Must get to class. Cannot leave those kids unattended. They’ll trash the classroom. Damn! Forgot those worksheets I made. Have left them in the car. Will nip along the main corridor to the car park. Past the headmaster’s office. Or should I say headteacher? Who cares? Must dash.

Who’s this, standing in front of the main school office? It’s John Brocklesbank, with some irate looking parents. Look how he gives the father a firm, vigorous handshake!

Father: “Look, I don’t mind him being given a clip round the ear. But punching him is just going too far!”

Can’t make out what Brocklesbank is saying in reply. But that assured, authoritative body-language is impressive. Punch! Most of the teachers here say they “thump” those brats who cause all the trouble. It’s the done thing. Not the “official” line, but hey! Must press on!

It’s my last day here today. At last. Out of teaching soon. Free! No more classroom jungle. As someone once told me. Don’t kid yourself you can rule them. They are the hunters and you are the prey. Duck and dive man. Use your best tactics. Con them. Pick on the weaker ones to make you look strong. It’s all an act.

Last day? But I left teaching thirty years ago! Errrrrr. I’m dreaming. They call this a lucid dream. I know I’m dreaming so I should be able to take control. Well that’s the theory anyway. But with my subconscious, who knows?

The door. Out! Into the Careers Centre. Pam.

Pam: “Don’t forget your stats today Paul.”

Me: “Okay Pam.”

Let’s head for the front door.

Fred (suddenly here): “Paul, got a minute?”

Into an office. Denise is waiting there.

Denise: “Come on Paul, you’ve got five minutes left.”

She points at a desk: a test paper is open. I pick up the test booklet and rifle through it. Pages and pages! I’m lost in reams of algebraic gobbledygook.

Awake! In bed. Rub my eyes. Clamber to my feet. Those bloody dreams. Need a pee. Head for the loo. Open the bedroom door. Rubble. The landing has been decimated. Whoah. This is Leeds! I’m still asleep.

Awake again! In bed. Humberside. This is real. Well, I hope so.

  Paul Butters