You know those dreams when you’re back at school? And you’re sitting at a desk reading a GCSE exam paper? Only you don’t recognise anyone around you? Well, I am living that dream. Because, at the age of 41, I have gone back to school. And not just any school. I have gone back to my own secondary school. Only this time, I am allowed in the staffroom.

That’s right: a short 25 years after walking out of those concrete and carpeted halls, the smell of polyester jumpers and canteen chips heady on the early summer air, I am back. But now I’m training to be a teacher.

To some extent, this was inevitable due to the logistics of my life. Despite a few lessons, I have never learned to drive (my instructor asked my mum out on a date and things got so awkward so quickly I have never really been behind a steering wheel since). I also have small children at nursery and primary school nearby, which meant that I had to beg my training scheme to place me at a school I could easily cycle to.

But as I........

© The Guardian