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A man, in his thirties, came round to sell us an awning for my garden. He knew his product well technically, did not oversell it, answered every question with knowledge and enthusiasm and chatted about how he had developed a love of falconry, owning a number of hawks and owls.
Before lockdown he would take his many friends out with him to a local country estate to exercise the birds he cared so passionately about. He had also befriended the landowner who allowed him the freedom of the fields and woods.
He was fascinating and knowledgeable to listen to. Halfway in to the conversation he mentioned he had gone to a school I had been Head of English at. We talked about the teachers he remembered and he admitted he had been a rogue at school. He then told me his name.
I realised that I remembered him. You donât forget lads as difficult to engage as that. It was a challenging school, poorly rated by Ofsted, but it had a gem of an English Department and I worked with some very inspiring people. And we taught Barry Hinesâ âA Kestrel For a Knaveâ
And I, once more, understood that you canât judge a school on exam results alone, but the people your students become. The man was interesting, articulate, knowledgeable, very skilled at his job and a kind and thoughtful individual. We hadnât done a bad job it seems.
