In the past couple of weeks, I’ve been struggling to pin down my mood. Angry? Anxious? Sad? Resigned? All of the above? 

Halfway through planning my Year 12 poetry lesson on Ernest Dowson’s gorgeously dissolute Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae, it hit me - ennui. That’s what I’m experiencing right now: an all-consuming hollow despair. 

As a matronly suburban English teacher, I couldn’t be further away from Dowson’s absinthe and whoring; the current extent of my excesses is a fun-sized packet of Maltesers alongside a cup of tea. But as far as emptiness, futility and general misery go, I’m almost down there with Ernest.

To be fair, even without lockdown, February is always something of a dark tunnel: the days are still short, it’s cold without the glamour of frost, and it’s wet and muddy. Here in Cumbria, the countryside has turned a uniform sludge brown with a colourless sky overhead. 

Coronavirus: The endless tedium of lockdown

And, of course, we are in lockdown again. I don’t know about anyone else, but this lockdown is so miserable, I’ve developed a rose-tinted nostalgia for Lockdown One. Even though a quick shuffle back through my tearful March to June Facebook posts reveals that the reality was very different from my fond imaginings, I’m still wistfully recalling the heady days of summer 2020: sunshine, birdsong, rigorously distanced queues at Sainsbury’s, a moist, fragrant batch of banana bread every other day and Rishi Sunak looking relatively chipper…  

Now it’s bloody freezing, the queues at Sainsbury’s are as jam-packed as ever, we’re all too worried about lockdown weight gain to contemplate even a slice of banana bread - let alone consider ringing the changes with mascarpone icing and a tablespoon of crushed walnuts - and as for Rishi, he’s nowhere to be seen.

The novelty of online learning - if there ever was one - has long since faded. Even though the majority of our students are making progress - and, blimey, some are romping ahead and, frankly, it’s a joy - still the minority who are struggling dominate my thoughts. Tracking and following up who’s done what work is a horrible, bottomless task, with every unchecked task, every unanswered email - or phone call - a further worry about what that particular child will need to move on. 

But, above all, it’s the surprising effect of long, drawn-out uncertainty. Like seasoned sailors, we’ve become accustomed to choppy waters and we’re constantly on the lookout for icebergs. But, strangely, the dread is what happens when we reach dry land. We’re still setting work for our students without really knowing how they’re going to be graded and how those grades will be seen to be fair. 

Thrown to the metaphorical Covid wolves

Meanwhile, I’m torn. Back in September, I was angry. I felt that teachers - all school staff - had been thrown to the metaphorical Covid wolves at the expense of our own health and wellbeing. There’s no doubt that I feel much safer working from home. But at what cost to the education of our young people - particularly our Year 11s and 13s? 

Every time I get up between lessons to fold the laundry or let the dogs out, I have an uncomfortable prickle of guilt that this just isn’t right. 

What with lockdown and then teaching in bubbles, it’s almost a year since I taught in my own classroom, a jealously guarded set of pristine dictionaries on the shelf behind me. It seems like an unbelievable luxury now - although at the time I complained like a pampered brat because I had to share a filing cabinet with another colleague. Right now, I’d give anything to be back there again. 

None of us - not one - signed up to gaze at a screen all day. Remember the thrill of having an exercise book thrust into your hand with an “Is this OK, miss?” and returning it with a couple of deft flourishes in red pen to suggest how it could be made better than OK? The clatter, the buzz, the fizz of human contact are all sadly absent, and the effect on teachers is draining.

I’m sorry. I have no answers. We have at least until 8 March to go. Just know, if you’re sad - if, at times, you’re feeling lost or world-weary - you are not alone. 

Meanwhile, I’ll attempt to shift this malaise - although I’m not sure how. I could, of course, delve into the depths of my psyche and write some elegantly haunting poetry, but I’m pretty sure it’ll take more than a handful of Maltesers to get me into gear. Or maybe I’ll just whip up another loaf of banana bread and crack on with it…

Sarah Ledger is an English teacher and director of learning for Year 11 at William Howard School in Brampton, Cumbria. She has been teaching for 34 years