Mr Hungry has reminded me
of the teacher I got for sixth year English.

She was that one, you know, the kind of sexy one who rumours of student boffing and colleague shagging were always flying around (she had inherited the role from the legendary "Randy Radcliffe", a reputedly knickerless teacher who left before I got there), imagine Kim Catrall with short hair and you're halfway to how I remember her.

Rumours ha been flying that her affair (again, unsubstantiated gossip) with the head of the english dept. had fallen through, and one day, she cracked.

Asking us questions about a book we were to have read, she was met with stony silence. She asked the question twice, then sat, staring as we fidgeted and remained silent. It was painful. I knew the answer, but to begin with I'd expected someone else to give it, then thought someone would be picked..... after two minutes of silence, it was too late. It had somehow turned to attrition.

I don't know how long we sat there like that, eyes on our desks praying for that woman to for God's sake just pick someone, maybe ten minutes, but it felt like a year. Then, breaking point came. She silently rose, srode out the door and SLAM! Never came back that lesson.

No-one ever mentioned that day to her.

The other English teacher wasn't as sexy, but for some reason the woman's nipples were constantly poking out through her blouse. Odd the things that stick in your mind.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 13:16, Reply)