The first hurdle to jump over is completing the application form. One local education authority asked for a passport photograph, which helped enormously in the selection process as the chair of the education committee had an aversion for men with beards or women with their eyes too close together. If you were Welsh you had also had it.
Other bizarre criteria for selection have included the candidate's birth sign. In one case, Geminis were seen as the most favourable option because of their unpredictability and dual personality. Particular attention was also paid to people who were born in Yorkshire - such a background was seen as providing bluntness and the divine quality of always being right.
The most draconian form of selection was operated by an enlightened director of education who threw out all application forms with "liaison" spelt incorrectly. This usually reduced the number of candidates by at least 50%.
After overcoming the excruciating process of filling in the form, the next step is the invitation to interview.
Getting lost
Arrival has to be planned. After being invited to attend an interview in a large northern city, I took the precaution of getting lost the night before to spare any embarrassment the next day. I also had a drink in the pub where I had to ask for directions, and the regulars gave me an Ofsted analysis of the school.
Each appointments panel has its own own agenda. Everyone is expected to be an expert on such issues as the local community, the curriculum, finance, staff development, pastoral care, management and equal opportunities. In an interview for a headship, you have to appear to be an expert in all these areas. Preparation, including cue cards, is essential.
As well as facing an interview panel, there are also the "presentation" exercises - teaching classes at five minutes' notice, talking to a group of parents on why it is your burning desire to become head, and being interrogated on a "significant event" which has happened in the last five years of your career.
The latter can take place in front of a huge group of governors who act as neutral observers. My lurid account of the day when half the school burnt down failed to impress on one occasion. A day in the witness box at Crown Court pales into insignificance compared to the trauma of such an experience.
Coming to terms with being completely exposed in totally unfamiliar surroundings reveals the inner depths of human resilience. One fellow interviewee spent all day in the toilet and only emerged for his interviews. We never discovered if this was planned or an unfortunate medical condition.
Attrition
I have been a member of a group of candidates who were left for three hours in a small room in the middle of summer with no refreshments - on the instructions of the chairman of governors. We wondered if the first one to negotiate a glass of water with the caretaker or visit the toilet would be videoed and excluded (or appointed!).
Following such hurdles comes the announcement of the final shortlist. The oddest one I have experienced was where a long list of six was reduced to one candidate, who then proceeded to a full day of interviews, including "group discussions" where, presumably, he talked to himself.
Not being selected for this particular school was no great disappointment as we had spent part of the morning sitting in the head's room surrounded by buckets collecting water dripping from the ceiling. On leaving the building, I remarked to the deputy head: "See you soon". He was most disparaging of my naivety in assuming that the "bloody infantry" would ever be involved in the selection of their future leader.
At a school in the Home Counties, the governors asked half the candidates to join them. We assumed that we had been successful, but we were the unlucky ones as those remaining went through to the governors' shortlist. So much for modesty! There are many times when you want to respond to the shortlist announcement: "But there must be some mistake. You've forgotten about me!".
By this time you are usually shell-shocked and saturated with adrenaline. If you get through, now comes the real trial - the final interview, usually conducted by a crescent of well-intentioned and curious governors experiencing a once-in-a-lifetime thrill. Introductory questions have included: "Tell us about yourself" (which bits do I miss out?), "Why do you want to come to Barnsley?" (not a very convincing answer for this one), "What makes you laugh?" (keep it clean!), "What preparations would you make for your first staff meeting?" (ask the deputy to chair it).
Suits you, sir
After these full tosses come the real googlies: "Are you related to the Bishop of Lima?" (but it was an RC school!), "What is the question you would least like me to ask you?", (already asked, presumably!), "How do you cope with disappointment?" (that's me finished!), "Put in order of priority, knowledge of subject, good discipline and sparkle?" (say sparkle and you get the job).
The most amusing interview experience I have heard happened to a close colleague of mine who was invited to a far-off place. On arrival at the hotel, his wife rang to say that he had left his suit at home. He went down to the bar to ask if there was a gents' outfitters in the town where he could hire one. This request was met with incredulous laughter, but after a few minutes a look of enlightenment appeared on the barman's face as he realised he and my colleague were of the same build.
The barman kindly offered him a new suit that he had just purchased and they spent the rest of the evening celebrating their good fortune. The suit arrived the next day - bright green with huge lapels and wide flared trousers. My colleague also had some tartan socks and a blue tie to round off the attire.
He was met with a corporate chin-dropping by the governors when they saw this refugee from a glam rock disco. His interview did not last long, and on return to the ante room he was met by a deafening silence by the other candidates. On relating the tale, the gales of laughter from his fellow interviewees were so loud that a member of the interviewing panel was sent to ask them to behave in a manner more appropriate for the occasion. The story has a happy ending, however, as no-one was appointed that day and my colleague was successful at his next interview for a headship.
The moral of this story is to dress appropriately and never give up. Being appointed as a head is elevation to one of the most rewarding jobs in the world.
It takes all sorts to make an education system. This is our space for those involved to sit back and reflect on how it is going from their corner of the world.
The views expressed here are personal.