Don't Stand So Close To Me E-Book

A.C. Bentley

• Herausgeber: Grosvenor House Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

After a happy childhood, high academic achievement and national sporting success, the only missing part of Al Bentley's life is love, which despite his best efforts always seems to elude him.But now Al has secured a coveted teaching post at an acclaimed Sixth Form College. Could romantic interest unexpectedly emerge from such a position to the point where it plays havoc with his moral conscience and professional integrity?

Leseprobe

Contents

Author Information

Acknowledgements

Quotes

Norwegian Wood

Do You want to Know a Secret?

Every Little Thing

I’m a Loser

Let It Be

Yesterday

The Long and Winding Road

If I Fell

Girl

All Things must Pass

I’ll Follow the Sun

Copyright

Author information

Born in Aldershot in Hampshire, A. C. Bentley taught Modern Languages in numerous schools and colleges in the South of England over a period of 20 years. Don’t Stand So Close To Me is his first book.

Acknowledgements

I’d like to thank the following friends, most of whom trawled without protest through my entire 173 000 word manuscript and offered invaluable feedback:

Simon Brooks

Lucy Cole

Neil Harding

Kat Lailey

Zoë Lynch

Andrew Neill

Remo Ranken

Victoria Sindall

Lucy Walpole

James and Deborah Whelan.

I’m also grateful to Silvia Peduto for the cover designs ([email protected]).

My final thanks go to my family, whose love and support has never wavered – a rare constant in the crazy roller-coaster ride of life.

All chapter titles and song excerpts were taken from compositions by Lennon/McCartney, apart from All Things Must Pass, which was written by George Harrison.

With a few notable exceptions, all the names used in the book are fictitious.

Life is what happens to you

While you’re busy making other plans.

From Beautiful Boy by John Lennon

Norwegian Wood

(Year 1)

I once had a girl,

Or should I say,

She once had me?

AUTUMN TERM

It’s fast approaching 7.45 on a balmy, sun-blessed early September morning in 1992 and I – Alan Bentley – can barely contain my excitement as I sprint down the dual carriageway in my cherished Italian classic, an Alfa Romeo Alfa Sud. Red, of course. Having survived three demanding yet at the same time rewarding years serving my apprenticeship in two secondary schools, I’m about to embark on a whole new chapter in my teaching career.

Thanks to selling myself successfully at a competitive interview back in April, I’ve landed my dream job of French and German teacher at Mardall’s, one of the county’s leading Sixth Form Colleges. In a sixteen-plus environment, with a predominantly A level focus, I’ll now have a perfect opportunity to fully exploit my language skills and, perhaps, even play a small part in helping to reverse the British reputation abroad for linguistic incompetence.

Following the post-interview celebrations, there were still three months of my old contract to honour – time enough to bid a gradual farewell to the many delights of the secondary sector. Even now, it’s hard to believe that assemblies, cover lessons, detentions, disruptive pupils, school uniform and, of course, the illicit fag behind the bike shed will soon be little more than ‘fond’ memories.

As I swap lanes to ease past a slow procession of rush hour traffic, I remember, no doubt with a hint of sentimentality, a brief conversation I had during my probationary year with thirteen-year-old Ricky Norton.

“What’s ‘e poin’, sir,” he asked suddenly, interrupting my explanation of the perfect tense, “o’ me learnin’ French if I’m gonna be a brickie?”

Searching frantically for an appropriate riposte, I found myself umming and erring before suggesting rather tentatively that he may one day secure a lucrative building contract in France and need to communicate with the customer.

“Yeah, but they all talk English out there, sir,” Ricky said wearily. “Me ‘n’ m’ dad’ve been to Frogland loads o’ times ‘n’ we never ‘at to speak no French.”

Unable to find an answer to this smart but not entirely inaccurate retort, I returned defeated to the next irregular verb on my list.

“At least I won’t have to justify my existence in a Sixth Form College,” I say to my passenger, with an air of unbridled optimism. “Yes, I’m certain this’ll prove to be a wise career move.”

