Follow by Email

Thursday, March 12, 2015

Making cuppapults - my latest passion!!

Here's my latest activity for my science workshops, now tried and tested in four classrooms:

Let’s make it move:     Let’s make a cuppapult




You Need:
-       Plastic coffee cup
-       5 rubber bands
-       1 teaspoon
-       Several missiles made from a piece of newspaper, wrapped and taped into a small ball
-       A paper plate

What to do:
All catapults have at least one thing in common: tension. The better it’s utilized, the more effective the catapult. Wrap four or five rubber bands around the container, an inch or so beneath the top.
Insert a teaspoon beneath the rubber bands. The tip of the handle should be just below the rubber bands.

How to launch a paper missile:
Place your paper missile on the cup of the teaspoon, pull back - and release. Note that the rim of the container forms a dimple that allows the spoon to bend back easily every time.

-       Place a paper plate away from the cuppapult.  Can you launch your missile and land on the plate?
-       Make a paper tower. Can you knock it down with a missile from your cuppapult?
-       Lay a playing card several feet away. How close can you get to the target?

Now try making a tinapult from a tin can, a popsicle stick and a bottle top – using the same method as above.

Glue the bottle top on the end of the popsicle stick. Put your missile in the cup, flick the stick, and watch it fly!!

-       Is it better than the cuppapult?




Sunday, March 8, 2015

Tiger - edited version of something dead important that happened to me over fifty years ago.

I'm going to use this for discussion with a class of Masters' students soon...........


Thank you, Tiger!
My teacher wake-up call!

Long ago, in September, 1963, I started my first teaching job. I was appointed as a science teacher at Trinity Fields. The school, like all secondary modern schools of the time, was for students aged between 11 and 15, all of whom had failed the national 11+ examination, and thus seen to be undeserving of an academic education.

The day before school started, I was given my teaching responsibilities. I was Form Teacher for 1C, which meant I took the register for attendance, school lunch and dismissal at the end of the day. After taking my class to morning school assembly, I was to teach the bottom classes in each of the four years (1C, 2C, 3C and 4C). The Head of the Science Department gave me the textbook, pointing out the science topics I was to cover. “Not to worry,” he said. “When they take the Leaving Test at 15, only mathematics, reading and writing are tested.”

The following day I began my teaching career. Well, teaching is perhaps too grand a word. It would be more honest to say that I began to be paid for standing daily in front of loads of bored adolescents, opening a well-thumbed science text book, and reading aloud - then, scribbling science words on the blackboard to be copied into science notebooks.

My science teaching pattern was straightforward. The kids came in, I welcomed them, they took their seats, opened their science journals, and I read from the science textbook. I then wrote the key science information on the board and the pupils, using their best handwriting, copied my notes into their science journals. Nothing to it, really.

What follows is the description of one significant thing that happened during my first, very challenging month with Class 3C.

Thirteen year-old Tiger always sat alone at the back of the science lab. As he was always looking for trouble (and he was really good at finding it), he was, to put it mildly, a pain in the ***.  Tiger made my science lessons a joke. School didn’t interest him and science didn’t engage him. His dad had told him that he’d have a job with him as a bricklayer on the building sites when he was 15, so why should he ‘do his best’ in school?  What was the point of it all?

My science topic of the month, Mosquitos and Other Insects, certainly didn’t interest Tiger. When I read from the science textbook, Tiger would roll his eyes, run his fingers through his greasy hair, scratch his head, and interfere with anyone sitting close to him. His science notebook was filled with dirty pictures and rude scribbles.

Occasionally, on his really bad days, Tiger shouted that he was fed up with school and very fed up with boring science.

Nothing I did in my science lessons made any connection to Tiger’s life experience or appealed to his sense of curiosity. The science I read from the textbook was irrelevant to his world – especially, I suppose, the way I presented it. To be honest, the science didn’t interest anyone in the class.

Most of the boys and girls did, though, sit politely through each lesson. They spent their time scribbling and drawing in their science writing books, often whispering to each other. The boys, though,  waited for Tiger to stir the pot.


