Friday night, the last of her school exams complete, my eldest was out on the town, performing. Her 24-piece big band played to over 220 people in one of the city’s legendary clubs in their first public concert. They were as tight, together and polished as jazz orchestras I’ve paid three times as much to hear. I’m super proud.

Saturday night, 70,000 of us were entertained by Robbie Williams, as he kicked off his European tour in our home city. The same emotions of sheer joy, happiness, glee, and the same sore throat the next day from singing along.

Two performances that couldn’t be more different, in two different venues, but fundamentally there to do the same thing for the audience.

As an audience member, it’s just brilliant to know you’re in safe hands: you are going to have a great time, because the artists have got every detail of this night nailed, prepared, practiced and down to a fine art.

Now think about schools: they all aim to do the same thing for their communities, but while some make that routine reliably outstanding, many struggle to exceed the expectations of their communities.

Often, in fact, we’re a wee bit nervous that things aren’t quite as slick, prepared, practiced and comfortable as they should be. For teachers, that leads to stress and burnout. For parents, it leads to worry (and squeaky-wheel emails at 10pm).

A lot of this isn’t down to strategic planning - it’s not as fundamental a problem as needing a total rethink. It’s down to communication of expectations.

In 1975, Gary Dahl was nursing a drink while friends moaned about pets: the cost, the mess, the responsibility. Dahl, an advertising executive with a well-tuned ear for absurdity, had an idea: what if your pet didn’t need walking, feeding, or cleaning? What if your pet was a rock?

Packaged in a straw-filled box with breathing holes and instructions on the side, the Pet Rock became a six-month cultural whirlwind. At $4 each, Dahl sold over a million and laughed his way to the bank.

The Pet Rock wasn’t just a gag. It was a masterclass in spotting potential where others stopped looking. Dahl didn’t invent something new; he reimagined the ordinary, turning it into a phenomenon by daring to think one step beyond the expected.

Start where others stop, and you’re on the first step to discovering what makes you different. Most school strategies, missions, and program brochures are the educational equivalent of beige wallpaper. "Innovative curriculum", "values-based learning", "21st-century skills": these phrases have become so common they’ve stopped meaning anything.

The real problem isn’t cliché. It’s sameness. In the race to appeal to everyone, schools often land in the dead zone of appealing to no one.

This isn’t just a marketing issue. It’s a leadership issue. Because when we fail to define and articulate what truly makes us different, we lose the sharpness and energy that keeps the work interesting. And when that work becomes boring, it becomes routine. And when it becomes routine, teams slide off their A-game.

That’s true whether you’re a private school competing for enrolment or a public system trying to keep morale high and outcomes strong. If you want to energise the work, start by refusing to accept the language of sameness.

In the US, Des Moines is the kind of place where shops need to serve everyone to survive. Broad appeal is the only option in a smaller local market.

But Tokyo is different. With over 35 million people within a train ride, niche businesses can thrive because they only need a small slice of a massive audience.

The Atlantic**’s Derek Thompson** says, “The internet is Tokyo.” He means that, in today’s world, you don’t have to be everything to everyone.

“In Tokyo, there’ll be a shop that’s only 1970’s vinyl and like, 1980’s whisky or something. And that doesn’t make any sense if it’s a shop in a Des Moines suburb, right?

“In a Des Moines suburb, to exist, you have to be Subway. You have to hit the mass-market immediately.

But in Tokyo, where there’s 30-40 million people within a train ride of a city, then your market is 40 million. And within that 40 million, sure, there are a couple thousand people who love 1970’s music and 1980’s whisky.”

You can afford to be specific, even strange, if it’s meaningful and true to who you are, and you have a large enough group of people living nearby.

Yet schools who could be acting like they’re in Tokyo still act like they’re in Des Moines: generalist, cautious, afraid of turning anyone off. But sameness is riskier than difference.

And if no one can tell what makes you different, how can they choose you? Are they, in fact, just putting up with you?

Instead, start where others stop. Take your “standard program” and interrogate it. What’s truly yours about it? Why have you got permission to win right there? What are you doing differently, not to impress, but because you’ve stayed more curious than anyone else?