Reasonable requests?

It’s undeniable: schools that actively demonstrate care for their staff—as well as their pupils—are places where people want to work. I’ve had the privilege of working in what a colleague once described as a “unicorn” school, where wellbeing was more than a buzzword. I’ve also known the frustration of leading in settings where supporting mental health felt like trying to plug holes in a sinking ship.

As an international head, going the extra mile for staff is often part of the job—especially when your team is living far from family and their usual support networks. The pastoral responsibilities of school leadership don’t stop at the classroom door. They extend, sometimes quite literally, to people’s homes.

Schools are collaborative enterprises. They demand hard work, resilience, and a shared commitment to the community. Staff need to know their wellbeing is taken seriously—and treated equitably. One of the most common themes in negative school reviews is a perception of unfair treatment: cliques, favouritism, or inconsistent expectations. Pupils notice unfairness. Staff do too.

Most requests from staff come from a place of genuine need and are entirely reasonable. But even the most supportive environments need boundaries. So when does a wellbeing request gently drift into the territory of the unreasonable?

Most heads have stories. Here’s one of mine. (True—with a touch of tongue-in-cheek.)

Early in my career, I returned to Karachi after the summer break to prepare for the new term. Two colleagues—let’s call them Anne and Fiona—had also returned early from the UK. They worked in another department and, though considerably older than me, were without family support in-country. I learned they’d come back for some “cosmetic refreshment,” and took it upon myself to check in on them.

What I walked into was something straight out of an Alan Bennett monologue. They were convalescing in a dim apartment, sharing a double bed they couldn’t leave due to the sheer number of procedures they’d undergone. One had her eyes bandaged shut; the other, ever helpful, lit her cigarettes so she could continue chain-smoking.

With only the occasional visit from a health worker, they were always grateful—for groceries, cups of tea, conversation. The requests, though time-consuming, were not unreasonable—and all in the name of ensuring they'd be ready for the start of term.

Until one afternoon, as I was dropping off supplies, Fiona looked up at me, her eyes twinkling, and said:

“You’re the only visitor we’ve had who hasn’t given us a sponge bath.”

And right there, I decided: the line had been well and truly drawn.