What it means to switch off

‘Shall I move back into the shade or get in the water?’

‘Boeuf bourguignon or roast chicken?’

‘Who’s got the bite cream?’

‘Campari or Champagne?’

‘Lunch first or sandwiches on the beach?’

‘Families in cars or shall we let the children swap?’

‘Who stole my towel?’

‘Who peed in the child’s suitcase?’


With the exception of approximately three hours, in which I cracked open the laptop and did some light work, these have been as complex and as stressful as my dilemmas have been over the past two weeks.

The holiday wasn’t quite as perfect as it could have been. Rio demanded my journalist husband’s presence, so he couldn’t be there, and we missed him hugely, especially when cackling over card games, playing tickling games with the girls, changing the rules of pool and dithering over moules frites.

For some people, a house full of between 6 and 9 children (families came and went; we didn’t dispose of the annoying ones…) may not appear an ideal holiday, but we relish it, and this was our seventh year of the same main people in a new location. My mind boggles at quite how we managed it when they were all under 4 (the nappy bill was huge and at least 3 had to be held at all times, with the others requiring constant vigilance). But the kids are older now. And whilst electronic devices are still present and the cause of countless spats, they also play imaginary games of mermaids and wolves and do spontaneous clothing swaps in between driving us all mad with their losses of shoes and goggles. Average time to leave the house: ca 2 hours.

I actually had intended to do a bit more work than I actually did. (The cry of teachers everywhere?) I had intentions of spending mornings in quiet rooms with my laptop before relaxing for the afternoon. But I blinked and realised I’d spent a whole three days not once thinking about teachers or teaching. I’d cackled so hard, my stomach hurt, feasted shamelessly on amazing French food, spent tons of time lost in cuddles and strops with my daughters, and lost repeatedly and spectacularly at cards… but I hadn’t thought about work. Even the confirmation of my doctorate award, though celebrated by my friends, was marginally less important than the identification of the latest pair of pants discarded by the pool.

So I allowed  myself to drift, and before I’d blinked, another week had passed. I managed to write a piece I’d promised and read a fantastic book I’d said I’d review, but I approached these with a new energy. I have played the fool, been the clumsy one, eaten FAR too many croissants and been involved in too many inappropriate jokes to share here. I have shepherded small people through ice-cream orders (more traumatic than you may imagine), played a losing battle against mosquitoes and smugly basked as the children yelled ‘Messi!’ (yes, I have only today realised that the footballer and the word for ‘thank you’ are synonymous for most of them).

I have briefly stropped – at the stink of the plumbing and the inability of children to flush a toilet – at my terminal loathing of all supermarkets – at the French militant insistence on what is appropriate ‘eating time’ and what is not.

But mainly, I have cackled. So hard, that there have been tears. I have tried to fit my croissant-filled body through gaps that were too small, tried (and failed) to leap into a disturbingly vulva-shaped inflatable pink sofa-thing, sent table tennis balls flying in the most inept manner, consoled my petit-garcon tomboy daughter as her cap flew off the Ferris wheel, never to be seen again. And tried, and failed, to establish who peed on the clothes of my eldest.

And, having arrived home, I feel thoroughly, properly refreshed – for possibly the first time in years. And, whilst I know the croissants and local Champagne have taken their toll on my waistline and am still scratching at pesky mosquito bites, I feel better. So much better. And, as ever, lucky – to have such good fortune and good people and the freedom and resources to drop it all for a bit. And as if my edges have been somehow defined a little more clearly, and as if I have the space and permission to be proud of what I’ve achieved and the space and permission to be optimistic – very optimistic – about the challenging journey ahead. All with a whole ten days of holiday to go.

I hope you have also managed to have a break – god knows, we deserve one. Happy Summer to you all.



Almost Dr, Almost Author…

It’s been of a bit of a draggy sort of a week. I haven’t been feeling well. I’m rubbish at feeling unwell, as those who know me know far too well. Unlike my cliche-defying husband, who will shake off the most hideous of bugs in a matter of hours and get on with it, barely mentioning it, the germs make themselves constantly known and I’m filled with self-pity and irritation.

