I’ve never been one to hold the view that somehow teachers are a breed apart. I know there are people who would argue that it takes a special sort of person to be a teacher, and that this gives us some sort of “otherness”; some quality that makes us different - better, maybe - than people who work in “normal” jobs. I disagree. That said, there are certain trials that do seem to take on a unique bent when applied to teachers, and this week I have been faced with one of them: illness.

In some previous roles, the nature of absence through illness was simple: I’d wake up in the morning, decide I wasn’t well enough to work (a decision that was very much affected by the nature of the role) and then call somebody to tell them. I had time for a good few hours’ rest and could still be up in time to watch Murder, She Wrote.

As a teacher, the decision-making process is not quite so simple. For me, it usually begins at about 4am when I wake up for the third or fourth time that night with whatever ailment is choosing to interrupt my sleep. Then the questions begin.

I know I don’t feel well and that, doubtless, by the time the alarm goes off, I’m likely to feel worse on account of the lack of sleep. I suspect that I’m bordering on the edge of death and wonder whether I’ll make it through to 9am. And then I start to deliberate: if I do make it, will I be able to face teaching the addition of fractions? Do I have any planning, preparation and assessment time that might lessen the burden of the day? Is it my break duty? Is there a staff meeting?

Looming practicalities

If the combination of the day’s delights leads me to err on the side of staying at home, then the practicalities loom. If I’m not in, then who’s likely to be there instead? Of course, in an ideal world it wouldn’t matter, but we’ve all suffered from the aftermath of that supply teacher.

And even if you have a good pool of cover staff to hand, can you really leave today’s lessons for them? Few of us think that we’re the only ones who can teach a given topic, but there are plenty who struggle to give away ownership of our classes. If a supply teacher covers a key lesson on adverbial openers, then what on earth will the pupils’ writing look like by Friday? But the alternative is trying to come up with a suitable cover lesson from your sickbed.

Perhaps you’re the sort of person who leaves lesson plans and resources out the night before, so that anyone could pick up your mantle. More likely, like me, you carry a wealth of information about your class and planning around in your head that no mere mortal could hope to take on.

And then there’s the chaos. No matter how good the cover teacher, they won’t remember your rules about glue sticks, and they won’t have the same high standards of presentation. You can also guarantee that Joseph will his try best to get away with doing nothing all day.

No, having thought through the repercussions of the day, it’s usually quite clear by the time my alarm chimes that going into school is the least worst option.

Still, perhaps your other half will offer their support. Unless, like me, you’re married to a teacher, which likely means that the closest you’ll get to sympathy is somebody looking you over as you arrive at school and saying, “Are you sure you should be here?”

Michael Tidd is deputy head at Edgewood Primary School in Nottinghamshire. He tweets @MichaelT1979