Everything I did at that time seemed to incur the wrath of some venerable Master-a borrowed coffee-mug sitting in the wrong chair during the Headmaster’s Briefing the innocent suggestion that we change an antiquated syllabus to one that would yield better results. Political correctness was at a minimum academic gowns were still worn, both by Masters and Prefects Latin was compulsory. I was one of only a handful of women on the staff. To me, Leeds Grammar School felt like a very male, very old environment. The fact that I liked stories too came as a useful bonus: schools are full of stories, and though it may often be draining, demoralizing and hard, teaching is never boring.Īnd so I became a teacher first in a state school in Dewsbury, then at a private boys’ grammar school in Leeds, where my youth, gender and generally combative disposition made me stand out like the single flamingo in a flock of grey geese. With such a start, and with so many stories of teaching already in my head, I seemed predestined for teaching. Some of her pupils still recall a little girl who spoke French, who sat under the teacher’s desk, drawing on pieces of scrap paper. Thus I was literally breast-fed the atmosphere of the High School the scent of floor polish and plimsolls, school cabbage, chalk and cut grass.
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