Secret Diary of an Irish Teacher: of daydreams and 'maths anxiety'

I’m staring out the window, gazing at trees. I’m 15 years old. My maths teacher is busy, untangling knots of algebra on the blackboard; my friend is taking it all down. She’s using different coloured pens, underlining, highlighting. There’s a tug in me because I know I should be doing the same.

But that same tug is intoxicating. It feeds my rebellion. It “smells like teen spirit”.