I also sat down, with an almighty sense of purpose, to Actually Start Writing My Book yesterday. From my thesis days, I should have known better and recognised sooner that it was all a bit of a write-off. The thing is that my basic premise is to Stay Positive. And so much of the data I’ve collected and the material I’ve read is startling and worrying. There are statistics around mental health that make the mind boggle. And I’m reading account after account of being undermined, overlooked, belittled and driven to the edge of breakdown (and beyond). And hearing people say, ‘it’s not going to get better any time soon’ and ‘ooh, I can’t wait to retire’. A bit like the germs, I find these things a bit hard to ignore and they get under my skin. So I sat, with phenomenal idiocy, a) trying to start my book at the beginning and b) trying to write something that would please everyone and c) trying to immediately provide an honest and balanced representation of the 4000 voices who’ve contributed. And by the end of the day, I’d achieved precisely nothing.

I even attempted the housework to feel that I’d actually achieved something on my day off.

I hauled myself and my tissues to work this morning. I’m trying not to think too much about the fact that I’m leaving another cohort of students in a couple of weeks, but it’s nagging at me too, and if I think about it too much, I feel a bit like crying.

The one of my tutor group, a confident, cheeky young lady who has recently discovered the sex scenes in Malorie Blackman and insists repeatedly on reading them aloud to the rest of the group (I worry slightly for the reaction of her strict parents) sidled up to me with a totally unexpected card which told me what a difference I’d made and that she loves all the books I’ve recommended (cynics, be still). And I gave her a hug and told her I’d better get her autograph now and that she’ll never be [sic] ‘just an ordinary teenager’ to me.

And then, after making the merest dint in a pile of marking, a usually quiet student on their way into my library lesson said, ‘I’m SO looking forward to this! I LOVE reading’ And then my starter on the Chilcot inquiry with Year 7 (non-fiction module) turned into a whole-lesson discussion on the rights and wrongs of war and revealed some of the most amazing political awareness from some of my previously reticent students. And then I stopped to comment on the really amazing vocal tone of another quiet student who reads so beautifully and discovered than when he lived in Japan he went to drama school and we wondered at the fact that he speaks Japanese, Urdu, Russian AND a bit of Spanish and how special that made him and how maybe he should think about working as an international reporter and I was so glad not to have rushed straight to my meeting.

And then I realised I’m ready to start writing. Consider this the beginning.

With the best of wishes to all and a big hoorah for the best job in the world.

Very nearly Dr Kell, very nearly author of How to Survive and Thrive in Teaching for Bloomsbury.

An injection of hope and energy

Yesterday was the craziest day. Herts to Brent to Tottenham to Westminster then home again. 2 near accidents, 2 late arrivals, phone died for an hour, emergency charger purchase AND my lipstick fell under the car seat, probably never to be seen again. My shoulders ache from gripping the steering wheel through rush-hour central London traffic.

By rights, I should be feeling thoroughly sorry for myself. But it was one of those days which incited a shift in perspective – for the better. A day of meeting like-minded people – inspiring, authentic and direct; of vibrant, happy and reflective schools and of the beginnings of a new direction for my career. In short, I’d travel 5.5 hours again in a heartbeat to be there.

I won’t tempt fate by saying much about the Tottenham bit, yet… The Brent bit represents a school where I’ve been happy and lucky (and part-time – hence blogging on a Wednesday!) and to which I will be sad to say goodbye. But it is the crazy journey to Westminster for the #womened #leadmeet, SO worthwhile for all it involved that I wish to reflect upon.

Like one of the other speakers, I was having a rather ‘Tony Blair’ sweaty moment as I ran through the door, 25 mins late, to be handed the clicker by Hannah Wilson. I’m not a natural public speaker, but Jill Berry is right – it does get far easier with each time you do it. I was all geared up for authenticity and solidarity, and I knew that is what I had in front of me, so I made eye contact, smiled, was smiled at, and the five minutes went it a whisk. I have no real memory of what I said (!) but am still kicking myself for missing two bits out:

Serendipity – women tend (more than men) to attribute their success to this – I have consistently referred to it in my studies and writing. I was lucky! I was there by chance. I applied on a whim. I didn’t for a second expect to get it. Hmm. One to think about here and a theme that echoed through the evening.

Social networking, research and suspicion – my experience is that some colleagues find my involvement in these networks worrying and this makes them wary of me. I won’t analyse this here, but I do worry that there are, increasingly, two ‘camps’ in education – those of us who, increasingly, know one another’s names, values and journeys and those who consciously eschew all social media contact. Again, one to think about.

