The alarm goes off early. Not aggressively early — but early enough to feel virtuous about it.
Before anything resembling leadership begins, there are two small, non-negotiable supervisors to attend to: my Cavapoos, Paddy and Eddie. They are entirely uninterested in strategy, staffing structures or school improvement plans, but deeply invested in physical education (punctual walks) and catering (breakfast, ideally with a sprinkling of cheese). In many ways, they keep me grounded. You may see me being walked by them at 6am, in the quiet, leafy streets around the school, probably not looking very ‘Principal-ish’. In fact, there may even be a hint of a pyjama somewhere.
A brisk walk later — rain or shine, this is Scotland after all — and I return home full of good intentions. There may be yoga. I say may because this depends entirely on how brave I am feeling. Some mornings, I stretch. Eddie might join in – they don’t call it Downward Dog for nothing. Other mornings, I simply consider stretching, which feels like a start.
Breakfast is a model of disciplined optimism: herbal tea and yoghurt. I am vegetarian, so this is both a lifestyle choice and a daily test of character, particularly when the scent of a bacon sandwich drifts through the memory of a past culinary life. So far, yoghurt continues to win, but only just.
Then comes the daily conundrum: what to wear. It is at this point that I reflect, not for the first time, that school uniform is one of the great, underrated efficiencies in life. For everyone else, it is simple. For me, it is a moment of quiet indecision, usually resolved by something that looks vaguely authoritative and, ideally, has pockets.
By the time I arrive at school, the day is already in motion as a few emails, texts and catch up calls have undoubtedly been exchanged. A quick catch-up with the team — a moment to align, check priorities, and share what we know (and, occasionally, what we don’t). Then it’s straight into what I call “eating the frog”: tackling the most challenging or complex task of the day before it has a chance to grow in the mind.
From there, the rhythm shifts.
Walking the school is, without question, the best part of the job. Through the staffroom, where conversations are equal parts insightful and restorative. Into classrooms, where the real work is happening — pupils thinking, questioning, sometimes surprising us all. Across to the nursery and junior school, where energy levels are high and perspective is refreshingly direct. If only I had a pound for every time I have been challenged to a game of football or monkey-bar swinging / tree-climbing competition. And to the boarding house, where school becomes something more like home, and community is lived as well as learned.
No two walks are the same. There are conversations in corridors, quick decisions made on the move, moments of celebration, and the occasional unexpected challenge that requires immediate attention. Leadership, it turns out, is rarely sedentary.
In between, there are meetings — of course there are meetings — emails, decisions, more emails, and then the inevitable return to the to-do list, which has somehow grown rather than shrunk.
There will be moments of pause, though. A pupil stopping to share good news. A colleague needing a quick word. A quiet sense that things are moving happily in the right direction.
By the end of the day, there is a certain kind of tiredness — the good kind. The kind that comes from people, from purpose, from having been fully engaged in something I love, something that matters.
Home again, and the cavapoos reappear, delighted as if I have been gone for a year rather than a day. There may be another walk, a simple supper (usually more ambitious towards the beginning of the week; by the end it’s cheese and crackers!) and a gentle attempt to switch off.
Before bed, I read. At the moment, it’s JL Carr’s A Month in the Country — a quiet, reflective book that feels like the perfect counterbalance to a busy school day. Something about restoration, about taking time, about noticing what is often overlooked. There might be an analogy there, somehow.
And then, inevitably, the thought arrives: tomorrow will be different.
It always is.
And that, perhaps, is the best part of all.