In the first week of October, thank goodness, the miracle of miracles happened - a big change for the better came over my teaching. Tiger, of all people, and a small garden spider were my divine inspirations.
Walking back from shopping for the weekend food, I spotted the most beautiful orb-web spider sitting in her intricate silky web in the black currant bush outside the steps leading to my flat. Surprised to see one so late in the year, I fetched a jar, popped her inside, and took her upstairs.

The spider reminded me of when I was a kid when my dad and I found some garden spiders in the back of our house. I kept two or three of them in a jar tucked under the bed – quickly learning that you don’t keep spiders together as they eat each other. Looking after the survivor was really fascinating, though. Keeping her safe and well fed with flies and moths made me feel good, especially when she deposited an egg sac for me on her silky web.

I took the spider to school the following Monday, put her in a large bell jar with a little soil, some greenery, a branch, and a couple of insects. I set the new home on a small table at the back of the science laboratory, out of direct sunshine.

The following day, I was thrilled when I saw a silk egg sac dangling from near the center of the spider’s orb web. Smiling, and thinking back to when I was a kid, I knew it was going to be a dead good day. Sensing the spider was hungry, I found a small silverfish darting around the base of my desk, unscrewed the top of the spider home, and put the small creature on the web. Immediately, the spider came running towards her prey. I sat and watched, fascinated by the process, until Tiger’s class came through the door, breaking the atmosphere by noisily throwing their satchels under their stools.

Here we go, I thought. The kids were ready for yet another particularly dull science lesson (all chalk and talk, then reading and writing, and no ‘hands-on’ science investigation). They looked bored before I even started. I got up quickly, pushing the spider home to one side.

Then Tiger came through the door, late. He had a real mean look on his face. When I asked him where he’d been, Tiger stared at the floor, kicked a piece of scrap paper, and mumbled he’d been sent to the Headmaster’s office because, he said: “I was caught looking through a dirty book, sir. ‘fore school started.”

Who caught you?’ I asked, thinking ‘serve you right!’ I felt nosey – I wanted to know more about what had happened. Tiger’s tone changed, and he looked across the room at me, and shouted loudly:

Mr. Jelbert, you know, Mr. Paull, P.E. teacher, he looks at us lads in the yard through his ‘scope from the class upstairs. He saw me. Looking at pictures. You know. Dirty pictures. Weren’t my book, though, Mr. Paull. It’s Fatty White’s.’E shows me every day.  It’s them pictures I try to draw in me science book. Now Mr. Thomas has it. Fatty’ll murder me. I’ve got to go back to the boss’s office after school. And I’ll get caned. I’ll get six, I know I will.”

Looking sulky and angry, Tiger turned and went to his usual spot at the back of the classroom.

The class was more restless than usual. And now, I thought, I have to teach science.
Thank you, Tiger.

As I was writing on the blackboard, asking the pupils to open up their journals and copy my notes, there was a loud shout of “CHRIST! Friggin’ ‘ell!” from the back of the room. Startled, I looked up. Everyone in class turned their heads to see what was going on. There was Tiger, standing up and pointing his index finger and thumb at the bell jar. The sulky look had gone. His eyes were wide open.

‘F*#  ‘ell! Look! Mr. Paull, Mr.Paull, there’s a spider ‘ere! It’s killing a creepy-crawly! It’s f*^** killing it! Look!!!”  I raised my hand. ”Tiger, that’s enough! Watch your language!”

” Mr. Paull, Mr. Paull, I can’t f*ing believe it. Look at THAT! The spider, f*+** great!!”

Tight-lipped, I told him to sit down, leave the spider alone, and get out his science journal. He totally ignored me. The spider eating her lunch, of course, was, for Tiger, far more interesting than my science -reading lesson. I turned to the class, and tried to settle everyone down. “C’mon. Everybody! Never mind Tiger. He’s just having a moment. Get on with your writing. C’mon everybody, it’s no big deal.” Tiger swearing loudly was much more captivating than my science-reading lesson for the class. “Wassup wiv Tiger, Mr.Paull?” asked Michael, suppressing a giggle. “’e sick or summat?”  The class was restless. I gave in. “Go on, then, everyone, take a look. Go and see what’s in the jar – then get back to your seats.”