More importantly, I wanted to share a few my take-home messages from the evening – if I were to write them all, I’d be here all day, and every speaker moved me in some way, so I apologise in advance for omissions. I got the warmth and solidarity I’d hoped for, but, more importantly, my thinking was regularly challenged by the speakers.

Yinka spoke about the importance of food for our students. I have always been shamelessly – almost slightly braggingly – rubbish with food, frequently living on Pringles or chick peas whilst my husband is away, and she made me really think about my attitude… and more important about the link between social deprivation and nutrition and the responsibility we have to make this a key priority. Trying (and failing) to quietly open a bottle of fizzy drink whilst she was speaking made me a little sheepish.

There was a lot of talk of mentors and role models and their vital importance. Strong, inspiring women have played a key role in my career journey and two women brought out that fizz of excitement and optimism in me, together with an admiration that made me feel quite emotional – the relief that there are such people out there, playing such a key role, and the frustration that there aren’t more of them. Having spent my early childhood in Italy, the Italian accent always holds a special comfort and security and hearing Alessandra, @everydaymentor, speak was a bit like receiving an in-vitro input of strength and energy. I just about resisted the urge to hurl myself at her and demand that she mentor me NOW!

Carol Jones, a former Head who looks impossibly good for being in her sixties stated her her lifelong commitment to feminism and collegiality  – and insisted we put our phones down to listen (something of a relief, I admit – multi-tasking gets exhausting after a while!). Her faith in ‘us’, as a group as potential school leaders of the future was both moving and empowering and made me almost a little tearful. She is right – we can’t wait for it to happen. We need to make it happen.

My friends, Bukky and Natalie, with whom I have shared some uncannily similar experience both did themselves – and us – entirely proud. Bukky has a voice which inspires such respect and expresses such absolute integrity and wisdom and shared numerous nuggets. In particular, an awareness of politics (something I’ve always claimed ‘not to do’) and an awareness of how we present ourselves under the spotlight as leaders really made me think. Aspiring to be owls.



Natalie admitted her nerves but spoke of issues which had so many of us murmuring agreement, and I love this photo of her – literally – getting into her stride (and inspiring major heel-envy!). Those negative voices and how to tame them.



After a brief dash out to avoid a parking ticket (success!), the inimitable Hannah Wilson ended the proceedings. For me, this was possibly the most powerful message. It was around taking control and working together to Make Things Happen. About directly challenging the pay gap by knowing our worth and being prepared to negotiate. About steeling ourselves against – and learning to expect, as Carol discussed – setbacks and rejection and staying true to our values. For me, it was about not giving up, not being a victim, perseverance and true grit.

Thank you, Hannah and Bennie, for organising a phenomenal evening.


Which way now?

I haven’t blogged for a while. This is mainly because I’ve been in the final throes of my Doctorate in Education. I PASSED the viva (you’d have to be living in a hole not to have gathered that bit). This tends to mean a teensy bit more work… an excruciating task, if I’m honest, and one I hope to finish TOMORROW (you heard it here first).

But, if you know me, online quiet is rarely a great thing, and tends to mean I’m not in the Best Place.

You see, I’m not sure what I’m doing in September. I’ve had a genuinely wonderful and happy year in my current role. I’ve learned LOADS and have gained invaluable core subject experience. Also, people are endlessly complicated – I will never again imagine I have them sussed, nor assume anything.

In recent months, I have been wary of applying for anything that might be ‘right’ (and vaguely hopeful that a role for me at the same place might be conjured up out of my temporary contract) so applications can be counted on one finger… and ultimately, I was philosophical and Not Sad that one didn’t work out. I sat back and assumed that, post-30 May-resignations, there would be a flurry of SLT posts in teaching and learning or CPD in a variety of enlightened and inspirational institutions.

Number of jobs of this type within 20 miles of my house advertised in the last 7 working days? 0.

This, against the backdrop of the literally unbelievable achievement that is (so nearly) becoming Dr Kell and a genuinely successful year in which there is so much I am proud to have achieved AND the chance to be a half-decent mother, wife and friend in my part-time role. And a book! (Yes, I joined the club – no, it’s not half as glamorous as it sounds!)

Also, my passionate and ongoing decision that I want to stay part of the fabric and rough-and-tumble and joy and challenge and thousands of daily interactions that are life in a school. And that I really, really want to get back into SLT, because I loved it and I was good at it (uncharacteristic self-praise, but I was – I like people and understand people and can get the best out of people. And I Know My Stuff. And I’m honest. And I know when to say I don’t know).