Okay, I’ll come clean – there’s no passenger. I just have a habit of talking to myself.

Whilst few could dispute that my professional life is currently on the up, the same can hardly be said of my love life. A handful of fleeting relationships between eighteen and twenty-four, then girlfriendless for two years. Not exactly much to write home about. Hell-bent on drawing a line under this gold-medal-winning performance at celibacy, I jetted off to Corfu in July with my best friend, Scotsman Mario Campbell. Since we met working as language assistants in Austria back in ‘86, this was the first time Mario had been properly single. Convinced that ‘sharking’ in tandem with such an experienced lady-killer would help me take the island by storm, I’d gone away with my tail wagging. But then I’ve always been one of life’s eternal optimists.

Within twenty-four hours of setting foot in Durrell’s childhood paradise, Mario was clocked by Liza, an Anglo-Italian who’d escaped from England alone for a fortnight to nurse a broken heart. Before bracing herself for an approach, she’d assumed from appearances that I was German and Mario my Turkish Gastarbeiter (immigrant worker) companion. Realising at once that she didn’t have a friend in tow, Mario nobly rejected his latest admirer’s amorous advances out of loyalty to his old mate. Liza, however, obviously undeterred by ‘Romeo’s’ polite rebuff, latched on to us for the remainder of the holiday – a move which, I’m sure, cramped our style and put paid to my hopes of that long-awaited kiss. Or maybe more …

Partly through years of dedication to my studies and competitive gymnastics, but also as a result of inheriting the moral values of my parents’ and grandparents’ generations, I have – shock, horror – never had sex. I’ve often wondered how many other young adults have been through the whole modern university experience without ever ‘doing it’. With the onset of my new job and the imminence of another birthday, it’s suddenly become a major issue. How can I contemplate facing classes of acne-ridden sixteen-to eighteen-year-olds on a daily basis, aware that the majority will almost certainly be more sexually experienced than I am? Besides, what if I don’t meet my soul mate until I’m fifty? I can’t possibly hold out that long …

“It’s no good,” I tell the dashboard in front of me as I turn into the College drive. “I’ll have to pull my finger out and try a bit harder from now on.”

I find a parking space in front of the building’s imposing red-brick façade and reverse into it.

With a large Slazenger bag in my right hand and a buzz of anticipation in my step, I cut through the main ex-grammar school building out to the covered way at the rear, which provides dry access all year round not only to my destination, the Grosvenor Building, but also to the split staff/student canteen opposite and the Design Technology workshops further down. If I remember rightly from my last visit, the Grosvenor, a two-storey block of modern design, accommodates the English and History Departments as well as Modern Languages.

At the top of the Grosvenor stairs, I run into two important characters from the day of my interview – Desmond Willis, a German specialist and the overall Head of Languages, and Marilyn Butcher, the Head of French. Desmond’s short, raven-black hair and matching pirate beard belie the fact that he’s a shy, softly spoken man at heart. Blackbeard’s younger brother, perhaps. Marilyn, on the other hand, with her brusque, somewhat sarcastic manner, could hardly be described in such moderate terms, her prominent cheekbones and mop of closely cropped silver hair only serving to reinforce her authoritative, if not intimidating, presence. “Not one to be crossed lightly,” I remember noting back in April.

After a warm welcome, Desmond escorts me directly to my permanent teaching base, a narrow, rectangular classroom occupying a corner position on the top floor, overlooking the rear of the main building.

“Cramped but cosy,” I mutter under my breath.

Peering out of one of the windows, I notice that it’s just possible to see the periphery of the grassed quad that lies at the heart of the campus to the right and the edge of the staff canteen to the left. In the distance beyond the canteen, I spot a rather lonely-looking pavilion at the far side of a vast field, offering the prospect of staff cricket in the summer term.

My two new bosses then introduce me to the rest of the language team – two other full-timers and five part-timers. I shake hands with each in turn, but fail to register all their names first time round. They seem a friendly enough bunch, though.

