Studs and Stilettos

Lesson 3 - ignore a boy who fiddles with something under his desk

Today is the day....

And I haven't slept.

I drank too much last night so I am over full of Dutch courage and I have a thumpocious headache.

Brutus is making me black coffee with one of his special brews which are supposed to work miracles converting alcohol into something less potent. Samantha is trying to hump my leg and because I feel so rough, I'm letting her get on with it.

'Brutus what the fuck are you wearing ? It's making me feel worse than seeing you naked.'

'Now don't you go bitching about my clothes just because you have no taste.' Brutus pulls out the lapels of his multi-coloured deckchair striped jacket and does a twirl picking up the ghastly rat-like dachshund and cuddling it close to his face. I can feel my head spinning out of control, nausea rising as Samantha licks him full on the lips. Does he know where that dog's tongue was yesterday – need I say more than next door's German Shepherd and the apricot coloured poodle ménage a trios!

'Get that down you dearie and you'll feel more normal.'

I swallow the hot black liquid, choking on the bitter grounds and then scoop up my bag and coat.

'Gotta go. First day. Mustn't be late....'

Brutus blows a kiss as I slam the door.

So this is it.

I am a teacher.

Miss Camilla Niccus, Chemistry teacher. It sounds impressive. I wonder when they'll pay me. I've borrowed more money off Pippa to buy some clothes and a pair of sensible shoes so the debt is mounting.

The sheet of hieroglyphic coded boxes on the desk in front of me is apparently my timetable but I've no idea what it means. I suppose I can always ask some boy or other – or another member of staff - if I ever see one.

I stand in front of the empty lab and take in the smell. It reminds me of my own school; a heady cocktail of sulphur and smoke with more than a tinge of escaped gas. A bell jangles at six million decibels just above my head making my eyes water. How many paracetamol can one take in an hour without incurring permanent liver damage?

Suddenly the door is flung open and an army of marching ants come in.

Year 7?.

This is the real thing. Ahhhh!!!.. Aren't they sweet – and so small: unbelievable? Neat little blazers, knotted ties, white gleamy shirts and black shoes polished by a team of doting mothers (or fathers). They are supposed to be about eleven but they look much younger and I can't believe how many of them there are – more file in from outside and the room doesn't just fill, it bulges at the seams.... there must be over a hundred of the little babbling, whispering, smirking navy blue clad babies. Are they waiting for their nappies to be changed? Should they be given feeding bottles? They stand behind the desks and gawp at me and I gawp back. What am I supposed to do? I was told the class would be 24 or so pupils not 240. How am I going to mark all their books? It'll cost a fortune in coloured pens and I will die under a pile of marking. Every minute of every day will be spent turning pages of their exercise books. I won't have time to eat – or drink...

Shall I have a panic attack and run out of here – or what? I can't cope. I haven't even started and already I know I am a failure.

I think ahead to my planned lesson. Bunsen burners. Imagine this lot each with a Bunsen on. How will I supervise these little innocents as they move round the room with a lighted splint trying to keep it alight until they get to their desk? Apart from being like a pyromaniacs' fantasy, the heat generated will be like a furnace – we'll melt. The room will be knee deep in animal fat, liquid pools of rendering with stripey ties bobbling about on the surface – and I will be responsible!