You sit at your table finessing your best pastoral smile. They sit on their chairs fearing your worst prophecies. The Infant Exhibit sits quaking in its boots. It must be measured.
Yours is a high-wire act. You’ve got 10 minutes. You must somehow combine crisp professionalism, warm sympathy, deep empathy, brute honesty, tender concern, forensic prediction, white lies, unflinching realism, breezy euphemism, much kindness, tough love, a delicate awareness of the intricate nuances of class, culture, religion and the present geopolitical terrors, be complicit in a syllabus in which you don’t believe, take the blame for the catastrophe of the December mocks – and never forget the name, grade, levels of the Infant Exhibit before you. Not easy.
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