‘I thought it might be fun to sing some songs with the class,’ I try to explain. ‘We were talking about some items in the news and I thought The Beatles’ classic “Let it Be” might strike a chord, pardon the pun, and—’

‘The Beatles!’ she says, her head about to spin full circle on her narrow shoulders. ‘You thought it would be fun to sing The Beatles to eight-year-olds whose parents pay thousands of pounds a year towards your salary!’

I blink, trying desperately to know where to start to explain my reasoning. I’ve so much going through my head, but I can’t decide whether to go all soft and creative in my explanation, or whether to eff her off to the highest degree.

I choose soft and creative.

‘You know something, Miss Brady,’ I say to her in my best country accent, which I know to her ears sounds like nails running down a blackboard. ‘There’s nothing more beautiful than hearing children sing, be it in the morning, afternoon or evening. Did you know that children’s heartbeats synchronize when they sing together?’

She looks genuinely baffled at my reaction.

‘You sang another song, I believe?’ she says, not even listening to what I just said. ‘A song you made up yourself? I don’t even know the lyrics to The Beatles, never mind a song you decided to present to my children from your own mind, and I forbid you to take a decision like this behind my back in future!’

Soft and creative, soft and creative.

‘Singing makes people smile from the inside out, be it in the shower, in church, on a stage or in a classroom,’ I say to her. ‘It releases endorphins, it makes us move and dance, it creates a bond and it also creates wonderful memories. It—’

‘But it’s not your job here, Mrs Malone!’ she interrupts me. ‘We have a classically trained music teacher, a real-life composer from the orchestra who comes in once a week to tutor children whose parents have chosen to educate their children in this manner. It’s not up to you to sing The Beatles or some of your own nonsense to them! How dare you!’

Whoa, I can’t deny that hurts. Some of my own nonsense? I feel my lip tremble. I will not cry in front of her. No way.

But I don’t know what to say right now because I honestly can’t think of anything more uplifting than a teacher singing with their young pupils, and as I recall, they all seemed to enjoy it at the time, even that stiff little so-and-so James Leicester whose ‘governess’ reported me.

‘No more singing in class,’ she tells me, still writing on her horrible note paper. ‘It’s as simple as that. Leave any musical notions you may have off your job description, because it wasn’t on it in the first place.’