Set 2 Homework
Design a leaflet for lower school pupils informing them what to do if they are being bullied or know of somebody being bullied.
It should also provide other information relating to the issue of bullying.
Wednesday, 24 November 2010
Mr Cameron's Class - Set 1 English
Controlled Assessment – Creative Writing Example
When I recall my grandparents I find along with that recollection what I would describe as a tangle of feelings that needs some unravelling. This is not for negative reasons, but rather that I experienced the pain of losing them as an older child/teenager, as well as the undoubted impact they had for good upon my young life.
How could I forget for example the occasion I travelled with my Grandpa (my mother’s father) as a kid on the bus. It was to a primary school event, and for some reason I was worried about something. I can’t recall what, exactly – whether it was that we might be late getting there, or that I’d forgotten something I’m not sure, but what I do recall clearly was his calm assurance to me that, “in most situations, everything works out all right!” It was just the reassurance I needed at the time, as an impressionable young child, and it has stayed with me ever since. A trivial enough situation it might seem, but out of such “small events” our lives are shaped and moulded, one way or another.
My other grandfather was “granddad” to me. We all loved him because he was lots of fun to be around: always laughing and joking, or tickling us. He had us squealing with laughter, though the tickling often prompted the happy protest, “Don’t Grandad!” In fact, he heard this so much, that when he took the time to write down his own childhood memories for us grandchildren, these two words became the title of the piece. He taught me fishing, French cricket, knot-tying, lashing things together with string or twine, and some gardening skills as well.
His house was very old-fashioned to my mind – dark rooms, old-style furniture, mantelpieces full of various objects and faded photographs, paintings on the walls, clocks ticking quietly in the background.... He and my gran would share a leisurely breakfast with toast, cut in half and cooling on the toast rack, a pot of marmalade with a spoon, and freshly brewed tea in a pot, made with loose tea-leaves, while he puzzled over the clues in the Times crossword.
And then he was gone. I’m not sure how much I’d noticed him going downhill. However, it was not so long after he began to deteriorate that he died in his sleep. He had had cancer. Now, as an eleven-year-old, I wasn’t old enough for the emotion of grief to hit me in any real depth. I struggled to relate the silent coffin at the funeral to the man I had known as Grandad. I do know that the qualities which made him what he was: his integrity, his faith, his hard work and his sense of fun, have all had a strong impact on me.
My mother’s father (Grandpa) was alive for a few more years. From about the age of ten, I suppose because then I was old enough to appreciate it, he began to write some longer letters to me, some of several pages in length. I treasured these: there is something very personal about a letter that can be lost a little these days in our world of instant-messaging and email. Maybe the previous generation have something to teach us here. Although my Grandpa had four of us grandchildren on our side of the family alone, how special it was to find a letter addressed specifically to me from him. I had been picked out, and felt privileged and valued. He was a good letter-writer
When I recall my grandparents I find along with that recollection what I would describe as a tangle of feelings that needs some unravelling. This is not for negative reasons, but rather that I experienced the pain of losing them as an older child/teenager, as well as the undoubted impact they had for good upon my young life.
How could I forget for example the occasion I travelled with my Grandpa (my mother’s father) as a kid on the bus. It was to a primary school event, and for some reason I was worried about something. I can’t recall what, exactly – whether it was that we might be late getting there, or that I’d forgotten something I’m not sure, but what I do recall clearly was his calm assurance to me that, “in most situations, everything works out all right!” It was just the reassurance I needed at the time, as an impressionable young child, and it has stayed with me ever since. A trivial enough situation it might seem, but out of such “small events” our lives are shaped and moulded, one way or another.
My other grandfather was “granddad” to me. We all loved him because he was lots of fun to be around: always laughing and joking, or tickling us. He had us squealing with laughter, though the tickling often prompted the happy protest, “Don’t Grandad!” In fact, he heard this so much, that when he took the time to write down his own childhood memories for us grandchildren, these two words became the title of the piece. He taught me fishing, French cricket, knot-tying, lashing things together with string or twine, and some gardening skills as well.
His house was very old-fashioned to my mind – dark rooms, old-style furniture, mantelpieces full of various objects and faded photographs, paintings on the walls, clocks ticking quietly in the background.... He and my gran would share a leisurely breakfast with toast, cut in half and cooling on the toast rack, a pot of marmalade with a spoon, and freshly brewed tea in a pot, made with loose tea-leaves, while he puzzled over the clues in the Times crossword.
