I have got the slow table. If there was ever anything needed to make me realise that I could not be a teacher, this morning is it. Six of us - me and five children - are sitting around the table and our task is to write a postcard to someone in the school. There is a prompt on the blackboard to help us: Dear ... I am in ... The weather is ... I am ... Love from ... On the other half of the postcard is the school’s address, to be copied out.

Our competent, pretty, final-year student is taking the class and this is part of her project on transport. In the abstract, I can see the many uses of this task: to explore letter-writing, addresses, description, a bit of geography, not to mention touches of art in the stamp and picture. And, indeed, the rest of the class, who have finished the whole thing yesterday, embraced the idea with enthusiasm, lavishly decorating the fronts with yellow sands and blue skies, filling in “I am in Cyprus, the weather is sunny I am playing football” with a will.

Not so my group. They stare numbly at the large pieces of card ruled off into postcard-grids. “Let’s start, then,” I say in a falsely cheerful voice. Willingly, and with eager-to-please smiles, they pull the cards toward them and start to write. “Please, what are we suppose to write?” asks Eric. I explain, pointing to the board, talking about postcards. Meantime Derek is staring dreamily into space. I realise with a slight sinking sensation that just because he is clearly a middle-class boy it does not mean his is a razor-sharp intellect. Clearly he prefers to gaze into middle space.

Meantime Fenella is getting restless. I contain my irritation - surely it can’t be that I find Fenella annoying just because she bats her long thick lashes a lot and flirts with you, while at the same time apparently refusing to do what any adult asks? Am I just being catty? She has made a start, writing “Cyprus” in large letters in no particular place on her piece of card, but she has ignored the postcard format.

I move round again to sit between Martha and Erin. Martha is writing out “Dear Mummy” in very large letters. “Do you think that will fit on the postcard?” I ask gently. She shakes her head sadly. Tears appear. “Never mind,” I soothe. “But Mummy doesn’t go to school, does she? Shall we send your postcard to someone in school?” Definite shake of the head. Lip quivers. “Never mind, let’s just try to write a bit smaller on the next line. Where do you think you’re going on holiday?” “Paris.” “How exciting. Shall we write Paris?” We write Paris.

Erin is chewing her pencil in a slow, comfortable rhythm. “How far have you got, Erin?” She presents me with a blank card, but clearly responding to my disappointment - Erin is a really sweet child - offers breathily, “I go on holiday to Ireland.”

“Ireland. How lovely! And what’s the weather like there?” Pause. “Misty. ” We write “misty”. I look at the clock.

Twenty minutes have passed. Eric has obligingly written out all the prompts but not filled in any of the blanks. Derek is still staring into space. Fenella is calling me imperiously to admire what she has written. Martha is rubbing out what she has written and Erin has resumed her pencil.

Eric tries again. This time he is slower. He is uneasy at the idea of contributing his own experience. We have to work out what he might be doing, where and in what weather. Once it is approved, official, he can write it down.

Derek tries again. Space still holds its infinite allure but the thought of playing football raises a glimpse of interest. He writes it down. Fenella has decided that she goes to the beach on holiday. She writes “beach” and decorates the words lavishly. There is no room on her card for the next sentence.

Weakly, I continue on round to Martha. She is still rubbing out. I sit with her and approve the letters she curves on to the pink card. I say they are now a fine size. Erin is the mirror image of Eric. She has left out all the prompts and just written in her answers: Ireland, visiting, misty, Erin.

It is now nearly lunchtime. I write in the rest of Erin’s card, write out the name of the school (forget the postcode, OK?) and liberally distribute coloured pencils for the picture. The children speed up, particularly when the teacher allows them five extra minutes as they are working so hard. Every one gets to post their postcard in the box and hear it read out.

Phew.