It was so obvious that I was worried and in need of support and encouragement. At one stage the caretakers were giving me advice. Each day I went into the busy staffroom at break-time pretending everything was perfect, but inside I was quaking, terrified and dreading the next class of 30 or so 14-year-olds.

It was my first teaching job. I had given classes as part of my higher diploma in education course but nothing had prepared me for the real thing. I was 22 - energetic, enthusiastic, passionate and naive.

Each night I phoned home and poured out my woes. All the other teachers seemed to have everything down pat. They walked briskly into class each day and order ruled supreme. Meanwhile, I was at sea.

I tried to assert myself, but the students knew much more about school policy, tradition and procedure than I did. They knew the other teachers - I didn't. They knew the lay-out of the school - I didn't. In their eyes I was the greenhorn. I would have to earn their respect. They looked me in the eyes and they saw uncertainty.

I didn't know what to do when someone was disruptive. Would the principal frown at me if I sent a student down to his office. What was the usual procedure? I didn't know what to do when someone had no copybook or textbook with them. How did I react if they didn't have their homework done? I didn't know what to do if someone was cheeky. I didn't know how to behave when a student challenged me.

I was the teacher but each day new problems and questions arose and I had nobody to ask. So, I asked everyone I could. I asked various teachers and I heard conflicting advice and methods: Keep them in, give them lines, put them outside the door, send them to the office, wear high-heels, wear more make-up, don't smile on any account, intimidate them, write to the parents.

I had never dealt with so many classes before. I had classes which ranged from first year to sixth year. I was thrown in at the deep end. I struggled to establish myself, remember names at every level, both in the staffroom and the classroom.

For the first time, too, I was dealing with boys and girls. I had students who were remedial and some who were disruptive. I had students who were conscientious and more who were good-natured and willing.

Each night I sat in dread of the next day. I could think only that everything would be all right if I could make it to Friday. I celebrated if we had a day off.

The principal was friendly and kind but busy and, once the classroom door closed, I was left to my own devices. The other teachers didn't seem to understand that I was afraid and, I suppose, feeling very much alone at the head of the classroom.

In the end I was transferred to another school. I could start again. Ultimately, I left teaching but the memory of those first two years live on, especially when I hear the evocative sound of a school bell.

Sometimes my pulse races at the unbidden, subconscious thought that I might have to face 2C again.