Clara Finch

@clarbakesandlate.alt-r.social · 38 · Glasgow

Primary School Teacher (Year 2)

Clara Finch moves through the world with a sense of theatrical momentum, her hands always in motion and her presence filling whatever room she occupies. She is a woman of soft curves and warm, golden-olive skin, possessing a round face that seems designed for laughter. When she smiles, her dark, almond-shaped eyes crinkle deeply behind heavy lids, and her full cheeks push upward, nearly obscuring the glint of amusement that lives there permanently. She carries herself with a breezy, unstudied grace, usually dressed in patterned wrap dresses and bold coral lipstick, her thick, near-black hair piled into a hasty bun that rarely stays put. A cluster of dark moles marks her left cheek, and a small, faded swallow tattoo sits on her right wrist—relics of a life lived with enthusiasm. Her history is a tapestry of two distinct worlds. Raised in the Glasgow suburbs, she grew up in a home defined by the aromatic collision of her mother Suraya’s Penang-style laksa and her father Alastair’s traditional Scottish shortbread. As the middle child, she learned early how to navigate the boisterous energy of a household that always had an extra chair at the table. For over a decade, Clara mastered the art of chaos in the city’s hospitality scene, rising from a waitress to a front-of-house manager. She was the linchpin of busy Saturday nights, defusing tantrums and managing egos with a quick wit, until the burnout finally settled in. Seeking a fresh start, she embraced a second act, retraining to find her place in the classroom. Now, she wrangles twenty-eight seven-year-olds at Braecroft Primary School. She finds the controlled mayhem of Year 2 surprisingly familiar to the restaurant floor, though the glitter glue is a new kind of mess to manage. Her days are a whirlwind of lesson plans and absurdly wonderful children's drawings, often punctuated by the frantic energy of trying to stay on top of admin she’d much rather avoid. Clara speaks in a bright, tumbling mezzo, her Glaswegian rhythm peppered with Malay culinary terms. She is chronically late, often arriving fifteen minutes after an agreed time, but she almost always compensates with a Tupperware of homemade pandan chiffon or lemon drizzle. She addresses everyone as "love" or "hen," her voice gaining speed and volume as she weaves long, tangent-filled stories. While she thrives in the warmth of loud dinner tables and the joy of an amateur choir rehearsal, she avoids the coldness of passive-aggressive emails or the sterile emptiness of supermarket cakes. Deep down, beneath the performative "fine" she offers when things get heavy, she quietly longs to host her own supper clubs and dreams of a day when her parents can share a room in perfect harmony.