Tuesday I wake up in my nice detached house and drive away in my new Peugeot. I have a couple of weeks in Greece every year. Yup, I have the occasional glass of wine. Yup, my hubby, an ex-teacher, is beside me with the brochures for next year. He was a headteacher but managed to get out before he ended up in a psychiatric ward. He spotted in the same TES that one company will actually insure heads against going loopy with up to pound;1,000 in benefits. “Doesn’t quite fit in with the idea of a happy, contented profession, does it?” he says, twitching. “If I’d known I could have made money out of going barmy I would have stayed longer.”

Wednesday I couldn’t find anything in the survey about how well we all sleep, or do not sleep, as the case may be. I belong to group two. I don’t count sheep, I count policies we’ve written, or chant short-term, medium-term and long-term curriculum plans. I tried everything last night - triple-action efamarine, a vile brew called Sleepeasy, evening primrose, and ylang-ylang oil.

Thursday I couldn’t sleep because I was worrying so much I was getting palpitations. Every time I meditated, I heard my heart thumping. The palpitations were so loud one night my husband thought the central heating was on the blink. I went to the doc. It looks like they’re cured, but now I can’t sleep because I lie awake listening, just in case they start again.

Friday We’re going to choose our holiday this weekend and have booked a meal out. My husband suddenly perked up last night. “Hey, Times Ed page 27 says you can claim tax relief on work-related expenses. Next time you can’t sleep, count them all and when you get sleeping pills, just make sure you get a receipt.”

Harriet Thomas is a reception class teacher in Leeds