Diary 12October2025
Grandma got bored. What on earth have you boiled, Evelyn? This is inedible! Too sweet, too thick, too ugh, nasty. Without a second thought she tipped the entire pot straight into the toilet.
Evelyn, at her wits end, burst out, Thats enough! Im done! This is my house, my kitchen, my family! Get out!
***
Margaret Whitaker, whose name was whispered in the corridors of Nottingham Secondary School, Number1, like a prayer and a warning, was a phenomenon. A veteran teacher turned headmistress with twenty years at the helm, she embodied everything the education system could aspire toif you liked ironclad discipline. Did the school love her? That was a rhetorical question. More likely the school merely survived her.
Her devotion to teaching manifested as relentless, sleepless oversight. Lessons had to be flawless, discipline steelhard, blazers pressed to a shine, ties knotted to the exact standards. She could barge into a maths class to inspect the register, leaf through pupils notebooks, or detain the PE teacher to inquire why half the class wore sneakers while the other half wore canvas shoes.
MrsWhitakers coming! the hushed chant made teachers straighten up, pupils hurriedly stash their phones in bags, and even the cleaning lady, Aunt Mary, scrubbed the floors at double speed. Everyone snapped to attention.
She truly believed she held the school in an iron grip, while in fact she simply drained everyone with her unquenchable need to control every facet of school life.
MrsWhitaker, youre unusually perky today, remarked Deputy Head Helen Parker, as the headmistress stormed into the staff room brandishing the fresh issue of the schools magazine.
Perky? Margaret snapped, fixing her gaze on the offending publication. Helen, have you even read it? School Life in Focuswhat a disgrace! Where are the photos of the graduation ceremony? Wheres the report on the teachers conference? All we have are pictures from the disco and love columns! Is this what our community wants? This is local tabloid fluff, and youre the one steering it. Youll answer for it.
Helen sighed. The graduation was dull, the conference even drier, and the disco wildly popular with the students. Arguing was futile.
Ill fix it, Margaret, she stammered, Ill have the pupils rewrite the pages immediately
Immediately! Margaret cut in, And make sure the next issue includes an article on how music benefits mental development! I didnt waste my time lecturing the Year11 class for nothing. Include photos from the poetry competition too!
The list of commands could have gone on forever. Margarets energy seemed endless.
But nothing lasts forever under the same moon. Years took their toll. Margaret began to feel the strain of restless teenagers, frequent headaches, and dwindling stamina for parentteacher evenings. After yet another showdown with a parent insisting his brilliant son simply couldnt solve quadratic equations, she made a decision. Retirement. She had given enough to the system; now it was her turn to give to herself.
The farewell was lavishtearjerking speeches, splendid bouquetsbut beneath the pomp lay a faint, relieving sigh. The school exhaled.
The first weeks of retirement were bliss. Margaret slept until ten in the morning, a habit she hadnt had since university, strolled through the park, bingewatched series, and even dabbled in crochet. She finally had time for herself! Yet after a week her restless spirit resurfaced.
I feel utterly useless, she confided to her longtime friend Valerie Parker, a former maths teacher and the only person Margaret truly befriended. I do nothing but eat and sleep. Ill turn into a oldlady statue!
Valerie suggested, Take a crochet class, you seemed to enjoy it, or volunteer at the library.
But Margaret shunned both. The unfinished scarf on her windowsill had already driven her mad; she needed something else to occupy her hands. Not crochet, not books, not TV. She craved command, she craved shaping minds, she craved authority.
And then her family appeared on the horizon. Her son James, a polite, accommodating man raised under his mothers stern eye, his wife Evelyn, an artist with a blaze of red hair and a fiery temperament, and their three teenage grandchildrenTommy, sixteen, a hopeless romantic rebel; Emma, fourteen, dreaming of becoming a blogger; and Oliver, twelve, a budding mathematician. Margaret decided to channel her boundless energy into them.
She didnt move in with James, but she began dropping by daily for at least half a day. Not for tea, but for work.
Evelyn, whats this mess on the walls? Where are the framed paintings? Where are the family photos?
James tried to smooth things over, Mum, Evelyn likes it. Its her style.
Style? Margaret retorted, Come here more often, son, and youll learn what style really means. This has to go right away.
Evelyn snapped back but fell silent, remembering her husbands pleading eyes. James whispered, Evelyn, bear with her; shes having a hard time without work.
Soon the colour of the livingroom became a battleground.
What on earth is this wall colour? Margaret demanded, eyeing the dull grey. Wheres the joy, the optimism? Paint it a soft, buttery yellowbright enough to lift the spirits but not blinding.
James protested, We like this shade, Mum.
What does she know about design? Margaret sneered, Back in my day
She also seized control of the grandchildrens diet.
