The Marks I Chose Out

I was only a temporary teacher at a secondary school in Colchester, brought in to cover English and a bit of French. The pupils were sixteen, seventeen ' old enough to know better. Every lesson began the same way: shouting, spitting, throwing things, ignoring me like I wasn't even there. I'd stand at the front and wait while they carried on dismantling the room with noise. The three worst ones made it personal. Insults. Mocking. Open defiance. I smiled through it at the time. Then I marked their work. And I wrote their behaviour reports. I didn't lie ' but I made sure nothing generous slipped through. Two of them were barred from returning for the rest of the term. I told myself it was justice. The little fucks. The truth is, I enjoyed every second of it.