The teenagers are mortified after I announced I might apply for a job at their school as a teaching assistant. The eldest one has threatened to move sixth forms and the youngest is apoplectic at the sheer scale of social suicide it would entail for herself. What if I waved at them in the corridor? Or had to help a child in their class? Or heaven forbid, told off one of their friends for a short skirt misdemeanour? Oh, the horror. 

Threat of embarrassment can be a great tool in the parenting kit. I remember my own dad dusting down his tweed plus-fours and deerstalker ahead of report day, claiming that unless I knuckled down, that’s what he’d be wearing to meet my teachers. Seeing how well this worked, my big brother adopted a similar approach when he was forced to collect me from friend’s houses. If I wasn’t ready on time, instead of waiting in the car, he’d get his bobble hat from the glove compartment and do a silly walk to the door.  

My girls should be grateful that if I got the job, at least I’d wear appropriate clothing and not skip into school. But just being in the same building would be bad enough, they claim, so I’m using their angst for my advantage. I wondered what they’d be prepared to do in return for me not applying for the position. Well, where to start? The car hasn’t seen a chamois for a good six months, soggy leaves are piling up on the doorstep creating a slip hazard and the bathroom hasn’t been bottomed since lockdown. If they can work their way through that lot before the application deadline, I might reconsider.   

There’s no saying that I’d make it to the interview stage if I did send my CV. As with most jobs in the current climate, for every one position there are hundreds of applicants. The Government’s suggestion that freelancers like me should rethink, reskill and reboot led me to their one-stop-job-shop and after typing in my experience (twenty years in journalism across radio, tv and bit of print) it threw up some interesting choices. I should consider being a head chef, horse groom or emergency medical dispatcher. I’m not joking. 

My cooking is basic at best. I can knock up a casserole and tray of jam tarts but would flounder at anything approaching souffle-level. I’m a bit scared of horses so wouldn’t really feel comfortable sidling up to a six-hand stallion with a dandy brush. And medical dispatcher? Seriously? I pass out putting a plaster on.  

But I’m optimistic. Lockdown 1.0 meant I finished writing my fist ever proper book, which has an actual publisher and will (Covid-permitting) be out in March. My eyes and ears are open for new opportunities for 2021 and in the meantime, the glorious Yorkshire countryside is keeping me happy and healthy - mainly because it's a great place to practice my silly walk in a bobble hat.