I remember the first time I realised I was brilliant. I was in year 3, and we had just sat one of those statewide tests in mathematics. My teacher, a tight-lipped 50-something who never joked except on the last day of term, handed out everyone’s certificates in order of how well they’d done (insane) – starting with those who had received a “Participation”, then the “Credits”, and finally the lauded “Distinctions”. I didn’t know what any of those words meant. All I knew was that, when she’d reached the end of the Distinctions, I was the only one left sitting empty-handed.

Is it possible to create a culture where instead of lauding gifted children, we celebrate the ordinary?Credit: Getty Images

“You may have noticed Eleanor didn’t receive anything”, she said ominously, returning to the front of the room. “That’s because she received a different mark. It starts with an H. Can anyone guess what it is?”

My heart thudded. I had no idea what she was implying, but suspected it wasn’t good. Had I somehow gotten a zero? Did H stand for Horrible?

Nobody guessed. They were probably too........

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