186. La rentrée

 I am feeling so full of energy (see previous post) that the minute I enter the classroom I find the air stifling (I can't say it stinks but it does). So I head towards the windows and open them all wide. It is not cold outside but it is not warm either. 

When the kids come in I can see they are making a big show of hugging their coats. Good actors. Pity this is not a drama class.

'Miss, can we close the windows, please?'

I stand at the from of the class and try to answer but it is noisy as they are moving around and settling at their desks. So I shout, literally shout, at the top of my voice so as to be heard through my mask. I can briefly see the usefulness of the mask here. It has saved them from a shower of highly infected teacher spit.

'I am following government procedures.'

As I am saying this I point towards the little poster sellotaped to the metal filing cabinet. I move closer and tap it loudly with my board marker. A loud metallic bang echoes through the classroom. They are all paying attention now. 

'Here! Look! It says: air the classrooms, often, and for a long time. Airing classrooms, my dear students, is all about opening windows.'

They are all looking at me now. I can see them trying to work out if I am trying to be funny or if I am just being highly professional (still a possibility apparently). 

And I tap again on the cabinet. Boing. Boing. The whole cabinet rattles, its metallic sides shaking and trembling under the repeated knocks. I stare at the teenagers as I walk up and down the classroom.

'The government thinks it is OK for you to be a bit cold. I am a civil servant so I am following the procedure. Any objections?'

The boy at the front is about to give me some cheek. I can tell, so I decide it is better to nip it in the bud.

'Look, someone bought you this super cool, super warm, SuperDry winter coat to keep you warm. So be grateful.' 

Silence in the room. As I can hear no clattering of teeth I decide to start the lesson.

'Right! (more spitting into the mask) who can recite the entire auxiliary BE, present tense, affirmative?'

I was expecting a cloud of raised hands. None indeed. I wait patiently pacing up and down the room. 

'Right! ... Waiting!'

They are all staring at their books, the ceiling, the floor. Some are trying to disappear down their coat's raised collars.

'I see. ... No-one wants to answer my question. ... Let's see! ... How about we look at it another way: windows will stay open until one of you can recite it perfectly. See if you are really cold or just pretending.

All the 15 and 16-year-olds turn in unison towards the best pupil in the class. A girl who is now shrugging her shoulders and putting her hand up. I let her know she can be the saviour for today.

The windows get shut one by one. I frown severely at them and they take their coats off.

(Characters and events are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or actual events is purely coincidental.)