I don’t much miss being a teacher. A pathological dislike of teenage boys, a congenital inability to remember historical facts and an unwillingness to spend my spare moments lesson-planning rather than go to the pub meant that a brief career diversion to pay off my overdraft did not become a lifelong vocation. But there is one thing I do hanker for, that makes me briefly wish I was back in the classroom: the daily delight of school dinners.

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After four hours of trying to wrangle the Year 10s into memorising the membership of the League of Nations, sitting down for a steaming hot plate of fish, chips and jam roly-poly was a godsend. It was a little patch of civilisation between shepherding the droogs and staring at PowerPoints. Playing through my daily routine – pushing past the pupils to get the freshest stock, smiling at the dinner ladies to get an extra heap of custard, sitting as far away from a loquacious French master as possible – was almost as delightful as the food.

Yet the meal itself was glorious. Every day I indulged in that limited collection of favourites that ex-pupils up and down the country will recall with fondness, the........

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