'Look at your poor little pupils, for instance,' she went on. 'They're finally about to reach the top of the long, slippery pole of primary school. To plant their own Year 6 flag right at the very pinnacle of that pole! They've lived through a whole year of being the big fish in a little pond. They have reached the top. And what reward do they get for that? They get to go right to the bottom of the next slippery pole. The long, slippery pole of secondary school! To be the bottom of the dung-heap. The smallest fish in the biggest pond they've ever seen. The bottom of the sharpest learning curve of all. Poor little mites! And then they'll struggle up that pole - falling in and out of all the pitfalls of adolescence, exams, first heartbreak, parent problems - and for what? Another bloomin' pole. Sixth-form college! Then - if they're "lucky" - university. Then a career. Then their first job. Second job. Third job. It never ends, does it?'

----

'Ah,' said Nicky.
'Ah, reading,' sighed Miss James luxuriously. 'Reading is wonderful. It's one of life's joy, isn't it? And yet how often do we do it? I mean, it's ironic, isn't it? We teach our children how to master this exquisite language of ours - the language of Chaucer, of Wordsworth, or Shakespeare - and then, as adults, we don't do it, do we? Do you? Do you read?'
'Um...' Christ, what on earth was the correct answer to that? She'd just been told that a head never has time to read. 'Um...' she repeated. 'Well-'
'Of course,' went on Miss James, 'you read books for work, but do you ever have time to read for yourself? Really read for your own pure pleasure? To exercise those little grey cells? To escape! To let your imagination run wild? To get inside someone else's head?'