With initial introductions out of the way, we all head off together to a staff meeting in the Main Hall.

“Should be an ideal venue,” I observe as we take a seat, “for the extra-curricular gym and trampolining clubs I promised to run at interview.”

As the towering, six-foot figure of the Principal, Avril Cunningham, launches into her ‘welcome back’ and ‘welcome to new colleagues’ speech, I can’t help noticing as I glance around that the other departments mirror my own in that they aren’t exactly overrun by eligible young ladies under the age of thirty. Mind you, I suppose finding someone to … well, you know, ‘sow wild oats with’ could hardly feature prominently on my staff development request form.

Anyway, there’s hope on the romantic horizon in the shape of the new language assistant, Claudia Schmidt, who’s due to arrive from former East Germany in October. With a twinkle in his eye, Desmond grants me a sneak preview of Claudia’s photo once we’ve returned to the department to prepare for the year ahead.

“Mm … yes, very attractive young lady!” he says with a nod of approval, almost as if seeing it for the first time.

As a happily married man, he’s obviously taking his role of mentor very seriously, with his junior colleague’s best interests firmly at heart.

At midday, Desmond invites the whole language team to join him for lunch at the local pub. As the new boy and ‘baby’ of the department, I receive the full red carpet treatment.

“Oh yes,” I tell myself. “I’m definitely going to fit in here.”

Our after-lunch administrative activities are interrupted by the unexpected visit of a slip of a girl with a real baby. There are “oohs” and “ahs” all round, and my lady colleagues take it in turns to hold the cute little fellow.

“She was one of our French students last year,” Desmond explains once the visitors have left. “The Chairman of Governors’ daughter, in fact.”

“The poor young lady had no idea she was pregnant until she went into labour,” Marilyn says. “With her small frame, nobody noticed her bump. And she did a sponsored parachute jump at five months.”

I’m tempted to enquire about the identity of the baby’s father, but I decide against it. Suffice to say, the infant displayed no detectable signs of pirate-like stubble.

In contrast to my previous jobs, where teaching kicked off from day one, a further three whole days are taken up with the enrolment and induction of new students, all armed with their GCSE result slips. The majority have achieved their predicted grades and are signed up without difficulty. There are, however, some borderline cases that have to be referred to Desmond or Marilyn. It soon becomes clear that a high proportion of those enlisting for A level language courses are female. I’m also amazed at how much older everyone looks without the restrictions of uniform and with the disguise of make-up.

“So, Al, is there anything else you need to know before all hell breaks loose on Monday?” Desmond asks mellifluously once the enrolment process is complete.

I reflect long and hard.

“Steady on, old lad!” he says. “You don’t want to overtax the little grey cells just yet. There’s a gruelling term ahead.”

Whilst my new boss may well be a relatively shy man, he certainly doesn’t lack a sense of humour. I smile and say: “Erm … as it happens, I do have one question.”

“Fire away. I’m all ears.”

“Er, it may seem a strange thing to ask, but how are the students expected to address us? I mean, I’m obviously used to surname terms from the secondary sector, but my cousin’s just joined the Sixth Form College I attended myself what … eight years ago and, apparently, all of the staff are now insisting on the use of their first names. Hm, would’ve been frowned upon when I was there.”

“Ah, you’ll notice a change of attitude in the modern Sixth Form College sector. Gone are the draconian days of the authoritarian teacher and the subservient student.”

“Thank goodness!”

“Oh yes, we’ve had to move with the times. The push for social equality is rearing its ugly head in Further Education, all right. Interaction with students must now be conducted on the grounds of mutual respect and understanding.”

“Surely that’s not altogether a bad thing.”

“Yes and no. Anyway, to answer your question, Avril is happy to leave the term of address to the discretion of individual teachers. We are old fogies here in the Language Department and have tended to stick with surnames.”

With this final piece of information under my belt, I’m now ready to start teaching on Monday.

