Baster
I was thirteen, and Miss Feather can only have been in her early twenties. She was clearing up a terrible mess in the food technology room while our food teacher, the frosty-faced Mrs. Parker, had kept me behind in the same room after school for creating the mess in the first place. I was made to sit in silence, so I passed the time by watching Miss Feather as she squirted inside the cooker and wiped the knobs above. She was a trainee teacher with long, jet black hair and an exotic complexion. As she reached inside the cooker to wipe at the back, she looked across the room at me. I thought she must be angry with me following my omelette-flinging spree. Mrs. Parker simply sat at her desk, reading through coursework.

After a few minutes, and a few more glances towards me, Miss Feather stood up and quietly slinked towards the store room, a mobile phone in her hand. She closed the door behind her, then a minute later she emerged and returned to her cleaning.

Shortly afterwards, the school receptionist ran into the room. "Mrs. Parker!" she cried. "A nurse from the hospital just phoned. Your husband has been in a terrible accident and they think he only has a couple of hours left to live!"
"No!" screamed Mrs. Parker. "I have to go and see him! He's the only one who knows our eBay password and I'm bidding for a new colander!" She then looked at me unsurely.
"Don't worry about him," Miss Feather assured her. "I'll keep an eye on him until the hour is up!"
Mrs. Parker thanked her assistant and ran from the room with tears in her eyes.

Once the sound of Mrs. Parker's hurried footsteps had faded, Miss Feather stood over my desk. "Now I have you all to myself," she purred. "You really have made a big mess in here, young man. It has caused me a lot of trouble, and I want some compensation!" She then grabbed hold of my arm and dragged me across the room. She positioned me in front of the window, my palms on the sill, and pulled down my school trousers. "Now I'm going to show you how to baste a turkey!"

The next hour was sheer heaven. However, as I looked out of the window, tears of joy in my eyes from the challenging girth of the acrylic rolling pin that Miss Feather had put to interesting use, I could see Mrs. Parker driving her turqoise Fiat Panda around the schoolyard at high speed, leaning out of the window and cursing in Latin at the pigeons that had gathered to feast on whatever scraps were left inside the many of the day's discarded Space Raiders packets. Back then, in 1992, I found that to be rather weird.
(stusut79, Wed 16 Nov 2005, 12:23, Reply)