The other day I was preparing for a Year 7 lesson in the classroom at break time. Some Year 11 pupils were in the room and started using inappropriate (or “inapport” as one of my pupils wrote of his behaviour, at least I think he meant inappropriate. Who knows? Maybe he grew up in Grimsby) language – by which I mean words like fuck and shit, not going over to France and trying to communicate by talking very loudly and slowly (a tactic often used by inexperienced maths teachers to explain algebra to 12 year olds). I turn and look at them and they asked “Are you a teacher?!”. I told them that I was. “Really? You look too young.”

Well, that explains why nobody bloody listens to me round here. I have a problem with the office staff thinking I’m a pupil. On one occasion I politely asked them for a key to a room and was greeted with a rather terse: “What do you want it for?”

“Oh I was planning on graffiti tagging the place then taking a wizz in the desk draw, then maybe chewing some gum and sticking it to the teacher’s chair.” Is the kind of sarcastic response that leads to people failing their “Professional Values and Practice” QTS standard, so I mumbled something about forgetting my bag; too embarrassed to explain that I was actually trying to teach a sodding class.

I really need to get a bit older, but as it happens I was reluctantly planning on doing this anyway.