And then he was gone. I’m not sure how much I’d noticed him going downhill. However, it was not so long after he began to deteriorate that he died in his sleep. He had had cancer. Now, as an eleven-year-old, I wasn’t old enough for the emotion of grief to hit me in any real depth. I struggled to relate the silent coffin at the funeral to the man I had known as Grandad. I do know that the qualities which made him what he was: his integrity, his faith, his hard work and his sense of fun, have all had a strong impact on me.
My mother’s father (Grandpa) was alive for a few more years. From about the age of ten, I suppose because then I was old enough to appreciate it, he began to write some longer letters to me, some of several pages in length. I treasured these: there is something very personal about a letter that can be lost a little these days in our world of instant-messaging and email. Maybe the previous generation have something to teach us here. Although my Grandpa had four of us grandchildren on our side of the family alone, how special it was to find a letter addressed specifically to me from him. I had been picked out, and felt privileged and valued. He was a good letter-writer
Mr Cameron's Class - Set 1 English
Examples of Macbeth response!
Controlled Assessment – Creative Writing, Re-creations
Using the situation in Shakespeare’s “Macbeth”
The drip of the blood from his hands held him in a hypnotic grip – he watched in a fascination of fear as the rich drops of another man’s life arced unstoppably through the air to explode in ineradicable crimson upon the innocent floor, each splash screaming “guilty”, “guilty”, “guilty”, in the depths of his tormented soul.
What had he done...? Worse, what had he become...? The sticky red horror of his hands was a living metaphor of his stained conscience, presented before his very eyes. In the twisted confusion of his mind, he yet knew that, although it would be the work of minutes to wash the blood off, no water, no flood or oceanic torrent even, could ever remove the fearful imprint of “murder” from the fabric of his being.
And all done, all gruesomely pursued to satisfy his insatiable, gnawing ambition, to be…what? King, master of it all, holder of the strings of power. Well, he had it now, didn’t he? But at a price too frightening to consider.
As he stood in silent contemplation, the events of the past week came crashing into his consciousness. Where had it all begun? With the strangest of visitations and promises. Just four days ago, a group of three women had suddenly stopped him in the street… He had been arrested first of all by the ugliness on display – their skin sallow and sickly, their mouths thin and cruel. Their words however gripped him like a vice: “The top job, Macbeth – it’s coming your way. You’re going to have it all; the wealth, the status, the power.” The eyes of the speaker had bored into his very soul, but just as a thousand questions filled his mind, demanding answers, they were gone – completely vanished!
Had he dreamt it? No, it had been all too real, just like the raging ambition awakened by their words of apparent promise, ambition that threatened to engulf him in its insistent power. To be in charge, head of the empire of which he had only been a part – it was all he’d ever longed for! So why had that longing been linked from the start with an image in his mind so foul, so horrific, so underhand and full of bloody betrayal that his mind recoiled from it, yet couldn’t leave it alone…
And then her part in it all. She, whose ambition was so in tune with his, that it seemed impossible to say where one ended and the other began. And yet, when he’d told her of the strange, almost supernatural women’s words, it was like a living force, a fearsome power within her took over. He’d never seen her like that, as if all her gentle, feminine side had been ripped out of her. Where had her conscience gone? His was a tortured mess – he knew only too well the appalling evil of the deed they were contemplating. Cold-blooded, heartless, ruthless, sickening murder.
The more the rampant wickedness of it screamed at him, the more he’d wanted out of it. Until she’d started on him. Emotionally, she turned butcher, the knife of her words hacking away at his very heart and soul: “Not a man in my eyes unless you kill.” Oh, the power she wielded over him – it was frightening to consider, seemed impossible to resist. And so he’d agreed. Dancing a twisted, destructive dance into the vortex of evil…
He looked again at his hands. Why was the dead man’s blood so shockingly red? It seemed it must preach his guilt to every living soul. It had already pronounced sentence on him: that he’d not only plunged the knife into the man he’d sworn to serve, but also into any chance of his finding rest or sleep for the remainder of his days – he, Macbeth, had murdered sleep itself, and would therefore never sleep again.
Controlled Assessment – Creative Writing, Re-creations
Using the situation in Shakespeare’s “Macbeth”
The drip of the blood from his hands held him in a hypnotic grip – he watched in a fascination of fear as the rich drops of another man’s life arced unstoppably through the air to explode in ineradicable crimson upon the innocent floor, each splash screaming “guilty”, “guilty”, “guilty”, in the depths of his tormented soul.
What had he done...? Worse, what had he become...? The sticky red horror of his hands was a living metaphor of his stained conscience, presented before his very eyes. In the twisted confusion of his mind, he yet knew that, although it would be the work of minutes to wash the blood off, no water, no flood or oceanic torrent even, could ever remove the fearful imprint of “murder” from the fabric of his being.