The first few weeks at the College run remarkably smoothly and convince me beyond any shadow of doubt that I’m going to be happy in my new job. The students, apparently appreciating my exuberant style of teaching, are enthusiastic and well motivated, and my new colleagues friendly and supportive. What’s more, I feel very much at home in a more informal, ‘adult’ environment. However, as I discovered in my other posts, there’s never any question in this profession of being broken in gently as a new member of staff. One of the four Lower Sixth French groups that I’m sharing with part-timer Nancy Harris – all French groups here are split between two members of staff – contains the daughters of the Vice-Principal and Head of Careers.

“Hm, let’s just hope I won’t be making an appointment with the latter next summer to discuss alternative employment,” I mutter, not entirely in jest.

Claudia Schmidt’s arrival at the beginning of October to take extra conversation classes serves as further confirmation that I’ve made a sound move. I immediately volunteer to take her under my wing, on the grounds that the management will surely be impressed by my willingness to assume extra departmental responsibilities. I soon discover that Claudia is not only as petite and beautifully Aryan as her photo suggested but also a lovely young woman with an endearing personality. We strike up a friendship at once and seem to have a lot in common. Well, that’s until she touches on the subject of relationships, of course. Although on her application form under marital status it reads single, this is misleading. In reality, she’s got a long-term boyfriend back home and – I can hardly bear to hear it – a daughter.

“But … but you look far too young to have kids,” I tell her.

It wasn’t intended to be a compliment, but she takes it as one. Not for the first time, my hopes are well and truly dashed. After all, my upbringing has led me to believe that women in steady relationships never look at other men, especially when they’ve got children. I console myself with the thought that the gorgeous Claudia probably doesn’t fancy me, anyway.

As is often the case in life, good fortune arrives when I least expect it. Shortly after the letdown with Claudia, I’m presented with a perfect opportunity outside College to fulfil my mission and gain some much sought-after sexual experience.

It’s a Saturday night like any other. After a few drinks at a couple of my locals, I drift towards Clifford’s, the small but popular wine bar just up the road from my flat, which has recently been granted an extension until 1.00 am. In tow is Simon Lennon, the tall, wiry, enigmatic Lancastrian art teacher from my previous job. He’s a couple of years older than I am and a real ‘man of the world’. The place is as crowded and smoky as ever.

Just before midnight, I get chatting to an au pair from France called Juliette who I’ve conversed with in French on several occasions over the past year. Unbeknown to me, she completed her stay in England several months ago and is, therefore, just over for the weekend visiting friends. As we’re jabbering away, I’m totally oblivious of her body language until Simon, far more experienced in affairs of the heart, has a quiet word in my ear.

“Get in there, lad!” he says. “She fancies the pants off you.”

My reply is almost instinctively dismissive: “Yeah, right – good one!”

But on this occasion, Simon’s observation proves to be spot on. Nevertheless, without further encouragement from my mentor and six pints of Strongbow, I would no doubt have successfully bottled it and wouldn’t find myself an hour later collapsed in a drunken heap on my sofa with the blonde, pallid, sylphlike figure of Juliette perched over me.

“We make love now?” she says brazenly, clasping my limp right arm in both hands and tugging it in the direction of the bedroom door.

“What, you mean … you want to … to actually … do it with me?” I ask with incredulity. After all, I’m not the type of bloke who’s used to such benevolence from women.

“Comment?”

Damn! In my disbelief, I’m gabbling my words. Or is it the alcohol? I try a different approach: “Euh … tu … euh, tu veux coucher avec moi?”

“Mais oui, bien sûr!” Juliette says before adding somewhat impatiently: “Bon, on y va.”

Miraculously, the onset of a premature hangover is immediately thwarted as I lead her expectantly, although also a tad apprehensively, through to my bedroom. Whilst she’s busy undressing, I clench my fist in anticipation of an historic moment, uttering a virtually inaudible “Yes!” in the process. With a name like Juliette, surely this must bode well for the future.

