It’s hardly the sexiest profession in the world. The pay’s too low, for starters. We’re notorious for bad breath - the result of too many cheese sandwiches, too much coffee and lots of talking - and we’re usually covered in a dull coat of chalk dust. Our cars, which we have to buy ourselves, haven’t been advertised on the telly for at least four years, and we usually park them outside pretty run-down establishments, often with broken windows or peeling paint.

Our clothes reflect the quality of the buildings we occupy - crinkled chinos, white shirts that have gone pinky-grey in the wash, two-quid ties and shoes that, let’s face it, haven’t been polished since 1972. We’re hardly the height of cool.

I flick through business magazines and weep - just look at those poised people in sharp suits with their software solutions and Armani specs. They drive luxurious cars lined with cowskin and bits of tree; work in glassy offices with carpet and cappuccino machines; and fly to meetings in exotic locations such as Dallas and Luton. Yes, when it comes to the rat race, we teachers have been lapped.

Recently, I tried to redress the balance. I acquired a tool for the new millennium that, I hoped, would change public perception of my profession (actually, my well-to-do, non-teacher cousin won it in a raffle and didn’t want it). So this September, when I returned to school, I took with me a Handspring Visor in a leather case: a variation on the theme of the must-have Palm Pilot, a state-of-the-art handheld computer.

This neat little toy, the size of my wallet and with a 3 inch by 2 inch screen, has a variety of functions. It stores memos, acts as a daily agenda, has a built-in calculator and can be plugged into my computer to read emails. It can also “beam” information to other Visors using infrared, and converts my dodgy handwriting into computer text. Very smart.

At first, I was embarrassed to be seen with the thing. I took it out in the staffroom sheepishly. I tried to hide it beneath a regular diary (which defeated the object, really, but made me feel better. And when colleagues spotted it, I blustered about it being an unwanted gift that I was just trying out (which was kind of true).

But the students loved it. My nine-year-old Toyota, though very nice, has never given me street cred; nor have my pleated-front dress pants that were designed for people 30 years older (and rounder) than me. But this little gizmo was immediately considered “cool” by the discerning Grade 9s, who took their homework deadline to heart when they saw it entered into the Visor. At the end of class, some of them even wanted to stay behind to double-check with the handheld just when their work was due.

This didn’t stop me feeling like a fraud. I would like to have entered “See Charles in Rome” or “Lunch with ambassador @ Grand Hotel” into its memory - “Character sketch deadline” and “Lunch duty” seemed overwhelmingly drab.

In addition, the poor Visor appeared uncomfortable with its increasingly chalky screen. So, to compensate for my feelings of fraudulence, I considered buying more funky technology. I fancied one of those iBook computers - the neat little laptops that come in smart colours such as “Blueberry” and “Snow”.

And while I pondered which model I should buy, I got myself a trendy sweater from DKNY, and had a look at lease rates for low-end BMWs. I’m thinking of the 320 coupe in black. That way I might have enough credibility to get rid of the Handspring Visor - and get a proper diary and clipboard again.

Nicholas Woolley teaches in Kingston, Ontario