Every time a book makes its way into the world—a book I’ve had any kind of association with—I feel it.
That little burst of excitement, of pride, of hope.
Whether I’ve been involved as the author, a ghostwriter, an editor, a mentor, or simply someone who’s offered advice and encouragement along the way, the feeling is always the same.
It never dulls.
It never fades.
And it’s happened again this past week.
A new book.
A new author.
But in this case, someone I’ve known for close on forty years. She’s one of those people whose name carries with it not only warm personal memories but enormous professional respect. She has dedicated her working life to teaching, and in doing so has become a quiet, steadfast beacon of what it truly means to practise that craft with care, wisdom, and integrity.
Alongside another very close friend of mine—also a gifted and deeply principled champion of education—she stands as one of the finest examples of the profession that I have ever known.
And now, she’s written about that life.
Her first book is a reflection on decades spent shaping young minds, working through constant change, giving everything to a job that too often gives little back in return. It is full of honesty, depth, warmth, and insight—just like her.
She talks about what prompted her to begin writing on her website. It wasn’t a long-held ambition or a carefully mapped-out plan. It was something much more human—something quietly moving in its simplicity.
“Retirement hit hard,” she writes. “I thought that I would be excited. But actually it was very quiet, and I found that I was not laughing anymore.”
Then, one night, she woke up. Not in distress, but with a memory—a sudden rush of all the funny, touching, and poignant moments from her years in the classroom. The things children had said. The moments that caught her off guard and stayed with her. And from that spark came a decision, clear and without fuss: I’m going to write a book.
And so she did.
No grand declarations. No elaborate plans or flowcharts. No prolonged angst over structure or style. No constant commentary about one day getting around to it. She just sat down and wrote.
In a world full of people who talk about writing a book, she quietly got on and did it.
It’s a book that is unshowy, deeply human, and told with the kind of authenticity that can’t be faked. There’s warmth in every page, not just in the humour—though there’s plenty of that—but in the way she writes about people, about moments, and about a profession that shaped her life in ways both joyful and profound.
There’s no bitterness here, no grandstanding or self-congratulation. Just a clear, honest voice sharing memories—some hilarious, others quietly moving—all of them real. You can almost hear the children’s voices—bright, curious, often unintentionally hilarious—and feel the presence of colleagues: some eccentric, others quietly heroic, all drawn with affection and insight. The passage of time flows gently through the book, not as a timeline, but as a theme—of change and continuity, of lessons learned in both directions, and of the quiet resilience required to keep showing up, day after day, for young lives in formation.
It’s written with heart, clarity, and care. A book by someone who didn’t set out to be a writer but who has, without question, become one.
And as someone who’s walked alongside CJ on her journey in a small way, I couldn’t be prouder.
Think of Call The Midwife but set in a school, complete with teachers, pupils, parents and all.
The book is called But There Is No Ef In Phonics.
With, at the helm, the ever-resourceful Mrs Belvedere, a beautifully drawn character—unassuming on the surface, but layered with quiet complexity. She moves through the world with a kind of measured grace, never seeking attention, but leaving a mark wherever she goes. There’s something immediately recognisable about her: a woman of routine, of principle, of a slightly old-fashioned kindness that’s become too rare.
She is observant, often sharply so, but never cruel in her judgments. Her strength lies not in bold declarations or defiance, but in resilience—the ability to keep going, to carry dignity even in solitude, to notice and care when others overlook. Mrs Belvedere is not a character who demands your attention, yet she quietly commands it. She isn’t flashy or forceful, but there is a depth and quiet singularity to her—someone you come to care about deeply, almost without noticing. She lingers in the mind long after the final page, not because she is ordinary, but because she is utterly and convincingly real.
You can read more about CJ Arnot and order the book on her website https://chiquitajarnot.co.uk.
Make it part of your summer reading this year.
You can thank me for recommending it next time you see me…
