ABSTRACT

I have to admit that I have never knowingly smouldered during the course of a parents’ evening. I once nearly threw my arms round Mr French, but that was pure gratitude for his being the only teacher that term not to diss my younger child for idleness. After staggering from table to table having scrappy, doodle-strewn exercise books brandished at you by stern people in cardigans, you’re tearfully grateful when a teacher says: ‘She’s great’.