So the testing begins.

“No but seriously Miss, no one puts us in seating plans.” That’s a lie.

“Ahhhh Miss, loads of teachers let us chew gum.” That’s also a lie.

“Miss why do we have to do so much writing in English?” Sometimes it’s difficult to know what to say.

I had been warned and I thought I’d taken it on board, the promise that the second week is far harder than the first. The intense nervousness fades and if anything you start to relax, which is dangerous, because that’s when they start testing you. Is Miss Eastwood really going to hold that detention? Is she really going to call your parents?

It’s very difficult. I am planning every night and arrive at school not long after half seven most mornings. I know that I will become more efficient but in the meantime it’s a question of bracing myself against the slog. Most evenings I grumble about school with my housemates, plan a few lessons, then fall asleep on the sofa. My social life is dwindling rapidly.

The challenge in school is of course greater than time management. I’ve been sworn at and laughed at. One of my classes hates me in exactly the way I worried a class could. They call me posh and short. One of them goes on and on about how “Miss listens to rock music”, not that I’ve ever mentioned it. Another treats me to backhanded compliments like “You actually look alright today Miss.” They mostly just chuck slang at me, because they’re sure I won’t understand. I got totally boyed, I’ve got no swagger, I’m long. The quieter ones just watch you, wishing you’d gain control. They are tired of being in classes with disruptive pupils, far more tired than I am of teaching those classes.

But there is light at the end of the tunnel. One of my other classes likes me for every reason I would have never imagined. I am geekishly enthusiastic, and they laugh with me, I am strict, and they respect that. This was the class who, when I showed my colleagues the class list, caused sharp intakes of breath and muttered “good luck with that”. The two most notorious characters slept through my first lesson and after a quiet word with them at the end they came back falling over themselves to clean the board and hand out the books.

“Miss,” announced one, “I’ve had a good night’s sleep, I’m taking off my jacket and…” cheeky smile, “I’ve brought my homework.”

I am flabbergasted, I don’t know what I have done right and I’m so nervous they’ll turn on me but for now these two have put it about that Miss Eastwood is “safe”.

It’s up to me to prove that I’m as good as my word. By hook or by crook no child leaves my class without having written something resembling a paragraph and if all the heads of year hate me by half term for constantly bringing trouble makers to their attention then I will consider it a job well done.

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