What She Taught Me …
Mrs Wood taught us that looking “confused” when she was speaking was about the worst sin that could be committed in the classroom.
Even worse than the time when Billy Geldenhuys blew off in the middle of mid-morning wordsearches.
She hadn’t mentioned that.
Mrs Wood taught us that Billy, at least, had a free pass with passing wind.
And, by God, did he make use of his pass in the academic year that followed.
I swear the paintwork hadn’t been yellow in September.
And there was a definite patch on the carpet.
Although that might have been from the time Emma wet herself because
Mrs Wood taught us — oh, how often did she teach us — that we could have our hands in the air, but that meant nothing if she was still speaking.
Because, we learned, there was one voice that mattered above all others in that room.
And it did not belong to any one of us.
Mrs Wood taught us that, if she hadn’t heard of it, it didn’t exist.
So that Hazlet Dad bought from the deli that time?
No such thing. It wasn’t eaten in the Wood household.
Christ, I expect she’d not heard of Kwik Save, either.
But I wouldn’t have risked that, because I’d seen the face she pulled when I mentioned Dad going to Ladbrokes to put his weekly bet on whichever horse was going to be glue by Monday.
It was the face Billy’s sphincter toots most deserved.
But, like I say, Mrs Wood was immune to those.
Decent people didn’t notice such things.
That’s what we learned.
And so much more besides, of course.
Don’t ask questions after lunch on a Friday.
Especially about the sour smell on her breath which she never once masked with the coffee that was always in her hand.
Don’t wonder aloud why wordsearches are such a major part of the curriculum.
Don’t ask why, having thoroughly taught the fuck out of Robinson Crusoe last term, we’re doing him again this term.
And, most of all, Just Don’t Ask.
Oh, yeah, Mrs Wood taught us so very much.
About teachers and teaching, too.
Which means I have absolutely no sodding excuse for becoming one, do I?
