IT was a bright sunny Monday morning, but I was in the middle of a waking
nightmare.
What was I, an English teacher, doing sitting in a maths classroom?
Supporting a pupil with special needs, supposedly, as part of a career change
fuelled by teacher shortage, my bank manager and a cat with cordon-bleu
tastes.
But the memories came flooding back: the days of sweaty humiliation in school
as I wrestled with sums, the sadistic red pen of Miss Castle, the grim maths
teacher, as she got to work on my tragically wrong answers. A life of
desperation, ripped pages,…
