Dear Principal,

YOU will recall I worked for 17 years in your school as a special needs assistant, helping pupils to reach their full potential through learning, interacting and developing social skills.

How rewarding it was in the morning’s hive of activity to watch the children settle, hang up their coat and find their seat.

Some days started with storytelling, when the boys and girls sat for “circle time” — eager, attentive and curious to hear me read pages from Cinderella, Goldilocks or The Gruffalo.

Later on, if it was warm outside, we made our way to the sensory garden. A bird often distracted us as he hopped from the window ledge on to the sundial.

The children watered the plants and listened to the faint, tinkling sound of the wind chime while dipping their little fingers into the soil to sow seeds. Impatiently they waited, week after week, to see the flowers grow, flourish and blossom.

Special days and holidays, marked on the school calendar, brought great activity. Cards were cut heartshaped for St Valentine’s Day, daffodils were drawn, and popped up from pretty pots and jars that lined the walls at Easter. Santa pictures, painted red and green, celebrated the festive season.

As principal, you took great interest in getting to know each class and its achievements, praising a child for his or her effort and much, much more. It was both a joy and a privilege to have been part of the school team.

In June 2016, I came to your office to give notice of resignation — not because I wanted to, but because I had to take compulsory retirement. In fact I felt as young, energetic and enthusiastic as the first day I started.

Cycling past the school recently, the familiar noise of high-pitched voices — screams, laughter and chaos — echoed from the school yard and reminded me of a past day there.

A teacher was organising a cookery lesson. Her George Foreman grill was set up to cook sausages and children sat round the table, buttered toast and laid out cutlery and plates. Being part of a group, they thrived on the sense of belonging. That is something I did, too, and I miss it.

Every night I set my radio alarm to be ready and on call the following morning. I am available and would love to come back.

But now I’m wondering, dear principal, if it’s time to stop setting my alarm and just enjoy a lie-in.

Yours, retired SNA, Name and address with Editor