And the letting go of pipe-dreams. Part-time? Forget it. We’ll make it work somehow. Hopefully, having had a year of me every Wednesday before and after school, the girls will be  happy. MAYBE  I’ll be able to go to the odd assembly.

And then, a confession to the rising panic. And the rising worry that the doctorate and the book might actually Put People Off and that my CV might be flawed and that they might just not like my taste in shoes at all and that actually, I might just Not Be Good Enough. And the reassuring of my husband that it will be Fine and I will still bring in at least 40% of the household income and that there is really no reason to worry. And the wobbly, sick feeling that, despite knowing it doesn’t help responds inversely to attempts at suppression. And my colleague in SLT was kind enough to take a moment to let me know that she’d noticed today I Wasn’t OK; that I was in a battle with myself and close to irrational tears. Compared to my usual compulsive (probably annoying) smile and determination.

From one end of the day to the other, there are already options – some less exciting than others, but the dole queue is looking a little less likely. And I know that as long as I’m teaching young people, I’ll build relationships and continue to have those hours which pass in moments because they’re exactly what I want to be doing. And I Will Survive saying goodbye to the young people I’ve got to know so very, very well, though the thought, after 20 years in the profession, brings tears to my eyes. And they will survive too. And a little part of me hopes and thinks some of them will remember me, if only for having to repeatedly explain ‘sweated like a stallion’ from The Crucible to what became a Y8 PSHE module…

And a part of me really, passionately wants to become part of the fabric of a school again – part of the ethos and identity and challenges. To know all the children’s names and know all of the teachers’ talents and foibles. To grow with a school, overcome the blows and celebrate the triumphs.

And I really hope that I’ll be in a position to inspire and guide others to feel the same as a leader. If not now, then very soon.


I made a decision #notleavingteaching

I have been absolutely overwhelmed by the response to my article in yesterday’s GuardianTeach. Mainly by the support, but there’s something nagging.

See, I’m worried. I think that’s clear from the article. I’m also so saddened and frustrated to see so many talented people walking away from the profession I love. There are Bad Days, of course. There are frustrations, of course. Spoon-feeding Year 11s hours before deadlines eats my head and makes me wonder what we’ve taught them about resilience and independence. People don’t always behave impeccably. Not even big ones.

And I’ve vowed, through my book, that I will acknowledge this sense of injustice and rage and downright exhaustion felt by many teachers – and I won’t shy from this. But I will also be optimistic and pragmatic in my approach to these.

I love our profession (it IS a profession!). I love the corridor banter and the breakthroughs in the difficult and honest conversations with people big and small. I love the sense of buzz and purpose of a busy school day. I love the unexpected giggles with crazy Year 8s and the thank yous from the grateful Year 11s above. I love knowing that as I enter the car park, there is always at least one thing that I’m really looking forward to. I love hearing from students 15 years on and writing references (even if they are for the occasional court case). I love seeing new teachers face challenges and grow. I love the surprise Avon perfume birthday gift and marking a book to find a child has really Got It. I love feeling like Part of It All. I love the feeling of being at a place for a few years and knowing all the students and all the boltholes and open-door classrooms and staffroom hilarity.

When I started teaching, it was soon after Thatcher (one of Thatcher’s children, me) and people were wary. My parents encouraged me to re-think. Others questioned my ambition. I said, ‘you have to be in it to fight it’. And, after numerous debates with myself and with others, I still believe this.

See, with the writing and the research and everything else, I realised I have options. I’d love to train new teachers, mentor and coach existing teachers, work with universities, and these options MIGHT be possible. This is exciting and quite exhausting. ‘What are you planning to do in September?’ someone asked me today (my current lovely job was always temporary). ‘About fifty things,’ was the response. ‘But I can’t decide which ones’. I’d considered going at least partly freelance. I may still.

But there’s one thing for sure, I won’t walk away. I’d be a hypocrite to express my disappointment and sadness at those walking away and not to be in the thick of it myself. I’d be a hypocrite to empathise and listen if I didn’t know exactly how it felt. Also, young people keep me sane.

So, I don’t know quite what and I don’t know quite where I’ll be working – and I won’t work just anywhere. I firmly believe there has to be a match in ethos between teacher and employee – but I won’t be leaving teaching any time soon. Because you have to be in it to make a difference. And it would be entirely ludicrous to be writing a book called How to Survive and Thrive in Teaching if I weren’t walking the walk with the rest of you.

