Miss Ogy

Loves books, poetry, baths, history, travelling, running, cats, chickens, junk shops and sunshine.

[Stan Collymore @StanCollymore]

Set a treadmill at 21kph ( max most will go to) and try to run for 30 seconds on it.

That's what he did for 1 hour, 59 minutes and 30 seconds.

The peak of human physical achievement. Insane, absolutely insane.

[Miss Ogy @sing0utsue]

@llewelyn20 Sadly agree. 6 years into headship and it is exhausting.

[AR @llewelyn20]

Talking to more and more Heads that are struggling to cope with the demands of the job. I'm convinced we need to redesign our roles, acutely assess how we spend our time, re-evaluate priorities and change. We can't work the way we did 5 or 10 years ago, the game has changed.

[Miss Ogy @sing0utsue]

@rebeccaperrotto So very sorry for your loss x

[Miss Ogy @sing0utsue]

@JamesMelville So missed, such a loss to so many people 😢

[James Melville 🚜 @JamesMelville]

It’s his song. And no one has ever sung it better than him.

[HeadteacherChat @Headteacherchat]

Most read post this week with over 2,000 views: When Leaders Are Not Allowed to Be Ill
https://t.co/jSYIBttxSX

[Travis Akers 🇺🇸 @travisakers]

A message from a Kindergarten teacher:

After forty years in the classroom, my career ended with one small sentence from a six-year-old:

“My dad says people like you don’t matter anymore.”

No sneer. No malice. Just quiet honesty — the kind that cuts deeper because it’s innocent. He blinked, then added, “You don’t even have a TikTok.”

My name is Mrs. Clara Holt, and for four decades, I taught kindergarten in a small Denver suburb. Today, I stacked the last box on my desk and locked the door behind me.

When I started teaching in the early 1980s, it felt like a promise — a shared belief that what we did mattered. We weren’t rich, but we were valued. Parents brought warm cookies to parent nights. Kids gave you handmade cards with hearts that didn’t quite line up. Watching a child sound out their first sentence felt like magic.

But that world slowly slipped away. The job I once knew has been replaced by exhaustion, red tape, and a kind of loneliness I can’t quite describe.

My evenings used to be filled with construction paper, glitter, and glue sticks. Now they’re spent filling out digital reports to protect myself from angry emails or lawsuits. I’ve been yelled at by parents in front of twenty-five children — one filming me with his phone while I tried to calm another child mid-meltdown.

And the kids… they’ve changed too. Not by choice.

They arrive tired, anxious, overstimulated. Their tiny fingers know how to swipe a screen before they can hold a crayon. Some can’t make eye contact or wait in line. We’re expected to fix all of it — to patch the gaps, heal the trauma, teach the curriculum, and document every move — in six hours a day, with resources that barely fill a drawer.

The little reading corner I once built, full of soft beanbags and paper stars, was replaced by data charts and “learning metrics.” A young principal once told me, “Clara, maybe you’re too nurturing. The district wants measurable results.”

As if kindness were a weakness.

Still, I stayed. Because of the small, holy moments that no spreadsheet could measure —
a whisper of, “You remind me of my grandma.”
a shaky note that read, “I feel safe here.”
a quiet boy finally meeting my eyes and saying, “I read the whole page.”

Those tiny sparks were my reason to keep showing up.

But this last year broke something in me.

The aggression grew sharper. The laughter in the staff room turned to silence. The light went out of so many eyes. I watched brilliant teachers — my friends — vanish under the weight of burnout, their joy replaced by survival.

I felt myself fading too, like chalk on a board that’s been wiped one too many times.

So today, I began my goodbye. I pulled faded art off the walls and tucked thirty years of handmade cards into a single box. In the back of a drawer, I found a letter from a student from 1998:

“Thank you for loving me when I was hard to love.”

I sat on the floor and cried.

No party. No applause. Just a handshake from a young principal who called me “Ma’am” while checking his notifications.

I left my rocking chair behind, and my sticker box too. What I carried with me were the memories — the faces of hundreds of children who once trusted me enough to reach out their hands and learn. That can’t be uploaded. It can’t be measured. It can’t be replaced.

I miss when teachers were partners, not targets. When parents and educators worked side by side, not in opposition. When schools cared more about wonder than numbers.

So if you know a teacher — any teacher — thank them. Not with a mug or a gift card, but with your words. With your respect. With your understanding that behind every test score is a heart that cared enough to try.