However, what I’d hoped for years would be one of the most treasured experiences of my life turns out to be one of my most disastrous and humiliating. I am, of course, a total washout, yet it has little to do with the quantity of alcohol in my blood or inexperience. In my exuberance, my understretched foreskin retracts so far that it becomes well and truly jammed behind the head, exposing the hugely sensitive area underneath for the first time. And boy, is it sore! I try desperately to relay my predicament to Juliette, but somehow degree level French just hasn’t equipped me with the necessary vocabulary to cope with such an emergency. And they told me Southampton was one of the trendier universities. I’m suffering, but she just won’t stop the relentless upward movement of her hips, apparently mistaking my cries of discomfort for unparalleled pleasure. Weary and extremely sore from her indiscriminate thrusting, I finally decide to ‘fake it’. Further relief eventually arrives in the form of sleep.

I surface some five hours later with that unpleasant dryness on my tongue that often accompanies a night on the tiles, especially when there’s cider involved. It isn’t long before I’m reminded of that all too familiar burning sensation down below. Involuntarily, I gently cradle the afflicted area with my right hand. Unfortunately, my oblivious tormentor of earlier is also awake and interprets this as a clear indication that I’m eager for further action.

“We make love again?” she says in her de Caunien English.

To my dismay, I have to endure the whole excruciating experience once more, determined as I am not to appear disinterested and disappoint her. But as before, the suffocating effect of my foreskin ensures that I’m deprived of ultimate gratification – if you catch my drift.

As if my situation can’t get any worse, I finally withdraw to discover to my horror that the blessed condom has magically vanished. It’s wedged inside her. In my despair, I curse my luck for ending up with a French girl. Surely English women don’t have such a veracious sexual appetite. I mean, twice in one night – incroyable!

Except it’s not unbelievable at all, it’s very much reality. And, although I’m not usually averse to a spot of slapstick humour, I just can’t bring myself to see the funny side.

Still ailing down below and distraught at the thought that I might’ve leaked enough to make her pregnant, I drive a bewildered Juliette back to the pub where she’s staying. It’s still dawn. We avoid eye contact and barely exchange a word. Having thanked Juliette – I’m not sure what for, exactly – and bid her “au revoir”, I return to my flat to contemplate my fate.

“Thank God she’s off back to France tomorrow!” I sigh, confident that this will leave her too little opportunity to spread word of my sexual inadequacy. My hometown is too small and my self-esteem too fragile to risk that on top of everything else.

It’s at this point that I suddenly remember Juliette’s revelation in the early hours that she’d slept with Glen Moore, the local stud and prominent member of the ‘hundred plus’ club. I’m starting to panic.

“Oh no!” I mutter under my breath. “I can’t see him giving a monkey’s about a condom.”

My attention is now diverted from the threat of unwanted pregnancy to the fear of AIDS. I’m in a real state. It just doesn’t seem fair that I should have to endure this nightmare when I’ve resisted temptation before for so many years waiting in vain for the right girl to come along. My protests are loud and clear, but fall on deaf ears.

It’s mid afternoon and I can’t help noticing that my foreskin hasn’t budged an inch. The sensitivity of the exposed area is so acute that any form of underwear proves extremely uncomfortable. After much deliberation, I decide to swallow my pride and ring Mario. After all, what’s your best mate for if you can’t call him for advice when your foreskin gets trapped trying to lose your virginity? I prepare myself for laughter, but not the full ten minutes it takes to convince Mario that it’s not a wind up.

“Well, you could try smothering it with soap and massage it back into place,” he says.

“You’re still taking the mickey,” I reply, unconvinced that the hilarity has finally ceased.

But it has. So it’s off to the bathroom to follow his instructions. Lather, lather and more lather. It’s no good. No matter how hard I rub, no amount of Imperial Leather is going to dislodge this stubborn bugger.

An hour or so later, I make up my mind to phone Simon who, I figure, will be eagerly awaiting some form of feedback by now, anyway. I think he must sense the exasperation in my voice since he manages to withhold anything more than a snigger and feigns genuine concern.

“Ya best bet is to run cold bath and sit in it,” he says.

