Ofsted the undead

Tsk. Back again, the Ofsted vampire, clawing its way out the coffin and, under cover of darkness, creeping into the news again.

It is like some sad little creepy thing that won't slide off and die, honourably.

Here it comes, crawling, sucking the life blood out of parents, teachers, children; drip by drip seeking to sap the strength of us all as we go about our lives, creating educations we believe in. And each time the Ofsted undead leave their betraying little puncture marks in our necks, they seek to do a bit more harm, a bit more damage to us all.

Which makes me think there is a malignant presence, if not on the government front bench, but there, creeping around Parliament, seeping through the civil service, providing safe shelter for the vampiric undead. Someone, somewhere - for what reason I don't know but guess - some undead corpse needs to see every child locked in school.

And if not school, then as near as close can be, logged and databased, better to be accessed. At home then, where Ofsted can inspect. Home education becomes home schooling, and every family a part of the control.

But this time, they've mistimed. Here they want every child registered, for any authority to come calling.

Haven't we heard this before? The Ofsted fag end is the last gasp of an argument feebly thrown. It is nothing more than admittance of their failure to find harm. They find stories of success; they hear enthusiasm, positive lives. In return, they offer the regurgitation of a discredited review; the demand to access; then nothing. Nothing beyond the spread of innuendo, suspicion, mistrust.

I should thank Christine, really.

Part of me is deeply bored by the exhausted, worn out hollow shell of the Ofsted undead, and I am so very tired of watching their ancient sagging bodies sneak between us, feeding off the living.

But a part of me celebrates. Because did I ever love eating garlic and spitting back that barbarous sting.