Have I said I always wanted to be a teacher? Many times, I hear you mutter. So boring, never wavering, always on about education.Et cetera, et cetera.

Well, now is the time to admit, that isn’t entirely true. I’ll try and explain.

In June 1976 I finally obtained my degree by the skin of my teeth from Sheffield University. Dual Honours Spanish and English.  Two two.  Not brilliant, but better than expected considering how little work I did, but nonetheless disappointing considering what I could have got if I’d done my coursework. (My darling professor of Spanish, Frank Pierce, sent me a glowing testimonial bearing the figures of a better result, obviously written before my exams)

But that’s not the point. I’d finished my course and wanted to be a teacher. But I also wanted a year off. Which I had. I went to France on a dig, and was going to stay grape picking. Meanwhile my grandmother became ill and I came back. I also had an interview with the General Refugee Council which came earlier than expected. I didn’t get the job and my mother insisted that I did not give up everything to look after my gran, so I began a series of temporary jobs, eventually landing in the General Dental Council in Wimpole Street as a proof reader, of their register of dentists. Not exciting at all but the atmosphere was great – lots of hunky firemen doing temporary work too, and we all had afternoon  tea and cream cakes at 4 to 4 15 in a separate dedicated beautifully furnished tea room.  Bliss.

That lasted six months or so and then I was free, with some money in my pocket.

That’s when I decided to go to Poland and do some private tutoring. I wrote a bit about that in my post Bookmarks.

While in Poland it became clear to me that I actually still wanted to be a teacher. I applied back to Sheffield University where I still had a load of friends, went for an interview on my return, and the most significant question was of course why did you want to become a teacher? My answer was to be better than the teachers I had.

I got in.

I went to lectures. I made a lot of friends. I went on teaching practice. The first fortnight was in a primary school. I was twenty four and I started going grey. Forty tiny children squealing. An unmitigated nightmare.  But still undaunted I carried on. Read lots of books. Listened to my tutors. Wrote some essays about anthropology. And children’s literature. Attended a course called Creative Insights into Human Growth.  Delicious navel gazing, and creative writing.  Oh so useless in a Sheffield comprehensive.

My enthusiasm and my accent did not go down well In Chesterfield Girls School. At the end of four weeks the Head of English regaled me with a scroll of all my faults and mistakes, which she unrolled with great panache in front of everyone in the staff room. I was devastated.

She did then proceed to cheer me up by saying that despite not being able to teach I was an asset to the staffroom as I could help with the Guardian  crossword! I only did that because there was nowhere for me to sit (everyone had their own place) and so I would stand behind the vicar and whisper the answers to him and his cronies.

I was going to give up there and then, but I had booked a week at Beatrice Webb House for a great course and there I was persuaded to carry on. 

After that Christmas I went back to Sheffield, slightly more enthused again, and started my third round of teaching practice. An enormous catholic comprehensive, on two sites.

The sixth form site was great, and I finally came into my own as a teacher, apart from being agony aunt to a load of ancient masters who couldn’t cope with the abolition of capital – sorry – corporal  punishment, and the fact that their wives were becoming more independent by the day!

The 11 to 16 sixteen site was a different kettle of fish altogether and it did not suit me at all.

After a couple of weeks my grandmother died, and I had to go back to London. With six weeks left of teaching practice, and more lectures and essays, my term didn’t end till a few weeks after everyone else. By then I discovered that I really couldn’t teach. No one in the school had any confidence in me, so I was never left alone in the classroom.  The kids laughed at my accent, and the staff were equally unkind. 

I hated every moment of it.  The only people who willed me to continue were my two tutors who somehow passed my observations. I don’t know what they could see that no-one else did, but somehow they made it work.

I ended up with a PGCE in English and Drama. Eek.  

I was determined by then never to set foot inside a school again. The grey streaks in my hair had doubled , but luckily i discovered henna.

But I was NOT NOT NOT going to teach.

On the last day as I was saying goodbye to my tutor he asked me if I’d applied for any jobs in teaching. I laughed. No, I said, I hate it and I’m no good at it. 

He persuaded me nevertheless to apply for a post in a school where he knew the head of English. He’ d already told her I was going to apply, and made me feel I had to. Out of politeness. He also reassured me that he’d said the same to another student on my course, so I was in fact convinced that Mike was the better candidate and I was just there as fodder.

I half heartedly applied but in the meantime I had worked out that what I really wanted to be was a newsreader, and so I applied to the monitoring service of the BBC, as a stepping stone.

After a couple of weeks I had an interview in Caversham. It was like going back in time, to the war years. Everywhere there were signs Top Secret, the atmosphere was muted , the women all had 1940s hairstyles and holland print dresses and I was led, not quite blindfolded, to a private room where I was asked to translate several newsreels from Spanish to English and from Polish to English.  Then a long general knowledge, current affairs quiz, and I was off home again. It was hard, but I was quite excited. 

A couple of weeks later I had an interview for the teaching job in Esher Sixth Form College.

There were four candidates. Two women, two men. The other three were loud, entitled and super confident.I felt very intimidated.I didn’t know what to make of them or the school.

During my interview  I remember the chair of governors asking me the connexion between Spanish and English literature. I gave a long spiel about Henry Fielding and Cervantes, but wondered what this had to do with teaching.  The head of department asked me some questions about poetry, which again elicited more enthusiasm from me. 

I went back to the staffroom where we were told to wait.  Nobody actually told me what we were waiting for, and as I had a two hour bus journey home, after about twenty minutes of listening to the others tell me why they thought they had got the job, I got my stuff and walked down the long drive to the gate.  It was a nice day and I was admiring the grounds when suddenly I heard some panting behind me. It was Helena Fotherby, Head of Department, trying to catch me up, asking at the top of her voice, Don’t you want this job, then?  

I turned round, gaped at her, and siad yes please.  But I thought one of the others had  got it. 

She pooh poohed that in her inimitable no nonsense way. and told me I’d got it because I like poetry I walked back with her, signed a contract, and so began my teaching career.  As for the the other Sheffield student, he didn’t get an interview, because apparently he was so convinced the job was his that his application form was more lackadaisical than mine. ( I only found that out when I left, three years later.

And the BBC?

They missed the boat with me, as they offered me a job a day later. Too late. I’d already committed to the next 43 years

From what I hear now people often wait to see what better offers they have, but that wasn’t the case when I began my career. You could refuse an offer, but no one would wait. Is it better now?