On Thursday I went to vote, there was a sombre air in the room and the folk perked up when I walked in, turnout was less than 40% so they probably hadn’t had many people through the door and I was something different to look at. I looked at the long list of MEP hopefuls and the one party that jumped out at me was something like “I’m English, not British”. That irritated me as I’m married to a Welshman and our children are half Welsh/half English (unless it’s England v Wales and then they’re Welsh).

Today I read a news article on netball. I didn’t really like netball as I didn’t like the netball teacher. I loved lacrosse and my first lax teacher was an inspiration, firm but fair. A good teacher encourages you to like, appreciate and explore what is being taught.

Then I read the news to see that a number of books have been dropped from the English Lit GCSE syllabus. Why? Oh I cried. Why? I remember reading To Kill A Mockingbird and loving it, neither caring that the author wasn’t English nor being bothered that the story wasn’t set in the leafy green Home Counties village where I lived. There was a whole world happening beyond the Ha-Ha and the hedge and books encouraged me to explore.

A good teacher encourages you to use your imagination. If that imagination is confined then I despair. I spent my youth with a nose in a book, I idled away prep sessions with a book hidden in a text book, I commuted to London with a new book on a weekly basis, I spend hours reading.

Reading is in Berkshire but the appeal of reading is worldwide.


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