Because in a world that often overlooks them, teachers are the ones who never forget our children.

[Cian McCarthy @arealmofwonder]

Rest in peace, Patricia Routledge 🙏🏻

In memory of her, I encourage everyone to read these words of hers from February last year.

Whether young or old, you're bound to get something out of it.

*****

"I’ll be turning 95 this coming Monday. In my younger years, I was often filled with worry — worry that I wasn’t quite good enough, that no one would cast me again, that I wouldn’t live up to my mother’s hopes. But these days begin in peace, and end in gratitude.

My life didn’t quite take shape until my forties. I had worked steadily — on provincial stages, in radio plays, in West End productions — but I often felt adrift, as though I was searching for a home within myself that I hadn’t quite found.

At 50, I accepted a television role that many would later associate me with — Hyacinth Bucket, of Keeping Up Appearances. I thought it would be a small part in a little series. I never imagined that it would take me into people’s living rooms and hearts around the world. And truthfully, that role taught me to accept my own quirks. It healed something in me.

At 60, I began learning Italian — not for work, but so I could sing opera in its native language. I also learned how to live alone without feeling lonely. I read poetry aloud each evening, not to perfect my diction, but to quiet my soul.

At 70, I returned to the Shakespearean stage — something I once believed I had aged out of. But this time, I had nothing to prove. I stood on those boards with stillness, and audiences felt that. I was no longer performing. I was simply being.

At 80, I took up watercolour painting. I painted flowers from my garden, old hats from my youth, and faces I remembered from the London Underground. Each painting was a quiet memory made visible.

Now, at 95, I write letters by hand. I’m learning to bake rye bread. I still breathe deeply every morning. I still adore laughter — though I no longer try to make anyone laugh. I love the quiet more than ever.

I’m writing this to tell you something simple:

Growing older is not the closing act. It can be the most exquisite chapter — if you let yourself bloom again.

Let these years ahead be your TREASURE YEARS.

You don’t need to be famous. You don’t need to be flawless.

You only need to show up — fully — for the life that is still yours.

With love and gentleness,

Patricia Routledge

*****

Once more, rest in peace. 🤍

[Barry @garside_geoff]

'is there a way to ask our viewers if I am talking too much?' asks Andre Agassi.

Andre, as long as you are talking and Andrew Castle is not, you are fine.

#Wimbledon

@BBCSport

[Jon @giftedrascal]

Love it when people at work ask on Monday "did you have a good weekend??"

Mate, I'm 50 years old. I went to Asda, sat in my garden with a brew and then did some ironing.

I know it's sad, but this is actually a good weekend for me.

[Miss Ogy @sing0utsue]

@NadiaWhittomeMP Absolute codswallop.

[Saul Staniforth @SaulStaniforth]

"Have you watched Adolescence yet?"

The job of the mainstream media should be holding our politicians to account. Quizzing the leader of the Conservative Party on her viewing habits isn't it.

[CHIPFAT @CHIPFAT_]

MVG seeing littler on a double 10

[🎸 Rock History 🎸 @historyrock_]

On this Christmas Day, we remember the great George Michael.

George Michael passed away on Christmas Day in 2016.

His legacy lives on, bringing joy and nostalgia to hearts worldwide 🎄❤️

[Dave Surman @SurmanDave]

George Michael was not only a pop icon but an awesome human being . Caring and loving. We should all be like George ❤

[James @james_j_bailey]

Since ‘Last Christmas’ is back at number one, here’s a reminder of the time George Michael sent £15k to a Deal or No Deal contestant to pay for her fertility treatment, and gave £25k to a woman he saw crying in a café
💚🎄

[Olivia @xraygal245]

They lied about the winter fuel allowance
They lied to the farmers.
They lied about increasing tax
They jail people for social media posts
They lie on their CVs
They hate the Private Sector
Net Zero
School fees VAT

Petition: Call a General Election https://t.co/ZGCjnrIq4B

[Supertanskiii @supertanskiii]

The horrifying reality of being a woman, perfectly summarised by @_CaitlinORyan

If you give even the slightest shit about women, watch it all. This is what it’s like.

[Allison Bailey @BluskyeAllison]

I am so proud of Rosie Duffield. She has said what many of her fellow Labour MPs have not dared to. This is a nightmare of a resignation letter for Keir Starmer and precisely what he deserves.