They didn’t need telling twice. Everyone rushed to join Tiger at the back of the room He pointed to the jar which got everyone  chattering excitedly about the spider – excited chatter was something I had never heard in one of my science lessons. “Ain’t never seen a spider like that! What is it? Wos it doin’?” asked one pupil.

One of the girls, Diane, said the spider was so beautiful. “Can I look at it, sir? Please? Can I get a maggy glass from the drawer?” she asked.  I thought for a moment. Why not? I nodded. Diane fetched a magnifying glass and peered through it. “It’s great. Can I draw it, sir? Please?”

Of course.” I said.  “Use your pencil, not your pen. Oh, don’t, though, draw it in your science book. That’s for science. Here, there’s a piece of scrap-paper on my desk you can use!” Dianne looked at me, and asked, drily, “Aren’t spiders science, Mr. Paull?” “’Course, Dianne. Sorry. Do it, drawing, oh, go on, put it in your science journal.”

The idea caught on and a few more of the class also wanted to draw the spider, sitting in her web, clasping the poor silverfish. Defeated, I told everyone to close the science textbooks. “Draw the spider, go on, everyone! In your journals.”

Tiger did not draw the spider in his journal, though. He sat very still, ignoring me and everyone else, watching the jar, mesmerized.  

The science hour went by quickly, every minute focused on looking at the spider and swapping stories about spiders.

Tiger stayed behind after class, and, with a warm grin and an impish twinkle in his eye, asked me where I’d found the spider. When I told him, he said,  The spider’s great, sir, ain’t it great? You like ‘em? Spiders? They’re brill, ain’t they?” He looked up at me. “Sorry I swore, sir, sorry. Won’t do it again. ‘Onest!! Sorry I din’t do anyfing in me science book. Can’t draw, anyway, you know. Scabby drawer.”

“Well,” I said, using a quiet voice, “I think you can draw, Tiger, but the pictures you draw in your science book are rude, you know.” Tiger smiled and then said he was going to get some spiders of his own as soon as he got home. “Good, but now get off to your next class. Don’t be late,” I said. “Oh, and don’t forget to see Mr. Thomas………….and be sure to give the book back to your friend.”

That night, I couldn’t put the spider episode out of my head.

The next day, Tiger was waiting for me, outside the staff room, before school started. He had that  impish smile on his face again. Boss let me off. Didn’t get whacked.” He took a jar out of  his satchel. “Got some spidos. Found ‘em, Mr. Paull, found ‘em. There were stacks of ‘em. Tiny ‘uns. Babs, I think, ain’t they? I got free or four. Like yours. Can I keep them in the lab, Mr. Paull?  Go on! Can I? Next to yours?” Then, he added: “Found out about ‘em, too, Mr. Paull. My dad knows what they are – they’re Garden Spiders, and they eat flies and stuff!” He looked up at me.  You know what? You’re ok, Mr. Paull! Sorry, sorry, I swore. Won’t bovver you agen, ‘onest.”

 “Thank you, Tiger, thank you. I appreciate that.” I said. “I’m sorry you swore, too. Come with me. Let’s get some jars for those spiders.”

We went to the science lab and I gave him four jars, telling him that spiders can’t live together without paralyzing and eating each other. “Make a home for each one, ok? Quick, now, school’s starting soon. Go to your form room. Oh, and you can tell your class what you know about spiders, ok?”

When his class came later in the morning for science, Tiger stood sheepishly at the front of the room, by the blackboard, the four jars in front of him. He then told a very respectful, quiet, surprised, and very attentive audience what he had learned about spiders. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I was fascinated to see how Tiger caught everyone’s attention with his excited, twitchy, body movements. Tiger had at last discovered something in my science period that made him feel that wonderful, inside-your-head glow when the brain is alive and alert. His classmates felt it, too.

