Rogues’ Blog: Local Leader Devastated to Learn Policy Was Supposed to Do Something

The Rogues’ Blog. Episode 2

By Leadership, proud father of The Laminator

Fictional satire. Companion to The Laminator, Episode 10: A Beautiful Finish

I raised my son properly.

Please remember that before judging the events of this morning.

From the moment he could hold an A4 sheet without creasing it, I taught him the values that underpin any successful institution: presentation, procedure and never agreeing to anything while somebody is taking minutes.

Other fathers stood on touchlines shouting, “Keep your eye on the ball.”

I stood beside the office printer shouting, “Leave a border.”

And he did. God love him, he did.

This morning, my firstborn presented me with our new Inclusion Policy.

Thirty-two pages. Rounded corners. A finish so beautiful I could see myself in it, which is always reassuring in a document about other people.

“Dad,” he whispered. “It’s done.”

I put my hand on his warm plastic shoulder.

“You’ve made me very proud.”

We stood there for a moment. Two generations. One vision. No fingerprints.

Then someone asked whether anything would change.

A teacher, naturally.

She wanted time to plan. Adapted materials. Support in the classroom.

I explained that all three were mentioned in the policy.

“Yes,” she said. “But will we get them?”

I looked at my son. He looked at me.

Nobody had prepared him for this level of ingratitude.

Next came a parent.

She said her child still couldn’t access the building, the timetable or the learning.

I showed her the word accessible. Page seven. Bold.

She said that wasn’t what she meant.

This is the difficulty with consultation. People arrive with their own meanings for words we have already approved.

I raised the Ear Shield.

“I hear you.”

She continued.

I checked the batteries.

My son was beginning to wobble.

“But Dad,” he said, “I followed every step.”

“You did.”

“I used the template.”

“You did.”

“I even put the child at the centre.”

He had. There was a lovely diagram. The child was surrounded by six departments and an arrow that went nowhere.

It had taken him all afternoon to get the circles evenly spaced.

I called an emergency leadership meeting.

Within twelve minutes, we identified the problem.

Implementation had entered the process without an invitation.

There was no standing item for it. No agreed terms of reference. Nothing in the minutes authorising anyone to expect the document to influence events outside the document.

We established a working group to determine how this misunderstanding had arisen.

For balance, we invited somebody who had never read the policy.

I chaired.

Communications suggested a launch.

At last. A practical person.

We arranged a photographer, a pull-up banner and a child-sized pair of scissors. The child couldn’t attend because the support needed to get them there hadn’t been arranged.

We proceeded in their spirit.

My son held the policy. I held the scissors. The photographer asked us to move closer together.

For one glorious moment, inclusion was achieved by everyone taking half a step to the left.

That evening, somebody commented beneath the photograph:

“What has actually changed?”

My son read it three times.

“Why are people so negative, Dad?”

I nearly broke.

He had done everything we taught him. Completed the training. Followed the procedure. Made the announcement. He had even stayed late to remove a bubble from the equality statement.

And now strangers expected him to know what happened next.

I had never told him there was a next.

We have since reviewed the policy.

The wording remains excellent.

The photograph has performed well.

The teacher is still waiting for planning time. The parent is still waiting for support. Both have been thanked for their patience, although neither recalls offering any.

My son asked whether we should reopen the document.

“Absolutely not,” I said. “You’ll let the air in.”

Tomorrow, we launch the implementation framework.

He’s warming up already.