And all done, all gruesomely pursued to satisfy his insatiable, gnawing ambition, to be…what? King, master of it all, holder of the strings of power. Well, he had it now, didn’t he? But at a price too frightening to consider.
As he stood in silent contemplation, the events of the past week came crashing into his consciousness. Where had it all begun? With the strangest of visitations and promises. Just four days ago, a group of three women had suddenly stopped him in the street… He had been arrested first of all by the ugliness on display – their skin sallow and sickly, their mouths thin and cruel. Their words however gripped him like a vice: “The top job, Macbeth – it’s coming your way. You’re going to have it all; the wealth, the status, the power.” The eyes of the speaker had bored into his very soul, but just as a thousand questions filled his mind, demanding answers, they were gone – completely vanished!
Had he dreamt it? No, it had been all too real, just like the raging ambition awakened by their words of apparent promise, ambition that threatened to engulf him in its insistent power. To be in charge, head of the empire of which he had only been a part – it was all he’d ever longed for! So why had that longing been linked from the start with an image in his mind so foul, so horrific, so underhand and full of bloody betrayal that his mind recoiled from it, yet couldn’t leave it alone…
And then her part in it all. She, whose ambition was so in tune with his, that it seemed impossible to say where one ended and the other began. And yet, when he’d told her of the strange, almost supernatural women’s words, it was like a living force, a fearsome power within her took over. He’d never seen her like that, as if all her gentle, feminine side had been ripped out of her. Where had her conscience gone? His was a tortured mess – he knew only too well the appalling evil of the deed they were contemplating. Cold-blooded, heartless, ruthless, sickening murder.
The more the rampant wickedness of it screamed at him, the more he’d wanted out of it. Until she’d started on him. Emotionally, she turned butcher, the knife of her words hacking away at his very heart and soul: “Not a man in my eyes unless you kill.” Oh, the power she wielded over him – it was frightening to consider, seemed impossible to resist. And so he’d agreed. Dancing a twisted, destructive dance into the vortex of evil…
He looked again at his hands. Why was the dead man’s blood so shockingly red? It seemed it must preach his guilt to every living soul. It had already pronounced sentence on him: that he’d not only plunged the knife into the man he’d sworn to serve, but also into any chance of his finding rest or sleep for the remainder of his days – he, Macbeth, had murdered sleep itself, and would therefore never sleep again.
Tuesday, 23 November 2010
Yr 10 Controlled Assessment Planning Sheet
http://store.aqa.org.uk/admin/crf_pdf/AQA-ENGLISH-W-CN-11.PDF
Should you require a planning sheet at home, click on the link above.
Should you require a planning sheet at home, click on the link above.
Monday, 22 November 2010
Year 10 - Don't forget that Controlled Assessments will take place in class the week beginning the 5th December 2010
Ms Norris's class are preparing for the task - Write about a film that you have watched taking into account achievements within the genre and its appeal to the audience.
We've now watched and analysed 'Coach Carter' so we now need to begin writing it! Remember to write with a style that hooks the reader in right from the start - don't just tell the story - make it interesting!
Consider the following to get you started:
What are the film's main achievements?
How could someone who doesn't like basketball be persuaded to see the film?
What are the themes of the film?
What's its overall message?
How did the film make YOU feel? What's your overall response?
Good luck!
Ms Norris
We've now watched and analysed 'Coach Carter' so we now need to begin writing it! Remember to write with a style that hooks the reader in right from the start - don't just tell the story - make it interesting!
Consider the following to get you started:
What are the film's main achievements?
How could someone who doesn't like basketball be persuaded to see the film?
What are the themes of the film?
What's its overall message?
How did the film make YOU feel? What's your overall response?
Good luck!
Ms Norris
Monday, 8 November 2010
Yr 10 Mr Carroll's class.
This is the next Controlled Assessment task to be undertaken in 4 weeks time.
Use a literary text you have read as a springboard for a piece of writing about an aspect of your own life or an aspect of young people’s lives.
For example, a poem from ‘Relationships’ could be used to write about a significant relationship in your life.
A text from a different culture – prose, drama or poetry – could be used to write about issues of cultural diversity
You need to be thinking about this now in preparation for December.
Good Luck
Mr Carroll
Yr 11 Don't forget........
Wednesday is the Paper 2.
Get revising and learn those poems........
REVISION CLASS TOMORROW @ 3.00pm for all English classes.
Mr Carroll
Get revising and learn those poems........
REVISION CLASS TOMORROW @ 3.00pm for all English classes.
Mr Carroll
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