We have to constantly censor ourselves as teachers. When a student doesn’t present their best self, we might think “Please just stop being a tosser”, but we can’t say that. When they offer embarrassing excuses for avoiding work, we might think “Just grow up, you lazy bastard”, but we can’t say that. Circumstances often require a deep breath, a forced smile and diplomacy.

But we are flawed, imperfect, complex human beings. Sometimes we say the wrong thing - at least, I do.

I worry about this. What if I’ve unknowingly changed the course of a life with a casual remark? What if I was having a terrible day exactly when a student was at their most suggestible, most open to change, ready to make pivotal life decisions?

I made a dreadful mistake early on in my teaching career. I was able to rectify it, but only because my victim gave me the opportunity. I’d taught English to a group of young brickies for a few months. They were disruptive, work-shy and prone to getting a bit punchy with each other, but we’d developed a fragile rapport.

We are flawed, complex human beings. Sometimes we say the wrong thing

I’d just got them settled on a task. Ryan, a scrappy lad not overburdened with charm, thrust his phone at me: “Miss, d’you want to see my baby?”

I shut him down: “No. I’m not interested in your…” and I made air quotes “…‘baby’.”

He tried again: “But Miss…”

I shut him down again: “No. Get on with your work.” The group stifled sniggers. Ryan was a very young 16-year-old who rooted out trouble. We’d had a number of frank conversations after I’d heard him showing off with tall tales about “battering a copper”, “nicking a car” and “torching college”. Just the week before, he’d instigated a mass brawl.

I assumed the “baby” was yet another attention-seeking ruse.

At the end of the session, Ryan lingered. He was oddly quiet.

“Why didn’t you want to see my daughter, Miss?”

The world went into slow motion and I felt sick, realising that a) the baby was real and b) what I’d said. I apologised profusely and came clean, explaining that I thought he was trying to distract the group. I’d had no idea he was a new dad.

Completely mortified, and wondering how many teacher rules I had broken, I overcompensated. Ryan showed me all 800 photos on his phone and I dragged him round every college department that might be able to support his new little family. All was forgiven.

I bumped into Ryan in college a few years later. I was delighted that he was doing well. He got his phone out, “D’you want to see my daughter, Miss?” This time I looked.

Sarah Simons works in colleges and adult community education in the East Midlands, and is the director of UKFEchat @MrsSarahSimons