Tired old teachers never die,

They just return, on supply!

 

I know I am in trouble

When I keep glancing at my watch.

A bead of sweat rolls down

My furrowed brow.

A hand shoots up.

“Yes?” irritated teacher voice,

“What is it now?”

“Can I go to the toilet?

I am desperate. I need a pee!”

Laughter. A belch and then a fart.

Raucous laughter

Some of them can belch and fart at will.

A paper aeroplane flies across the room.

What am I doing here? Teaching, still?

"And when did bodily functions become funny?

Wife of Bath’s Tale. Geoffrey Chaucer. 1400."

I answer my own question.

I didn’t expect they’d know.

 

I send 'me laddo' toilet bound.

Against school regulations!

He’s been released onto the corridor!

I’m hoping he isn’t found!

 

I’m glancing at my watch again.

“We need to finish this essay today,” I say.

Injecting a sense of pace and rigour.

I notice a couple of louts, mouthing obscenities

And grinning inanely.

‘Do not advertise poor behaviour,’

My internal manual advises,

I say nothing, as I look at my watch again.

 

Bringggggg! The fire alarm ringgggs!

My saviour!  Bringgggg!

I escort my pack of unruly hounds towards the door.

Carefully directing them away

From the non-existent fire.

Gleefully escaping this dreadful, teacherly mire.

I sign the forms and, happy day,

I can finally retire.