The transition to parenthood… learning to struggle, learning to be ‘good enough’

This blog was originally written for the #Teacher5aday Handbook and Journal and a version of it will be appearing in the forthcoming book. Contact @naomi7444 for more details.


Given that I’ve been researching the balance of teaching and parenthood for the last five years, this seems like the kind of blog I would be writing regularly. So it strikes me as quite remarkable that this is the first of its kind. Plenty of arm’s length, research-based reflections on the balance, the triumphs, the struggles of balancing teaching and parenthood but, up to now, nothing personal which reflects on that early transition to parenthood and how it combined with my career.


When it comes to the issue of balancing teaching and parenthood, I balk at any requests for ‘advice’ or ‘wisdom’. What has become increasingly apparent through life and research is that every situation is unique. I wince at the whisper of ‘parenting gurus’ and laugh at myself for the parenting guides I read during my first pregnancy. One of my early fellow-mother friends memorably described herself as ‘a Gina Ford mother without a Gina Ford baby’. As the world’s most reluctant cook, I prepared assiduously for weaning with package after frozen package of colourful Annabel Karmel recipes, all of which dribbled out of the bin bags several months later after being laughingly rejected in favour of (if we were lucky) something out of a jar or a chip. Similarly, my birth plan was a work of laughable fiction. Both of my pregnancies were ridiculously complex. I was tactfully not invited to join the tour of the birthing centre with my fellow Mums-to-be and have still never seen a birthing pool in the flesh.  I am forever the biggest admirer of the team of midwives and consultants who turned what was a series of frightening health scares for me and both my children into the two screeching, giggling, cartwheeling, Harry-Potter-junkie girls on the trampoline as I look out of my window and telling me every thirty seconds how hungry they are.


So what you hear here is as unique and as flawed and as authentic as I am as a mother – and as a teacher. These are the key lessons that becoming a parent taught me that have also touched every other element of my life and my teaching.


If I ever had to torture someone, I would deprive them of sleep

My first daughter didn’t sleep for more than three hours at a stretch until the age of fifteen months. When she woke, she would stay away for two hours at a time, feeding intermittently but mainly demanding entertainment. I returned to work when she was ten months old and remember little of that blur of a year. The results weren’t great that year… I can’t imagine quite why. Snapshot of a scene in the corridor when I colleague asked me if I was ok. ‘I’ve been awake since 3 a.m’, I said. ‘Go home’, she said, firmly and kindly. I spent hours mooning around the nightwear section of M&S.


The upshot of this is that I continue to worship my sleep, stubbornly heading to bed at 10 p.m whilst on holiday with friends and compulsively calculating my absolute minimum of 7 hours per night.


Sleep is for wimps

Becoming a parent is unpredictable

I loved being pregnant. I was enviably vomit-free and I bloomed happily, lapping up the attention my bump received and letting gallant and considerate students carry my books and beached-whaling it on the back table whilst my students wrote on the board for me. I thought I would swan equally well through maternity leave. My first birth, however, was a horror-film hell about which my husband can still not even joke. ‘Teachers are the worst’, said my midwife. I think she was talking about control and being willing to lose it. I wasn’t. Seeing the small creature for whose life we were entirely responsible lying in her car seat on our bed was the single most terrifying moment of my life. The health scare I had within hours of getting home, which involved being taken away from my baby in an ambulance was the second most terrifying. It’s hard to admit, but the first year of my first daughter’s life was a struggle for me. I was restless, self-critical, grew to resent the constant domestic chores, rivalled my husband in ‘who’s more tired?’ competitions and experienced stabs of resentment at his audacity and luck at being able to leave for work in the morning. I longed to be needed by society again and missed my department and my students and feeling useful. And the sleep-deprivation ate my head.


Nobody is indispensable


Keeping in Touch Days were therefore welcome. However, my biggest shock was learning that, after torturing myself with guilt for years at the shortest of absences, they had continued to function just fine without me. LIfe was going on! How could this possibly be? Not only that, but I was a million miles from it all. Someone asked me a question about A Level Spanish re-takes. I realised that I neither had an inkling of – nor cared – about the answer.


Through my second maternity leave, this knowledge was actually a comfort and I was able to reflect on the culture we help to create and how it can continue to grow in our absence.