No chips, no fizzy drinks! Only wholesome food! she declared, serving her signature disheslumpy semolina porridge and boiled beetroot with garlic. The grandchildren gagged, but kept quiet because James asked them to. Margarets cooking was certainly not what modern nutritionists would call healthy, but it was undeniably homecooked.
She inspected their schoolwork with equal zeal.
Tommy, show me that algebra diary. A C? Shame! Emma, why are there so many mistakes in your essay? Read the classics! Ive prepared a reading list for you.
Oliver, trying to slip past her scrutiny, was not spared. What are those games you play? Running around, catching whoknowswhat? Bad for the mind! Spend more time on maths. Ive a list for you too.
The climax arrived when Tommy secured a date with his classmate Hannah and went to the cinema. Margaret, ever the watchdog, felt compelled to intervene.
I must find out who my grandson is dating! Could she be from a disreputable background?
In the darkest corner of the cinema, Tommy caught sight of his grandmother. He could no longer focus on the film, his eyes repeatedly darting to Margaret, hoping shed mind her own business.
After the film, Margaret approached them as if nothing had happened.
Hello, Hannah! Youre Hannah, right? Im Tommys grandmother, Margaret Whitaker. Pleased to meet you.
Hannahs eyes widened, then she turned back to Margaret and muttered, Hello.
And how are you getting on at school? What subjects do you like? What do you want to be when you grow up? Who are your parents? Margaret bombarded the girl with questions.
Hannah, bewildered by the directorlevel interrogation, answered briefly. Tommy stood there, mortified, ready to sink into the floor.
Eventually Hannah excused herself and fled, her heels clicking away. It was likely their first and last date.
Tommy, turning to his grandmother, whispered, Gran, what have you done? Youve ruined everything! What am I supposed to say about this now? How will I look at Hannah tomorrow?
Ruined? Margaret replied calmly, You went to the cinema, you watched a film. I didnt interfere. I just said hello after you left. I need to know who my grandson is seeing.
She had earlier questioned why her grandchildren attended a different school from the one she once ran. Because the son knows his mother well enough, shed muttered.
Margaret continued to rearrange furniture, repaper walls, discard foods she deemed harmful, and dispense unsolicited advice left and right, especially in areas she knew nothing about.
One evening, Evelyn, following her motherinlaws suggestion, prepared a pumpkin purée. It turned out average; Evelyn wasnt exactly a healthfood expert. Margaret tasted it and grimaced.
What on earth have you made? Its impossible to eat! Too sweet, too thick, too ugh, disgusting.
Without hesitation she poured the entire bowl down the toilet.
Evelyn, pushed to the brink, snapped, Thats it! Ive had enough! This is my home, my kitchen, my family! Get out!
Margaret, who never let such things slide, left the flat in silence. No one at the school would have tolerated such a scene. That night James received a furious text from his mother: I expect an apologypersonal. Evelyn must come and apologise to me, and explain exactly what shes done.
No apology came. James tried to mediate, but Margaret would not listen. Family tensions rose daily. James still phoned his mother occasionally, but his wife and grandchildren, now celebrating the fact that Grandma no longer visited, stayed away.
When the situation reached a breaking point, a call came from the school.
MrsWhitaker, this is Anna Parker. We have a small crisis. The new headteacher cant cope and has been asked to resign. The school is in chaos, teachers are complaining, parents are panicking Could you step in temporarily while we find a replacement?
Margarets heart leapt. Anna, you have no idea how timely that call was! Im in. When do I start?
The following day, ten years younger in spirit, Margaret crossed the threshold of her old school and resumed her beloved duties. She no longer held a grudge against Evelyn, she spoke calmly with James, and she was once again needed. She was, once more, Margaret Whitaker, headmistress of Nottingham Secondary, Number1.
On her first day back she summoned every teacher to an emergency meeting.
Discipline! Order! Rigour! her voice boomed.
She marched through corridors, chastising students for muddy shoes.
Straighten up, now! she commanded.
She inspected the cafeteria, sniffed the meatballs.
What are these? No meat, just breadcrumbs! she complained.
She was back in her element, policing every corner.
She halted a breaktime sprint, shouting, Stop that at once! Youre disturbing the learners!
She admonished a teacher for being too lenient, Be stricter! Otherwise theyll sit on your neck!
She summoned parents, declaring, You must work harder with your child, or hell never get into university!
Yes, Margaret Whitaker was a difficult woman, but without her the school would have been worse. Even those most vocal in their discontent eventually admitted that a modicum of order, however severe, was preferable to chaos. She wasnt just a headmistress; she was Margaret Whitaker, and her presence meant the school could finally dream of peace.
Lesson learned: a need to control can keep things running, but letting go is the only way to keep the people you love from slipping through the cracks.
