Ooooh, where to start
I spent the first 12 years of my school life in a convent school. Thankfully the nuns had left the year before I went, but this didn't stop them from enforcing religion on us wherever possible. There were a range of very strange teachers there, Mr Hardy (arf!) who left after some scandal involving "extra tuition" with a 6th former, the very eccentric Mrs Peel who taught us GCSE English and insisted in coming into school in the same rather mouldy kaftan every day, but best of all was our junior school French teacher. Can't remember her name for the life of me, but every wednesday for two years she would spend an entire afternoon reading us Little Red Riding Hood in french. Every single lesson. Wierd lady.

My favourite, however, is my old college lecturer. He was as mad as 9 pies, every lesson he would tell us stories of his old days spent touring with Robert Plant as his guitarist. Sadly these crazy days had taken their toll on the poor sod and he'd frequently sufer from acid flashbacks in class. One lesson he taught the entire class while standing on a chair. At the end of the lesson he turned round to a friend of mine and asked "Why was I on the chair?"

We could give him no sensible answer. Bless him.
( SugarSpunSister Yeah, whatever, Thu 10 Nov 2005, 12:47, Reply)