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I stopped crying at once. Damn you, I thought. I’ll show you

when the children were young and went on being a gift when my father was old.

Then in early May 2016, he died. Three days later I went back to work — because it was what Dad himself would have done. he didn’t like a fuss and thought it was important to get on with life.

ALL around me, my colleagues were looking busy and important. I scrolled through the news and a thought presented itself to me. I can’t do this any more.

As I entertained the idea, it grew to fill my whole head. I had to get out. But what could I do? I was 57 and had spent almost my whole adult life doing one thing.

I don’t think I was especially depressed; I was just unhappy and monumentally stuck. I had been doing the same thing for too long and was worn out mentally, physically and emotionally. What on earth was I going to do with all the time I had left?

In the week after Dad died, I found myself thinking of the shortage of teachers and rang the Government’s helpline.

Me: I’m 57 and am thinking of becoming a teacher. Am I too old? Man on the telephone: No, there’s no maximum age.

I told him I wanted to teach maths. I had no desire to be an english teacher like Mum — a lifetime of writing meant I’d had it with words.

What I felt I wanted was the certainty of numbers, and maths was my favourite subject at school. It was a decision taken lightly, considering I last did maths in 1977 and only got a B at A-level.

The man on the phone assured me I could teach maths without a degree in it. I hung up feeling light-headed. Maybe I’ll actually do this, I thought. In the next few weeks, I tried the idea out on everyone I met. half thought it a splendid plan, half did not. Gideon Rachman, my friend and fellow columnist at the FT, leaned back in his chair and laughed.

‘let me get this straight,’ he said. ‘You’d be leaving a job that is well paid, that you’re good at, that is glamorous and flexible — for something badly paid with low status that you’d probably be rubbish at.’

I remember looking at him sitting complacently in his chair in his office with its view of the Thames and thinking: you may be happy in your gilded cage but the door of mine has unexpectedly sprung open.

In November 2016, I wrote a column telling readers I was quitting the following summer.

The morning before my story was due to appear, I was scooped on my own news by another newspaper. I read the article — and started to cry. It was as if, in the frantic excitement of preparing for my new working life, it hadn’t occurred to me I was actually leaving my old one.

I stood by my orange counter in my dressing gown, convulsed in sobs. I’d done something irrevocable. As I howled, I read the story and then the comments underneath.

The first said: ‘A loathsome PR stunt from a patronising corporate class. Teaching is not like running an artisan bakery in Shoreditch.’

THE second: ‘Good luck. Journalism into teaching. What could possibly go wrong? I look forward to her article “Why I left teaching” in two years.’

I stopped crying at once. Damn you, I thought, pulling myself together. I will show you.

Not all the comments were quite so hostile but everyone agreed on one thing: this woman does not know what she’s letting herself in for. On that point, at least, they could not have been more right. n AdApted by Corinna Honan from Re-educated: How I Changed My Job, My Home, My Husband And My Hair, by Lucy Kellaway, published by ebury on July 1 at £16.99. © Lucy Kellaway 2021. to order a copy for £15.12 (offer valid to 26.6.21; UK p&p free on orders over £20), visit www.mailshop. co.uk/books or call 020 3308 9193.

Belmooney

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2021-06-12T07:00:00.0000000Z

2021-06-12T07:00:00.0000000Z

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