Well, here we are. The annual reminder that life is a cruel, endless cycle of misery. First torturous day back after the summer holidays. I sat in the car for a good ten minutes, staring at the gates like a condemned man contemplating the gallows. It’s amazing how quickly six weeks of freedom can evaporate when the scent of teenager hits your nostrils.

The staff room. Nothing’s changed over the break. It’s still a place that should be a sanctuary, but instead feels like a holding pen for the broken and disillusioned. The usual suspects were there. Tracy, still clinging to the tattered remnants of her enthusiasm (it’s her third year; she’ll learn). Steve, the PE teacher, trying to one-up everyone’s holiday stories even though we all know he spent the summer rewatching The Office and pretending to care about CrossFit. And Karen, who, for reasons I’ll never understand, spent her entire holiday making "fun" worksheets. Karen, if you're reading this, get help. The principal gave us the traditional welcome-back pep talk, full of inspirational quotes he probably Googled five minutes before we arrived. “You’re shaping the future of our society!” he beamed. If by "shaping the future" you mean "trying to prevent the year sevens from Googling swear words on the library computers," then sure, I’m a bloody sculptor, mate.

First lesson of the day. Year 8 Science. Nothing says "welcome back" like 27 adolescents oozing attitude and Lynx Africa. The first task? Explain why science is relevant to their lives. Big mistake. Huge. "Sir, when am I ever going to use this?" "Sir, does this mean we can blow stuff up?" "Sir, can we do that experiment where the Coke bottle explodes?" Absolutely not. I am not spending my first day back cleaning carbonated crap off the ceiling. So, we pivoted to a thrilling discussion about lab safety rules. Riveting stuff. Watching their faces glaze over was the highlight of my morning. Says a lot really, doesn’t it?

Morning break. I should be thrilled for the caffeine injection, but the staff room coffee machine is still as temperamental as ever. Three options: instant coffee that tastes like regret, stale teabags that have seen better days, or the "espresso" that Steve calls "rocket fuel." I opted for the instant sludge. At least it matches my mood. Karen’s worksheets made an appearance again. She handed me one titled "Welcome Back Wordsearch" with the words education, learning, and teamwork hidden in the grid. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the only word I could see was despair.

Back to the grind. Year 10 Science. At least this time, I’m actually teaching my subject and not covering a term of pottery for the art teacher on stress leave. We tackled photosynthesis—the magical process that keeps us all alive. Naturally, this led to a 10-minute tangent about whether plants can "get ripped" if we gave them protein powder. Spoiler alert: they cannot. By the end, I’d successfully taught one thing—that my patience is finite. Bravo, Stewart. Truly, the pinnacle of modern education.

Lunch. Ah, the sweet sanctuary of—wait, what’s this? A "mandatory wellness meeting." Oh, the irony. There we were, half the staff looking like extras from The Walking Dead, being told to "prioritise self-care" and "set healthy boundaries." Sure, let me just pencil that in between a homework marking pile that by the end of the fortnight will be threatening to bury me alive and the extracurricular club I apparently volunteered to run this term. Spoiler: I did not. The principal handed out fidget toys to everyone as part of the school’s "mental health initiative." Nothing says "we value your wellbeing" like a budget spinner that’ll break by Friday. Tracy seemed thrilled, though. She’s still in the denial stage of her career.

Double period. Year 9 Science. We’re diving into electricity this term, which means two things: 1) Someone will definitely try to "accidentally" electrocute themselves, and 2) I’ll spend half the lesson convincing them that no, electricity isn’t magic. Predictably, someone asked, "Sir, if we all held hands, could we make a giant circuit?" Absolutely not, Jimmy. And no, licking the battery terminals doesn’t make you a scientist."*

The final bell. Sweet, merciful freedom. Except it’s not. Because then comes the endless parade of admin tasks nobody warned you about in teacher training. Emails. So many emails. "Stewart, can you fill out this risk assessment form for the school trip?" "Stewart, don’t forget to submit your lesson plans by tomorrow." "Stewart, can you attend the committee meeting for the new behaviour policy?" Here’s a behaviour policy for you: stop sending me emails.

I finally escaped. Driving home, I had a moment of existential crisis. Is this it? Is this my life? Spending my days battling hormonal teenagers and my evenings drowning in paperwork? Teaching isn’t a job; it’s a lifestyle choice. A terrible, terrible choice. But then, as I passed the corner shop, I remembered something. Wine exists. Sweet, soothing wine. I pulled over, bought a bottle, and toasted to surviving another first day. Cheers to teachers everywhere who made it through. We’re warriors. Exhausted, caffeine-dependent warriors who just want to binge-watch trash TV in peace. It’s not too much to ask, right? So, glass number two and it’s here’s to us. To those of us who endure, who persevere, and who definitely deserve a pay rise. Or at least better coffee in the staff room. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a date with the rest of that wine bottle and a pizza delivery menu.