You see, I hate having to tell people I’m a maths teacher. The mixture of sympathy, and amazement and the usual comments of “I was never any good at maths” have bored me rigid over the years. I tried the stock answer - “I just live” - but that was good for all of five seconds, so I had to come up with the truth. The girls’ response, though, meant my dreams of acting cool and as if I had a life outside teaching were about to fade away. “But so are we,” they said.

When teachers meet up, we can’t talk about what was on the TV last night. Instead, we have to talk about teaching, be it the latest DfES initiative (too obvious for words or too time-consuming for even a monk to contemplate) or reminisce about when pupils made us laugh.

I don’t know of any other group of people who talk about their work as much as teachers do (could you imagine accountants doing this?). But there comes a time when we have to stop. Why? Because there are people out there who aren’t interested in our thoughts on the latest set of GCSE results.

These people are called our friends and families, and perhaps they should be able to go out for a meal without having to listen to us launch into a three-hour soul-searching session for the truth about how we can prepare little Johnnie for the future.

No other profession creates such a bond between workmates. In my more pessimistic moments, I believe it is akin to the spirit of the Blitz or the camaraderie of First World War trenches. I guess that although our loved ones nod sympathetically and make all the right noises as we explain how Austin once again talked all the way through our afternoon lesson, unless they have actually been there, they won’t understand the hurt, pain and frustration we encounter every day.

So I guess I owe an apology to the two girlsI met. They didn’t stop me from acting cool, they just made me realise what I really am: a maths teacher and proud of it.

Mark Finnemore

Mark Finnemore teaches at the Latymer upper school, London borough of Hammersmith and Fulham