Dotards like me are prone to drone on about what bliss it was to be young in the Summer of Love in 1967. I’m afraid it’s still the case. But it was even more blissful to be doing my PGCE at the Institute of Education in that year. The place reflected those fabulously dizzy times and was the most thrilling intellectual environment I’ve ever known – fierce, funny, politically sussed and passionate about state education – all a rather far cry from our present, pusillanimous times.
My teachers included such luminaries as Basil Bernstein, Jimmy Britton and Harold Rosen, whose ideas about language, learning and class made me keenly aware of the tyranny of my own middle class articulacy and of the often-unacknowledged voices of my working class pupils.
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