“Spiders, “ he said, “ are dead good. Look at this one. It’s a beaut.” He held up one of the jars.
 “Guess what I found out…………Spiders suck their food after they’ve crushed and made  watery…….ain’t only the gals that make silk……..the fella spiders make silk, too, but only when they’re young………..then they stop and go looking for a spider girl-friend. They mate on the web………….sometimes the gals kill and eat the fella………some spiders chase after stuff they want to eat.”

I was taken aback by how much he knew, thinking: “Where did he learn that from, then? All from his dad? It weren’t, for sure, from me in science lessons.” He’d really done his homework. This was Tiger’s golden moment.

Tiger told his audience that, if anyone wanted to watch, he was going to release the spiders and
their eggs in the school garden at lunchtime. “They’re goin’ to die soon, y’know, and the eggs will ‘atch, next year, spring, right, Mr. Paull?”

When he’d finished, everyone clapped. “Any questions for Tiger?” I asked. The hands went up, and Tiger was asked a million questions, some of which he could answer.

Almost everyone turned up at lunchtime to see Tiger release the spiders.

That night I checked my spider’s identity in a spider book, learning that it was Meta segmentata, a common garden species related to the garden spider. Its courtship routine was different, though. The male, I read, drives off other male suitors, but doesn’t advance towards the female until an insect is caught on the female’s web. Both spiders then move towards the struggling insect. The male’s front legs are larger than the female and he uses them to push the female away from the insect. He then gift-wraps the prey. As the female tucks into her dinner, the male wraps silk around her legs and then mates with her.

The following day, I went to school early in the morning, an hour or so before the official start of the day, and went to the science storeroom. I gathered a box full of bones and mounted spiders and insects, microscopes, racks of test tubes, flasks, and other scientific equipment.  I set them out in the science lab and then rearranged the stools.

When Tiger’s class came through the door, the boys and girls noticed what I had done and looked at my displays of science equipment. “Hey,” said one, “look….look at all this science stuff……..and hey, look, we ain’t sitting alone. He’s put us in groups.” He turned to me.  “Mornin’, sir, this stuff looks great. Can we touch it?”

Tiger showed me a picture he’d drawn at home of the beautiful orb-web spider. “Hey, you did it. You drew your spider. You can draw, see?” I said.  Tiger smiled. “Can I glue it on the cover of my science journal, Mr. Paull?” “OK,” I said, “ but first let me rip out those inappropriate doodles, ok?”

I started off the lesson by pointing to the specimens I’d found in the cupboard and then sharing the spider snippet with everyone. They were enthralled.

I was very struck with the ensuing class conversations and how the class listened when Tiger had something to say. When talking and learning about spiders, the pupils were very animated, commenting and asking good questions. “Tomorrow, “ I said, at the end of the lesson (which flew by),  we’ll do that again, ok? See if you have anything that links to our lesson topic, you know, insects and stuff. You don’t have to stand at the front and share. You can share your stuff with me privately, if that’s what you’d rather do. You can draw and write about them in your science journals.”

“Great,” said Diane, Like bein’ a proper scientist. S’dead good!” “Oh,” I said, “leave your journals . Let me have a look at them tonight. You’ll get ‘em back in the morning.”

That night, I opened up their journals, the page of the day filled with spider and insect pictures, facts and questions. Even Tiger’s………….Hey, it dawned on me.  Why was I such a twerp? I had learned, by sheer luck, what motivated and engaged my most challenging, disruptive pupil: observing and studying a small spider. It was, in fact, an incredible teachable moment. I had learned the importance of arousing curiosity, of engagement…………I had seen HOW students learn best.

It was THE first ‘Come on, John Paull, be a REAL teacher. Be professional. Earn your pension.’ wake-up call. Now I KNEW how to teach science!!

From Tiger, of all people.
Thank you, Tiger.  Bless your cotton socks. The next day, and for days after, kids brought in all sorts to show me and each other……………..and I felt like a teacher.

Extract from:

Through My Eyes – on becoming a teacher. John Paull 2012