On the final day of school this week, just before they began their summer holidays, my three primary school children went to visit their new classrooms.

This left me with a number of questions. What happened to the Year 6 students? Without a new classroom for them to go in the school, were they harshly thrust out into the world and forced to loiter beside the small corner shop - just like all the real high school students seem to do?.

Blocking pensioners, push-chairs and all vehicles with flashing lights and wailing sirens.

Then there were the two reception class teachers. Did they secretly open a bottle of wine to celebrate their brief moment of freedom?

And as to the rest of the teachers, did they see this endeavour for what it really was? A simple but graphic reminder that the next six weeks were only going to be a temporary reprieve. And that in the blink of an eye they would be thrust back down into their own particular rung of hell. Where they will have to begin pushing a new group of fidgety, sullen and ill-tempered children back up that same long hill once more.

Only to helplessly watch everything roll back down to where it all began the following September.

Of course, these teachers were undoubtedly going to spend their break taking part in a short bout of intensive psychotherapy. One designed to help them delve into the particular reasons why they would even want to do it all over again. Especially when they know how it's going to end - with the unappreciative children gleefully bolting towards their summer of freedom. Acting as if the year they spent in that class was more like a harsh prison term, instead of a rewarding learning experience.

Then there were all of the gifts that they were showered with on that final blessed day. Gifts that came bearing the names of their little pupils.

Gifts which we all know really came from these ungrateful beasts' extremely grateful parents.

Parents who are in awe of the teachers. As they marvel at the fact that there really are people out there who have dedicated themselves to guiding their thankless students up the ladder of learning. Instead of pulling pints in the local pub, as any sane person would have done.

Mind you, those gifts all appear to come with their dark side - because the svelte slender teachers always seem to wind up with 20 pounds of Belgian chocolate that they're going to have to slap directly on their thighs. Meanwhile, the fit, muscular teachers who show up each day on their sleek aerodynamic bicycles, must have suddenly wondered how on earth they were going to pedal home with fifteen clumps of flowers. Flowers that were still firmly rooted to the heavy pots in which they were growing.

And as to those teachers who would have loved chocolates or flowers, well as part of their own particular torment, they probably ended up with gift vouchers for the local fitness centre.

Now I have to confess that I don't really know what happened in the staff room a couple of days ago after the last joyous child left the school, along with their sputtering and dispirited parents. Though with my superb insight into human nature I can see it now...

"I'll wager two potted plants for that one box of dark Belgian chocolates."

"I'll see your bet and increase it by one bottle of 1984 Chateau-neuf de pape."

"You mean you were given an expensive bottle of wine?"

"No. I'm just a humble teacher. And if it wasn't for my naive dreams, I think I would've I chucked it in long ago."