwards,

They force him – they will have their way.

He bites his lip, and swallows hard.

Though he is trembling and shaking,

He starts to mount the broken risers,

Fearing the dangerous steps he’s taking.

Near the top, his panic rises,

But he never hears the creaking sound,

As he falls through the crumbling structure,

Screaming, arms flapping all around.

A crashing noise and then the silence,

The dust and debris soon stop falling,

The older boys stand stunned, amazed,

Then for their friend start yelling, calling.

He does not answer, lying there quite still.

They know the situation’s far from good:

They run away in a frantic panic,

Leaving the body in its pool of blood.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014