So it’s off back to the bathroom for contingency plan number two. I can’t believe it. Most young men spend hours contemplating the size of their ‘thing’. In fact, I read recently that extensions will one day be available on the NHS and here I am, at the beginning of winter, freezing my butt off in six inches of ice-cold water, trying to shrink the sodding thing.

“Any more of this and I’ll need a sodding shrink!” I curse aloud.

Just to make matters worse, I’m also starting to feel guilty about my rather immoral conduct last night. Call me old-fashioned if you like, but I know my doting grandmother, who died about this time last year, would’ve been disappointed by my actions. And I so hated letting her down. There’s no way her strict Christian moral code would’ve condoned sex outside marriage, let alone outside a loving relationship. Not that I think for one moment that my current misfortunes are a result of her wrath from somewhere up above. She was far too kind and loving to ever consider inflicting punishment on anyone, but it appears that she still has a hold on my conscience. Her younger sister, Auntie Flo, lives in the flat above mine and often cooks for me.

In spite of all my efforts, by the time I head for bed on this unforgettable Sunday night, it still hasn’t shifted. There’s no denying it, something isn’t quite right. I’m going to have to seek medical advice. Only, how will I explain to a GP who’s known me since I was in nappies that my foreskin got stuck attempting to have sex for the first time at the age of almost twenty-seven? Sometimes, when the whole world is against you, there’s nothing more you can do but turn in and pray that the morning will bring better fortune.

It’s Monday morning and it’s breaktime. On my way to the Staff Room in the main building, I stop off at the Gents for a pee. My sense of relief reverberates throughout the whole building. It’s gone back and normal service has been restored. Gott sei Dank!

My relief is short-lived. I suddenly realise that I still won’t be able to risk ‘doing it’ again, so later in the week I pluck up the courage to consult the family doctor. Having rehearsed my story carefully beforehand, I survive the encounter. But then Dr Frost has always been the very best that the NHS can buy. He refers me to a specialist, but he can’t see me until after the German work experience trip to Hamburg in November.

This is particularly unfortunate since I run into Glen Moore later in the week. I tap him confidently on the shoulder and announce: “You and I’ve got something in common.”

“Oh yeah?” he says. “So what’s that, then?”

“The name Juliette ring any bells?”

“Huh! Not you as well?”

I hold my head aloft, proud that this stud doesn’t have a monopoly of all the desirable ‘local’ women. “Yes, a few days ago.”

Glen throws back his head and emits a hearty roar, his mouth as round as a crater. “You ‘n’ me ‘n’ the rest of town!”

With the wind taken firmly out of my sails and definitely not amused, I slip away, more panic-stricken than ever. Surely I must be in one of the high-risk groups now.

On the ferry to Hamburg, Rebecca Carter, the shyest member of the small Exchange party, suddenly goes AWOL. The rest of us carry out an extensive search of the ship, but there’s still no sign. However, just as rumours start to spread amongst her fellow students that she’s fallen overboard, she miraculously reappears, noticeably the worse for wear.

“I’ve been batting with the charman,” she says, slumping into the chair beside me.

My more experienced colleague, Thelma Parker, and I are anxious to establish that she’s okay. She passes our examination with flying colours by insisting on divulging the most intimate details of her mother’s sex life. I listen in carefully but discreetly in the hope that I may pick up some practical tips. Thelma, however, an unassuming mother of two in her mid-forties, tries unsuccessfully to change the subject, no doubt envisaging her embarrassment at the next Parents’ Evening.

On our arrival at the German school, the students are each allocated an Exchange partner to live with and informed of a work experience placement for ten days in one of the local firms. I get to stay with a female German teacher, her greying English hippie husband and their eight-year-old daughter, Veronika. As usual, I try to capitalise on the opportunity to practise my German. Unfortunately, one evening at dinner, Mr Hippie overindulges on Liebfraumilch and attacks me verbally for monopolising the conversation – much to his wife’s horror. Okay, I confess, I can be a bit of a chatterbox at times.

