Yesterday, I did some tuition for my neighbour's daughter who is studying A-Level English. In my previous, pre-illness incarnation, I was an English teacher. I was working in a high school, heavily pregnant with the baby, the others two kids at nursery when I was diagnosed.
Although we're skint, I haven't really been in a rush to go back to work. I want to spend time with Hattie as I missed out on so much at the beginning. And really, I'm pretty sure that although I've taught on and off for the last seventeen years I don't want to resurrect my teaching career. I'm considering re-training in social work when Hattie is three.
But, last night I really, really enjoyed talking about Philip Larkin. It was good to feel useful and productive in a wider context rather than just on the domestic front, and good to use my brain in a different way again. It reminded me that teaching literature to A-Level students was always the best part of the job for me - mostly because it makes me read and re-read all the greatest stuff, and because it's the best fun discussing it and encouraging students to love it too. After all, since childhood reading has always been my fiercest passion.
Maybe there's life in this old teacher yet!
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