Visiting a school in Bristol with Michael Gove</small
No one seems to feel particularly respected in education at the moment.
Teachers have just staged the biggest strike within the last decade; ostensibly because of pay, but also, (as a conversation on Thursday with a group of teachers deliberating their strike action in a pub afterwards revealed), because of a lack of respect from ministers, who are increasingly reluctant to just let them get on with their jobs.
Parents don't seem to feel particularly respected either, as I found out when I took Michael Gove MP to meet a group of parents when he visited Bristol on, yes, NUT strike day. (You can imagine my elation when I found that the NUT had organised their strike on the day when I was to impress Michael Gove by my brilliantly coordinated Bristol schools tour.)
Fully functioning secondary schools willing to open their doors to the shadow secretary of state for children, schools and families on strike day were not leaping from the woodwork, so I took Michael to meet a group of parents for whom school choice was a dirty word.
These were parents who had lobbied long and hard for many years for the local authority to set up a new secondary school in their area.
The local authority finally said yes - but put the new school not in the area where it was needed, but in an area already well provided for. The school is immensely popular, house-prices have rocketed in the area, and the catchment area within which you are likely to get your child into the school is a mere stone's-throw away.
So the parents' battle to get a new school continues.
It emerged that what these parents wanted was simple: It was not extravagant new buildings; they all agreed that static, temporary buildings with the right ethos would be better than a palace with the wrong one.
They simply wanted to be able to persuade the local authority into setting up a new school, in an unremarkable, but already existing building. Educational charities and trusts could run the school, but in the climate of a lot of words about "parental choice", parents wanted the respect and power to tell authority what they want.
Policy in theory can often seem astral and dislocated. But here was a tangible example of how things could be different: Conservative education policies would give those parents in Bristol what they want.
The power to decide for themselves what education in their area should look like, and trigger the set up of a new school, in any safe building near by.
Conservative education policies may also help avert another NUT strike. If the teachers I met in the pub are anything to go by, money is only half the issue.
Dislodging the strangulating ministerial grasp from the necks of teachers and giving them professional freedom and respect is at least one way to encourage teachers to behave like professionals, so that our children's' education will not be compromised again.
I would also like to take this opportunity to pay belated respects to Steve Sinnott, the union's general secretary, who died earlier this month. I had the privilege of discussing education with him on several occasions, and although we differed in some opinions, there was always much to agree about.
He was vibrant and generous man driven by a desire to make education better. He had my greatest respect, and he will be missed by all working in education.
Clipboards at dawn
It's one of those situations the etiquette books never really prepare you for. Anyone of any party who is a regular campaigner will know what I mean.
There we were, my Bristol Conservative compatriots and I, helping our fantastic PPC, Mark Coote, in Cheltenham in the absence of any local elections in my neck of the woods. It was a lovely, sunny day. With the sun beating down doing all sorts of untold damage to my foolishly unprotected skin, it was the kind of balmy day that makes you think that leafleting and all that fresh air may be good for your health after all.
The suburban streets apportioned out to us to deliver were sparkling in milky afternoon sun, lulled by the gentle sound of lawnmowers - when we spotted them; A tight pack of figures moving slowly but persistently from door to door, about 100 meters away. In the same instant they turned and saw us. At 200 paces, there was a mutual narrowing of eyes. It was the opposition. The tarmac shimmered in the heat haze and somewhere a leaflet fluttered.
My fellow helpers and I advanced with speed, devouring the short driveways and garden paths with ease. Our progress marked by what we suspected was the sinister click-click of letterboxes snapping shut.
The opposition was advancing more slowly, hampered by canvassing equipment. Pretty soon we were upon them, ruthless with our elastic-banded stacks of blue council-leaflets. Then the opportunity we'd been waiting for - the opposing armies clashed as canvassers and leafleters descended in mad, heated collision on the same door, Number 44.
"This ward ain't big enough for the both of us" glared my determined gaze, as strong as a fist. And I unleashed my assault...
"Lovely day for it isn't it?" I breezed with a smile. "Oh yes, lovely," replied my opponent, sweating with politeness. "Mind if I just deliver this?" "No, no, not at all..."
Is it meant to be like that? I think we all left, repressed and polite, muttering threats to ourselves about what we'd do "next time" -and under the lull of suburban lawn-mowers, feeling inescapably British.