A couple of evenings later, Lisa Thomas, one of the students who’s in my form for registration back at College, rings to invite me to join her and the others at the cinema. Seeing as his other half isn’t home and I have to leave almost at once to catch the bus, my host kindly offers to shove a frozen ready meal in the microwave for me. I accept, but then feel uncharacteristically subdued all evening.

During the night, I’m violently sick. I remain under the weather for two or three days. Considering that I only drank one bottle of beer after the film, the students must think that I’m the biggest lightweight in history.

Although this is the first time I’ve suffered from food poisoning in my life, it is, rather embarrassingly, the second time that I’ve thrown up in somebody else’s house. The first was at my friend’s seventeenth birthday party when a brass table lamp mysteriously fell on my head and upset my stomach. His mother just happened to have been my O level German teacher. The poor woman then found herself washing my corduroys in the middle of the night. To this day, I remain indebted to Mrs Davies not only for her laundry skills but also for inspiring me to learn such a great language. It simply didn’t do justice to her teaching skills that all three of her offspring failed to gain a qualification in the language.

Anyway, it isn’t so much my stomach that detracts from my enjoyment of the trip, but a constant preoccupation with the thought that I might be HIV positive.

Back in England, they announce on the news that AIDS will one day be the largest epidemic in the western world. I really don’t need to hear this right now. Maybe the specialist can reassure me. I’m seeing him in the morning.

I’ve just seen the willy doctor and it’s official – my foreskin is unnaturally tight, so he’s booked me in to be circumcised in January. Sounds excruciating! The good news is that he reckons my chances of being HIV positive are minuscule. No one hundred per cent guarantee, but enough to put my mind at rest. Thank God! I can now contemplate a future.

I’m still slightly puzzled about Juliette, though. She was so eager I got the impression that she really liked me. Didn’t seem like the promiscuous type at all. But then what do I know about women?

After the drama of that bizarre Saturday night before the Exchange, a certain degree of normality has returned on the romantic front. In other words, I’ve reassumed my former role of Mr Invisible.

It’s Friday night in late November and I’m alone propping up the bar at the scene of my recent triumph, trying to appear cool and confident. Since it now looks like I may well live beyond the age of thirty-five and haven’t heard from Juliette to say she’s pregnant, my state of panic has largely subsided. After all, it was a turning point. Not quite as I’d envisaged, perhaps, but a turning point, nevertheless. The only thing is, I’m not exactly sure if … well, you know, if it really counts seeing as I didn’t … Oh well, too embarrassing to ask anyone, I guess. Although my ‘thing’ will effectively be out of action until after the op, there’s nothing to stop me practising my pulling technique. As they say, “practice makes perfect”.

It’s an unusual evening. Having lived in the town from the age of two and a half, I can generally guarantee bumping into at least one person I know. But not tonight, apparently. Never mind, it’s Karaoke and that’s normally fairly entertaining. With no-one to chat to and considering that not a single girl has bothered to grant me a second look, I start to reflect. What was it that made me stand out on that ‘Juliette’ evening? Did I look trendier – I was wearing my new safari shirt? Or was it my hair – it was a tad longer then? Or was my demeanour more upbeat, my smile more radiant? Mm … maybe I just drank in greater volume. Or was it Simon’s influence? Come to think of it, I wasn’t even aware that Juliette fancied me until he pointed it out, so perhaps I have been noticed in the last few weeks, but just haven’t noticed myself. Oh bugger! I’m doing it again – analysing everything too much. How many times has Jayne, my sister, reproached me for this?

“C’mon, Al. Just chill out, man, and have a laugh,” I mutter in an effort to chivvy myself along.

After a while, Karaoke begins to lose its appeal and I become restless. Since there’s still nobody I know in the club and I’m in high spirits, I persuade myself to ‘have a laugh’ by putting my amateur dramatic skills to the test. At this point, I see a girl nearby who I find attractive. After several faltering attempts to approach her, I take a large swig of beer and a few deep breaths.

“Come on, Al,” I say to myself. “If you can take an assembly in front of several hundred school kids, you can do this.”

