October 2010

By Hilary Moriarty

Time Magazine recently reported that the Chilean miners trapped 700m below the Atacama Desert, despite being subject to every stressor known to man, are managing their situation very well. Psychologists tell us it is in man’s nature to try to normalize an abnormal situation, and West Point psychologist and behavioural scientist Colonel Tom Kolditz says that the key in the dire situation the miners find themselves in is ‘to create civil order in a circumstance in which there is none.’

It appears that for the moment, younger miners are deferring to older, more experienced men.  The oldest, Mario Gomez, is 62 and has assumed the role of coordinator in what sounds like a pastoral sense.  Another, Luiz Urzula, 54, coordinates the work schedules.  And here is why this detail of what is happening underground becomes interesting to anyone working in schools: Time Magazine tells us that, ‘Urzua uses the hood of a mine vehicle as a desk – an important totem of the workplace.’ I love that.  I love the simple declaration of something most of us, albeit obscurely, probably feel we already knew.  It’s not just a desk, it’s a symbol, perhaps never more so than in the Head’s office. 

The Head’s office is likely to be the site of more meetings than the Head or his PA can count.  Everyone beats a path to that door – governors and staff of all descriptions from Deputy Heads to teaching assistants and out through the concentric circles of support staff which keep a school clean, safe, warm and tidy; parents to be and parents in place, both happy and unhappy, and those who are thinking of withdrawing their child; pupils for awards, and interviews and tickings off and suspensions and exclusions. 

The Head’s office will see them all, and they will see the office, and in particular, that desk.  Whether the Head likes it or not, the desk talks.  It says things about itself – ‘I am steeped in history!’ but probably not ‘I came from IKEA last week,’ – and it says things about the Head him or herself. You could write the next bit yourself, couldn’t you? If it is clear, the Head seems to be a super well organised person with everything under control.  Super, super clear is actually bare, with a side table bearing a phone and a computer. This desk says, ‘I am a person in absolute control – of my paperwork, my immediate environment, my staff, my pupils, my school.’

A visitor may even wonder if its occupant is bored – what do they do all day, when there is visibly nothing waiting to be done?  Is it really that easy to run a school, that none of its detritus washes onto the Head’s desk?
Such a head is likely to be one of the school of thought that knows the world and his wife will walk through the door with a parrot – a problem – on its shoulder, and the trick of leadership is to ensure that they leave carrying the same parrot.  ‘Do not expect to deposit your parrot here,’ says the desk, ‘this is a parrot-free zone.’

The opposite of course is the desk overflowing, even in today’s on-its-way-to-being-paper-free world, with papers and folders and files in all colours of the rainbow.  Many parrots have arrived here – ‘Leave it with me – I’ll get back to you – I may be able to . . .’ and they flutter occasionally, to the irritation of all.  More often they brood – or even breed, perhaps – and sulk.  A colleague, not a Head, whose filing actually stood in heaps on the floor around her desk, once described this as ‘archaeological filing,’ i.e. the further down the older.  And perhaps the nearer to the window in the stacks on the floor, also the older still. It worked for her; it terrified staff, who suspected that things rose to the top of her tottering piles in haphazard and random order.  Many things were done well and in good time.  Of the rest – who knew?

When I left Deputy Headship in 2000, the Head under whom I had served had no computer.  Computers were in school – I had one because I wrote the timetable – but the computer revolution had not reached her office.  Her desk was impeccable, with a central blotter in a leather surround.  Her principal tool was a fountain pen.  The daily schedule for dealing with the outside world as it manifested itself in her office was orderly and predictable.  Correspondence was delivered when the post came, she hand wrote replies which were duly collected and transcribed, she signed them, they were posted.
It was, in fact, an intimidating desk, partly because the chairs in front of it were slightly lower than you might have expected, which meant a constant looking-up to the Head.  But partly also because one could feel the world moving beyond the room, and this desk was like an oasis of calm that looked back to an earlier time.  It was a deeply traditional school, with a long and honourable history.  In an odd way, that was exactly what the dumbly articulate desk said.  In a mutable world, it was a constant point.

So how many Heads, I wonder, are thrilled with their new role and decide immediately that they must make physical changes in the office?  If we do not change desks – ‘How much?’ says the Bursar, or ‘That desk has been here since the school was founded in 1580,’  – then we often move them.  Back to the door is bad, even if facing a wall is conducive to concentrating. Back to a window is like putting interviewees under a sunny spotlight – though it has to be said, good for making the wrinkles the Head may be accumulating harder to see against the light. And if we cannot change a desk, we may add to it.

 Priceless as the computer now is, most Heads would say it belongs on the side table.  Headship is not a job to be done from behind a computer. And biggish tables for all manner of meetings, separate from the official Head’s desk, are increasingly common.  So that makes 3.  No wonder it should be possible to keep them clear. And of course now  there are courses and text books to help you master the paper, mostly, it seems, by throwing most of it away as soon as possible.  Archaeological filing – phooey.

One cautionary note: if you saw ‘The Damned United’ in the cinema  - the film about Brian Clough’s relationship with Leeds United and in particular Don Revie, the Leeds United manager before Clough –  you may have missed a little gem. The DVD of the film includes a scene in which Michael Sheen, playing Brian Clough, first takes an axe to his predecessor’s desk, then burns the pieces outside the club.

According to the film, Clough inherited a Leeds team devoted to their previous boss, resentful, bolshie and unmanageable for the new man.  Clough’s destruction of the desk – physical, brutal, personal – was his way of demanding the respect due to him as the new holder of the office, and reminding his players that the king was dead, long live the king.
If you know the film, or are a football history buff, you’ll know that, grand gesture notwithstanding, it didn’t work.  In modern parlance, Clough had ‘lost the dressing room,’ and he got fired.
Which may go to show that in the end, it really is just a desk.  Unless, of course, the Head were able to fashion a desk out of the hood of a mining vehicle – and think what a story that would have to tell.

Hilary Moriarty is National Director of the Boarding Schools’ Association but writes here in a personal capacity.

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