A: Exposure

I knew I could be a teacher from the day James Ball came into class
with his penis hanging out.

It wasn't an everyday occurrence - not even at this school - and I was
a wet-behind-the-ears-trainee, given almost total self-rule thanks to
the prolonged absence of my mentor. In short, I was a student being
used as a free supply teacher; or, put another way, cannon
fodder.

But I was learning. A lot.

Poker-faced, I got out of my seat, flicking my eyes about the room,
checking the other year-ten sinkers hadn't noticed. They were
fortuitously engaged in a conversation about who wanted to twat
whom.

I put my hand on James's shoulder, and indicated the door. He turned on
a sixpence and, ushered by my hand, lumbered back out.

"Put it away, thank you," I asserted. Never say please to a child.
Never plead with a child. It sends out the wrong messages; weakens your
position of authority. Nobody had told me this. I was an instinctive
learner.

Appendage now suitably tucked away, James was welcome in the room, with
a see-you-at-the-end ringing softy in his ears.

That class ran me ragged for the first few weeks I taught them. One
kid, Tim, suffered from emotional and behavioural difficulties because,
staff-room legend had it, his adopted mum had wanted a girl. She never
hid her disappointment, it seems.

There was this time: Tim, by way of greeting me, was simulating
rear-entry coitus with scally-voiced redhead Melinda. I discovered I
could shout. I mean, really shout. I made every kid in the room
physically recoil. You could have heard a pin drop on the threadbare
carpet. Soon after this, I learnt that screaming like a banshee too
often doesn't work: it soon loses its desired effect, and besides it
hurts. They start to laugh; and make ironic "whoooooo" noises.

Typical early lesson progression with this shower:

Me: "Repeat after me...Ich lerne deutsch."

Melinda: "Sir, we've done this already, sir."

Me: "I know. We're going over it again&;#8230;"

Melinda: "Sir, why sir? We know it already, sir."

Me (raising voice): "You may know it Melinda. Others may not."

Melinda (sulking): "Well pardon me!"

Tim: "Eh, he's calling us thick. You calling us thick, Sir?"

Me: "Of course not Tim. Don't be&;#8230;"

Tim: "Don't be what, Sir?"

Me: "Just calm down, Tim."

Tim (a la Harry Enfield's scousers): "Eh! Eh! Caaaalllm down."

Subdued laughter.

Me: "Everyone&;#8230;Ich lerne Deutsch!"

The class (unenthusiastically): "Ich lerne Deutsch."

Me: "Let's remember what that looks like written down&;#8230;"

Tim (as my back is turned): "Are you gay?"

Me: "No Tim. Not that it's any of your business."

Tim: "No sir, I was talking to James."

Hearty laughter.

Yes, it was a tough time. I made so many mistakes. But once I had them
eating out of my hand - sort of - I knew there wasn't a class in the
world that would faze or frighten me.

I didn't tell them I was leaving; they found out themselves. They had
persuaded the art teacher to let them make a leaving card. I was close
to tears. Melinda had written a poem in it: mainly free verse, with
sporadic end-rhyme.

James hadn't signed it. He'd been permanently excluded by then. About a
week after the flashing incident, he threw his bag at a senior member
of staff and told him to fuck off.

By the way, he was very apologetic about the whole willy-exposure
thing, when I made him stay behind for that quick chat. That morning,
he had found his mum passed out after a night of imbibing gin and
tranquillisers. She was so unresponsive when he shook her, that he
thought she was dead.