One lovely sunny day I was on duty in the lunch hour. All the children were on the school field many of whom were sitting in friendship groups. I watched as Kelly and Tracey crept up to Beatrice with armfuls of grass clippings that they dumped all over her. Tracey's laughter pealed out over the sunlit field like a happy bird cry. Beatrice meanwhile was shaking off the grass with righteous indignation. She resembled a rather cross wet spaniel. I smiled with pleasure!

On another occasion I was less happily occupied supervising Willy, Karl and Matthew in whole school detention. I had found them on arrival fiddling with the computer mouse doubtless trying to remove the little ball for nefarious purposes of their own. After a few hotly delivered home truths the delinquent trio were set a copying exercise to do. Ten minutes passed in silence before Willy decided it was safe to commence a conversation.

"Dug a hull(hole) for a pond last noight an put an ol' tin bath inut."

I never did learn what he intended to use the pond for. It seemed a bit small for fish. Perhaps it was to wash his ferrets in! Karl had interrupted with a contribution of his own.

"I dug a hull for a tin bath once. Bunned a grut fire inut. Nex mornin I wen an danced in the ashes. Bunned ma feet. Wen indoors and croied."

This simply told, perfectly complete, short story gave me a lot of pleasure. So, too, did the brief encounter between Barry and the Deputy Head, Mr Smith. We were patrolling together when up sidled Barry. He was always sidling up to our tall, dark, sardonic, Deputy Head. Barry was a very bony boy with a broad Scot's accent - a rarity in a rural Suffolk school. Mr Smith looked at him and said, "Excuse me, son. Do Scotsmen wear white skirts when they play cricket?" Barry just look disgusted and said, "Tcha!"

Later in the day I met Barry again. He said, "That Mr Smith gets on my nairves(nerves). He's always taking the p***."

Well such is school life. Amidst the strife there are amusing, pleasurable, interludes - small happy moments. They are nothing like a real stab of joy.

For several weeks I listened to a series of religious broadcasts on BBC radio by Gerald Priestland entitled, 'Priestland's Progress.' He talked to all sorts of Christians about the Christian life - Roman Catholics, Greek Orthodox, Quakers and Methodists - but to nobody like me. He questioned Bishops, Theologians, Philosophers and Salvation Army Officers - but nobody like me. Eventually we arrived at the final broadcast in the series. Almost at the end of this programme Gerald Priestland said, "As for me.." He began to talk about his OWN experience. He began talking from the heart. "As for me," he said, "I am like Mr Ready to Halt." It was at that moment that MY heart leapt for joy. At last, at last, a Christian like me, one from my own tradition, was making a contribution. Perhaps I should have expected it from the title of the series.

I knew all about Mr Ready to Halt - that poor limping pilgrim in John Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress - the pilgrim who was always ready to halt and to give up the Christian life; the pilgrim who relied on his pathetic crutches, who stumbled along toward the end of life's journey full of doubts and fears. Priestland continued, "I hope what was true for Mr Ready to Halt will be true for me." Mr Ready to Halt was eventually sent for, as Gerald Priestland was sent for and as we all shall be sent for. At his funeral these words of John Bunyan were read: When he(Mr Ready to Halt) came to the brink of the river, he said, "Now I shall have no more need for these crutches, since yonder are chariots and horses for me to ride on." The last words he was heard to say were, "Welcome life." So he went on his way.

The joy I felt when the Puritan tradition within Christianity was finally acknowledged as meeting a need moved me to the depths of my being. John Bunyan is one of my heroes because he writes with realism about the Christian experience.