Yesterday, I visited friends in a town uncomfortably within the catchment area of my school. The disguise I wore raised no eyebrows, for it was both Covid- and weather-appropriate: large sunhat, sunglasses, face mask. 

Out of my suit and away from the desk, I could have been anybody. I passed among the shoals of parading students like a secret agent hiding in plain sight. 

A while back, my local academy failed to shortlist me for a vacancy, and I’m glad. It’s the only school in the town, with over 1,400 students on roll. I’d never have been able to safely visit the supermarket again. The high street would be a no-go zone.

I know it doesn’t bother every teacher, but I honestly couldn’t teach on my own doorstep. I value my anonymity too highly. 

Teachers being recognised by students in the street

I distinctly remember, early in my career, minding my own business in leafy North London, when, from the other side of the road, a banshee scream of “Mr Read!” hit me like a sudden hurricane.

A startled nod and the student was gone, happy. Me, I could have lived without 50 people turning to stare at the commotion, but I’ve learned that children, in general, are seldom shy about letting you know you’ve been spotted. 

I was once walking home through Edmonton when a boy, his name lost forever to time, saw me walking past his house and came scudding down the road after me. “Wait there!” he shouted. “I’ll get my mum.” He did so, and the pair of us stood in awkward confusion while the son beamed as if to say: “Look, I caught one.” 

I had to leave a nightclub off Tottenham Court Road, shortly after paying a fortune to enter, because I was recognised by sixth-formers. But the freakiest occasion was when I bumped into a child I taught in Haringey on the Vespa-clogged streets of Naples. 

The fact is, you’re not safe anywhere. But I feel better knowing I live outside the catchment area. 

The fascination of seeing a teacher in the wild

I do remember, as a child, being fascinated by the fact that teachers didn’t, actually, sleep beneath their desks. Spotting one in the real world was like seeing an Alsatian riding a bicycle. I recall the rumours that swirled around my school after one of my friends, having recently landed a job as a paperboy, announced exactly what Mrs Johns might have been wearing when she came to her front door. 

It was a glimpse into a world of celebrity that I assumed most teachers started to take for granted. Sacred personal time was, surely, willingly laid aside once the journey towards pedagogy was made. I didn’t know, years later, that a Year 7 student would be photographing me on their phone as I waited at Turnpike Lane train station, and passing on the photos like stag heads after a hunting party.

However, there are a few tricks for those of us who don’t enjoy the out-of-hours attention. I used to work with someone who pretended to have a twin. If a student accosted him on the street, he’d announce something like, “Ah, you’ve mistaken me for my brother. It happens a lot,” and then calmly walk on. 

But, barring a fake beard and Groucho Marx glasses, there are only so many ways to avoid students that don’t involve becoming a recluse.

I’ll never forget the story I was told by a colleague who, after a lifetime of not being able to swim, finally signed up for lessons only to discover it was an ex-pupil running the course. He bailed.

And nothing compares to the nightmare of the teacher who looked out of her window one Saturday morning to watch the new family moving in next door and spotted the Year 10 who’d made her lessons borderline unbearable for the previous six months. She put her house on the market immediately. 

Those teachers knew of another, highly effective avoidance option: run away.

Paul Read is a teacher and writer