Solidarity is invaluable


I don’t see as much of all of them as I should these days, but the group of fellow mothers with whom I went through the early transition to parenthood will always hold a unique and special status for me. They kept me sane. From cracking bits and blocked bits and bits that never ended up quite in the same place again, there was such huge comfort in not feeling alone. Sometimes we just sat and stared at one another in our fog of sleeplessness – and that was fine.

EDIT: I have just shared this blog with a fellow-sleep-deprived mother of the time. Her response brilliantly summarised our priorities at the time:

I remember A. and I trying to think how things could be worse – and trying to count our blessings that our kids weren’t disabled and the country wasn’t at war! I was employed by Christian Aid when I was on maternity leave and at the time there were massive floods in Pakistan and thousands lost their lives. I remember saying to my husband that I didn’t have it in me to even care and he was horrified, but the ONLY thing I cared about was sleep! 

At work, reassurance that, ‘you’re doing just great’ from a complete stranger a few months ahead of me in the journey (or light years, as it seemed at the time) led to a new and lasting friendship. There were colleagues with whom a mere shared look or shake of the head could remind me that someone else understood – and it’s been a privilege to give this back to others in subsequent years.





I remember with rather less warmth the child-free colleague who asked me, with a smirk, ‘how was your year off?’ on my first day back.


The value of schools which welcome children


In so many ways, working in London the early 2000s was a heyday that I don’t think we fully appreciated at the time. Things have changed in many schools now – and I fully understand why, as there are H&S and insurance implications that must be considered. However, with both my children, I was in a position to take them into school if I needed to. I have some very happy memories of this.


During my maternity leave with my second daughter, here was the ash cloud which left several teachers stranded all over the world. I stepped in and taught for two days with her strapped to my front in her sling. When conjunctivitis meant the childminder wasn’t an option, my first daughter spent many happy hours being wheeled and carried around the school by stroppy Year 9s and cooing at the naughtiest boys in the class. My Head at the time chucked her into the air and let me change her nappy in his office.


Second daughter in Bumbo on table of MFL office, Hendon School

Before I get too starry-eyed, having your child in school is actually the most intensely exhausting thing every. Having your two biggest priorities in the world make demands on you consecutively is uniquely draining. These are nevertheless happy memories, and I will be eternally grateful to my Head at the time for making them possible.


The joke that never got tired. ‘Is that yours?’, dozens of students would ask as I carried the child in. ‘No, I found her at a bus stop.’


This leads to my two final lessons – the two that have most profoundly influenced the way I think and feel about balancing parenthood and teaching.


Do what works – as long as no one is harmed


Parenthood is a minefield of debate and opinion. I remember a friend who struggle for weeks to breastfeed through blood and tears and was eventually forced to give up. Living in Ealing, she was so mortified at bottle-feeding her child that she used to go home to do it rather than be seen in public. From the bum-on, side-on fierce nappy changing to co-sleeping to baby-led weaning, it can be worse than politics and religion at a dinner party with strangers.


Likewise, abandoning your child to go back to work. Not only was taking a few years off not financially feasible, but I wanted to go back to work! Yes. I love coming home to my children, but I continue to take great pride in – and ownership of – my decision to pursue my career – and my doctorate.


Do what’s right for you and your family. If it isn’t putting anyone in any danger, it’s FINE. End of debate.


Good enough

Like so many of my blogs, this one ends with a mantra that has (quite literally, at times) kept me sane. Amidst the birthing guides and the how-to-be-a-perfect-parent manuals, a friend introduced me to Winnicott’s concept of Good Enough. It was like a liberation. It didn’t happen overnight, but gradually, I stopped worrying about the housework so much. I stopped resenting my husband over the piles of washing up. I figured that a true friend was visiting to see me, not admire my cleaning skills.


At work, I learned to say ‘no’ to unreasonable demands. I learned that if I had to leave at 4.00 to pick up my kids, that was just the way it was. I gradually let go of what I observe to be the biggest scourge amongst many of the most talented teachers I know – perfectionism. I learned to laugh at the disasters (as long as no one was hurt) and conceal the wet patch on my top during the Year 8 lesson and not leave the baby on the bed again whilst I had a shower… And, as they’ve grown, I’ve learned that children don’t require perfection. Children have the emotional intelligence to understand that people have flaws and limitations and send them into school in a fairy outfit on the wrong day…


Survival… and more

The unconditional devotion I have for my children and the stubbornly optimistic commitment I have for my career are – and have to be – good enough.