Spit balls and leaking ink cartridges were on intersecting trajectories across the classroom.
“Jonathan Merrithwaite, stop doing that!” said the harassed Miss Tribbington. The rest of the class laughed all the more and the number of missile throwers swelled. She put her hands over her cheeks and groaned loudly.
“I’ll be talking to you mother at parents’ evening,” she said to the boy who clearly wasn’t listening.
“Miss, can you help me with this sum?” said little Trudy Makepeace, doe eyes looking up at the wreck of a teacher.
“Hold on one minute, dear, I’ll just see to these —.” Black ink exploded all over her flowery blouse. For a few moments, the class looked on, open-mouthed. She put her hands on her waist and frowned at Jonathan, hate and murderous intentions clearly showing.
She shook her head. The pins holding her tight bun fell out ... as did her bun. “I’m not going to tell you again.”
“Miss, Miss,” said Trudy.
“Not now,” said Miss Tribbington.
“Miss, but —.”
“Not now, Trudy,” she said with more determination.
“But, Miss, Mr Birtlewhistle has just come in. Should we stand?”
Miss Tribbington went a funny colour and made a pathetic attempt to smile. “Hello, Mr Birtlewhistle. Can I help you?”
“Perhaps we can have a word, at break?” he said and left the room.
“Don’t worry, Miss T,” said Jonathan winking, “I’ll go and make it alright.”
Miss Tribbington looked in disbelief at the little angels now in front of her, naughtiness apparently evaporated.
“I’ll just say we were doing role play, you know, the best way to behave in class and how it’s not good when we’re bad.” He winked again. Was that a pair of small horns showing on his head?