“It’s strange,” says DearHeart, as we try to attach the door, “but I keep thinking that you’ve retired.”  DearHeart herself took an early retirement before moving to a bungalow.  I guess her subconscious now links a lack of stairs with a general liberation from the corporate ladder.

I call Pa to tell him that we’re a nut short of a greenhouse, then we saunter round to raid his tool box.  On the way, I realise that her subconscious must have Friended mine because I also can’t get my head around the prospect of having to stop playing houses in order to go and teach.

No-one wants to go back to work after a holiday, natch.  As LittleBro points out to anyone who complains about their job, it’s called Work and not Play for a reason.  He doesn’t take prisoners, my brother.

But generally I appreciate the compensations at the start of a new school year.  Most important of which, of course, is the reason why most of us came into teaching – the prospect of a class-full of shiny new stationery.  Crisp exercise books in a range of colours to arrange at whim.  Gel pens in a range of colours which will make it so much easier to keep up to date with the marking this year.  Highlighters in a range of colours which will make assessment sheets fun to complete, honestly. And, for those who have been really really good, a Pritt-stick or two.

I could also write about the prospect of getting to know a fresh class and helping them to access our shared culture but we all know that comes a poor second to a new diary.

September’s fresh start is also a big bonus for those of us of a Resolving disposition.  This year, I really will stay up to date with my marking (the gel pens will help).  I won’t take work home.  I will not spend all of Sunday planning.  I will produce outstanding displays with interactive questions.   (But how?).

Teaching is a bit of a winner in this respect.  Most jobs carry on while you’re away, but when I walk into my classroom on Tuesday, it will be as I left it four weeks ago.  Maybe a bit of penicillin in forgotten lunchboxes and some thirsty spider plants but there’s unlikely to be a backlog of children in the corner waiting to be taught.

It’ll be all right when I get there, I suppose.

But I’m writing this from the tub-chair by the open picture-window looking out into our new garden.  At the moment, it’s a scrubby square of lawn surrounded by a severe path bordered by – well, borders.  Neglected borders of dandelions and rampant ivy and elderly roses just calling out to be loved.  I have plans; such plans.  And a greenhouse which has a door and everything.  I’m just not ready for the summer to end yet: I want to play houses for a bit longer.  Just another month?  Please?

Here’s an idea.  I could try and persuade Mr Headteacher that, in order to enhances children’s digital competence and strengthens their bonds with the community, teaching by Skype from a domestic setting is allowed – no, positively encouraged – by the new Computing Curriculum.  No-one else will have read it.  And I won’t tell, if you don’t.