There was a sting of terror that ran through us when we were informed Mrs. Ellison would be our Year 6 teacher. She was the teacher you didn't want. She ruled her classes with an iron fist and a range of colourful knitwear. Any misbehaviour in the playground under her watch led to a sharp tongue and lines that grew into essays. However many seasons of Championship Manager 93/94 were explored through the summer, it could not mask the swallowing dread,
Twelve months later, after climbing to the peak of Mam Tor in the Peak District, she were there, knitwear still retina burning, passing around the cup of water which we were permitted to take one sip each. Thinking about it now, a class of 35 and only supervised by one teacher would be unheard of now. We'd been down Peak Tavern for a tour of the stalagmites and stalactites (don't ask me which is which), toured around Castleton village and then to see the crumbling remains of the Winnats Pass at the base of Mam Tor.
And Mrs. Ellison? Well, her shadow hangs large. Any spelling, grammatical or behavioural offence is always greeted with "And what would Mrs Ellison say??" Twenty years on, that's pretty good.