Once Upon a Time.
It was Friday evening, and we had gathered in the pub with the exhaustion that comes from spending a week trying to engage teenagers about things scientific such as the periodic table. I had not long graduated, and the plan was straightforward: a one-year transition programme from degree to chalkface. The course alternated between educational theory and increasingly long and intensive teaching practices; the Friday gathering had become our ritual debrief, where we shared tales of horror and, when fortune smiled, success.
That evening, one fellow student held her half-pint close with the stare of someone who had survived the week, but only just. She recounted how impossibly hard she was finding it, to hold her students' attention, how she felt she was pushing water uphill, how nothing seemed to land. But then her voice shifted. ‘I had one magical lesson though,’ she said, sitting up slightly. ‘I started telling them about when I was a researcher and we had a giant centrifuge in the lab.’ She explained that what had begun as a five-minute anecdote in her first class that morning-in order to fill the time before the bell-had evolved across the day. By her third set in the afternoon, the story had expanded to twenty minutes, embellished with details about the noise it made, the safety protocols, and what happened when someone forgot to balance the samples properly. The machine had transformed from a piece of laboratory equipment into a character, with personality, danger, and consequence.
She had become a storyteller.
TBC