On a Euston-bound train, I fell into conversation with three other passengers. Two were retired, one was close to retirement. The conversation began with stories about them looking after and reading to grandchildren and helping with homework.
Of the three, Pat – in her late 50s at a guess – had just discovered she was dyslexic. While she had done a range of jobs and been successful, she could still recall her misery in English lessons and the smack of the English teacher’s ruler on her legs. June talked about how poor she was at maths and how, even today, when faced with a maths problem she just goes into a panic.
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