I’m busy deep breathing, relaxing the muscles, ignoring a headache shouting at me from a distance. Within the space of two days I have got to that point where all one sees is an angry red mist and one feels like i) shouting or ii) bawling uncontrollably. I believe this may constitute stress, but in this data-rich world, I’m sure someone idiotic could argue that there’s no evidence on paper, so it doesn’t. There’s always another simpleton out there, and they can quite often be in power over one.

If you knock one simpleton off the top of a pyramid, there’s always another queueing up behind to take their place. So it appears we just have to get used to them, manage that anger or just ship out.

What they have – and clearly I must not possess this must-have- is ambition. Pure, naked ambition, and maybe a love of power over others that is not entirely altruistic. And while I acknowledge that we can’t expect leaders to be nice and kind, we can ask: should this type be in charge of our childrens’ education?

Because the measures of power, in this highly politicised educational world, are data-rich. they ignore totally whether a child is happy, whether they get to revel in learning, whether their hearts are in it. The ambitious in the world of education churn children through a mangle of levels and produce results.

Now it can be said that excellent educational managers get the results anyway. They are going to come out smelling of roses – and deservedly so- because, first and foremost, they love the children. They care about how the children develop as individuals; about how they feel; and they have both an innate wisdom and a breadth of learning and research which informs them.

But the less excellent, the less intuitive, tend towards the kneejerk reaction. They seem to transfer the pressure from the Local Authorities above them straight onto their staff, and risk the pressure landing squarely on the pupils shoulders. And it seems they are often simply not perceptive enough to see what is happening: the emotional effects – happening in front of their very noses.

Meanwhile, far, far away, in another sector entirely, a bishop is making a decision to sell of a beautiful church surrounded by gentle woodland. A church which was built less than 40 years ago for a community of people who are very much still there, growing and thriving.

This community has a school of about 250 pupils very much dependent on its church.

And why has this suggestion been made? Because thieves stole the copper from the roof.

Somehow the issues of whether the roof was insured, and why the matter has not been tidied away sooner, have been sidestepped.

Instead, parishoners at the forest church’s partner building, in a town centre, have suggested its closure. They haven’t thought to ask whether we actually like it there.

And the bishop appears, at this early stage, to be listening.

In classic council-style PR, a note was tagged onto the church newsletter from the trustees of the Diocese. The note asked for views so the trustees can make a decision.

Not a word has been spoken out loud to congregations by the leadership of the parish. Perhaps they’re hoping that no-one will notice until too late, by which time the little forest church will be a housing estate.

How do these leaders get there? Surely God hasn’t changed his mind about a community founded just 40 years ago? Is he that fickle and shallow?

So, as the red mists descend once more, and I head off to do some theraputic loud shouting, perhaps someone could tell me how the idiots always get to the top?