You know those dreams when you’re back at school? And you’re sitting at a desk reading a GCSE exam paper? Only you don’t recognise anyone around you? Well, I am living that dream. Because, at the age of 41, I have gone back to school. And not just any school. I have gone back to my own secondary school. Only this time, I am allowed in the staffroom.
That’s right: a short 25 years after walking out of those concrete and carpeted halls, the smell of polyester jumpers and canteen chips heady on the early summer air, I am back. But now I’m training to be a teacher.
