have lives outside the classroom, and it adds (however slightly) to their disciplinary range if they sound a bit more grown up.
I could remember where the registration classroom was too, assuming it hadnât changed. Sixth form was a lot smaller than the rest of the school, and the two years shared a common room Tash and I were never cool enough to go to. But as to who the hell was who, I was fucked for that. I planned to hang around as long as possible and be the last person sitting down, so that I got the right desk.
Â
Â
It was the smell that hit me first. It hadnât changed at all. Gym kit, adolescent sweat, strange chemicals, poster paint, dust, formaldehyde, trainers and, overlaying it all, litres of sprayed-on cheap deodorant and aftershave, choking up the yellow hallways and sweaty plastic handrails.
This place hadnât changed an iota. I couldnât believe it. The tiles were cracked in exactly the same places they had been when Iâd left. Who could go sixteen years and not think to replace a cracked tile? The grim pink linoleum hadnât changed. The supposedly soothing, prison-like shades of pale green and yellow still haunted the corridors, grubbied and coloured with years of Sellotape. Posters along the walls advertised the periodic table and how to say no to drugs (as usual, illustrated with a revolting shot of a needle going in to somebodyâs vein rather than, say, a really good relaxed party with
everyone having a nice time, the point at which someone is actually going to have to make a choice).
I walked along in a kind of a wonder. For the first time, I really did feel transported. This was a world I hadnât been in for a long, long time. There was a stern exhortation not to run on the stairs. There was a cabinet containing skeletons of animals. A line of kings and queens that I think had been there since I was at school. Some toilets with a telltale whiff of smoke. The schoolâs rather threadbare coat of arms, and its Latin motto for âLet us do our work this dayâ, âGet your homework in on timeâ, or whatever it meant. My head was spinning.
âMiss Scurrison!â
That was ⦠I definitely recognised that voice. I turned round, conscious I was wearing that expression that people do when they listen to a âblast from the pastâ on This is Your Life. I also suddenly felt my stomach seize up in a sort of panic.
âDonât you have a class to go to?â
It was Mr Rolf, evil geography teacher incarnate. This man had scared the living daylights out of every one of us. Tashy and I always reckoned it was a possibility that he was actually just sizing us up so he could choose what would be the best moment to pull out a big machine gun and kill us all. If someone answered correctly, they got the piss taken out of them. If someone answered wrongly, they got the piss taken out of them. Shouting was unexpected, detentions arbitrary and shockingly swift. I have a vague recollection of someone once getting three thousand two hundred lines. This was a man who regretted the loss of corporal punishment and told us so, repeatedly. He often lamented the lost
legal right to bang childrenâs heads against walls until they saw sense.
Oneâs bodyâs ability to hold sense memories is extraordinary. I straightened up and flashed a nervous smile.
âGood morning, Mr Rolf!â
Even as I said this, I couldnât help looking at him. The last decade and a half hadnât been kind to him. Always scruffy, he was now unkempt and grubby-looking, and the ever-present teacherâs dandruff still covered his shoulders. I recalled that he wasnât married. At the time weâd scoffed that we werenât surprised. Now I was looking at a sad man, lonely and broken by years of butting up against people who simply would never be able to care about geography. It came out before I could help myself.
âAre you OK? You look
I could remember where the registration classroom was too, assuming it hadnât changed. Sixth form was a lot smaller than the rest of the school, and the two years shared a common room Tash and I were never cool enough to go to. But as to who the hell was who, I was fucked for that. I planned to hang around as long as possible and be the last person sitting down, so that I got the right desk.
Â
Â
It was the smell that hit me first. It hadnât changed at all. Gym kit, adolescent sweat, strange chemicals, poster paint, dust, formaldehyde, trainers and, overlaying it all, litres of sprayed-on cheap deodorant and aftershave, choking up the yellow hallways and sweaty plastic handrails.
This place hadnât changed an iota. I couldnât believe it. The tiles were cracked in exactly the same places they had been when Iâd left. Who could go sixteen years and not think to replace a cracked tile? The grim pink linoleum hadnât changed. The supposedly soothing, prison-like shades of pale green and yellow still haunted the corridors, grubbied and coloured with years of Sellotape. Posters along the walls advertised the periodic table and how to say no to drugs (as usual, illustrated with a revolting shot of a needle going in to somebodyâs vein rather than, say, a really good relaxed party with
everyone having a nice time, the point at which someone is actually going to have to make a choice).
I walked along in a kind of a wonder. For the first time, I really did feel transported. This was a world I hadnât been in for a long, long time. There was a stern exhortation not to run on the stairs. There was a cabinet containing skeletons of animals. A line of kings and queens that I think had been there since I was at school. Some toilets with a telltale whiff of smoke. The schoolâs rather threadbare coat of arms, and its Latin motto for âLet us do our work this dayâ, âGet your homework in on timeâ, or whatever it meant. My head was spinning.
âMiss Scurrison!â
That was ⦠I definitely recognised that voice. I turned round, conscious I was wearing that expression that people do when they listen to a âblast from the pastâ on This is Your Life. I also suddenly felt my stomach seize up in a sort of panic.
âDonât you have a class to go to?â
It was Mr Rolf, evil geography teacher incarnate. This man had scared the living daylights out of every one of us. Tashy and I always reckoned it was a possibility that he was actually just sizing us up so he could choose what would be the best moment to pull out a big machine gun and kill us all. If someone answered correctly, they got the piss taken out of them. If someone answered wrongly, they got the piss taken out of them. Shouting was unexpected, detentions arbitrary and shockingly swift. I have a vague recollection of someone once getting three thousand two hundred lines. This was a man who regretted the loss of corporal punishment and told us so, repeatedly. He often lamented the lost
legal right to bang childrenâs heads against walls until they saw sense.
Oneâs bodyâs ability to hold sense memories is extraordinary. I straightened up and flashed a nervous smile.
âGood morning, Mr Rolf!â
Even as I said this, I couldnât help looking at him. The last decade and a half hadnât been kind to him. Always scruffy, he was now unkempt and grubby-looking, and the ever-present teacherâs dandruff still covered his shoulders. I recalled that he wasnât married. At the time weâd scoffed that we werenât surprised. Now I was looking at a sad man, lonely and broken by years of butting up against people who simply would never be able to care about geography. It came out before I could help myself.
âAre you OK? You look
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