I move towards her diffidently.

“Having a good time?” I ask in a fake, ‘chilled out’ sort of way.

“Yup,” she replies without catching my eye.

“Not singing, then?”

“Nope.”

There’s an awkward silence.

“Um … nice talking to you, but…,” she says, then turns and scampers off.

What does she mean “nice talking to you”? But for once, I’m not offended.

After downing another pint, I’m itching to resume my little game. Looking round, however, I can’t see anyone else I like who’s not with a bloke. As I extend my search, I notice that my ‘friend’ from earlier is heading back towards my end of the bar, looking ‘fitter’ than ever. What if she was playing hard to get and I just didn’t spot it? After all, I’ve always been pretty hopeless at that sort of thing.

Before I get chance to think before I speak, I speak before I think: “Can I get you something?”

“No … thanks,” she says tersely. “My mate’s just got the drinks in. Look … um … I’ll see ya round, yeah?”

Before she has chance to scarper, I follow her in an attempt to prolong our chat. I grab her arm gently and say: “Okay, if you won’t talk to me and you won’t let me buy you a drink, maybe you’ll let me take you out to dinner tomorrow?” My manner is unmistakably bold, but I’m just acting out a part, of course. Hope she hasn’t noticed.

The girl swivels rapidly and looks at me for the first time with a ‘this guy’s either foreign or incredibly slow on the uptake’ type of expression. Then comes her response: “No … no way! I … I don’t fancy you, okay? You’re just not my type.”

“Oh, aren’t I? Er, look, thanks for being honest,” I say politely, still persevering with my ‘chilled out’ game. “I appreciate that.”

She appears perplexed and I wonder whether she was expecting fireworks. I turn to go, but she stalls me. For the first time, I detect a relaxing of her stance.

“So it’s all right if I talk to you again?” she says. “I mean, you’re not pissed off or anything?”

“No, not at all.”

We exchange names briefly, then my new acquaintance nods, smiles and returns to her friends.

Back home, I decide that just because a girl doesn’t fancy me it doesn’t mean that she’s not a nice person. I feel proud that, for a self-conscious bloke who never usually has the courage to approach women he doesn’t know, I’ve been quite daring tonight, even if it wasn’t the real me. I contemplate myself for a few seconds in the bathroom mirror, the extremities of my mouth smothered with toothpaste froth.

“Huh! Wasn’t exactly a big deal,” I tell myself.

I go to bed alone, but vaguely contented. I wonder what it was, though, that Juliette saw in me that she didn’t.

As is common practice in most educational establishments, all full-time members of staff at Mardall’s are expected to take charge of a form for registration in addition to teaching their own subject. It’s known as a ‘Set’ here and consists of a mixture of Lower and Upper Sixth students – first and second years – of varying abilities. There’s a range of other duties that befall a Set Tutor, such as passing on messages, chasing up invalid absences, dealing with course-related queries and compiling university references. The latter is a major undertaking and, as a newcomer, Desmond has been showing me the ropes.

Although time-consuming, I actually find my role as Set Tutor an interesting extra dimension to the job, particularly when it comes to dealing with any problems or concerns any of my tutees may face. Consequently, I don’t think twice about keeping my period one German class waiting outside the classroom one Tuesday morning at the end of November when Helen Ferguson, a shy redhead with crimson cheeks, requests a confidential chat immediately after registration.

“So are you worried about one of your subjects?” I ask, interpreting the anxious expression on her face.

“No,” Helen says nervously. “It’s nothing like that. It’s just … I think you …”

She pauses, her head dipping as if to suggest there’s something far more serious to report, something she may well be ashamed of.

I reassure her gently: “It’s okay, Helen. Take your time.”

There’s a further pause before she raises her head slowly, bites her bottom lip, and then says somewhat hesitantly: “I think you … you ought to know that I … I’m pregnant.”

I’m completely taken aback.

“Pregnant? Oh, right … er … are you absolutely sure?” I ask, for want of something better to say. After all, this wasn’t one of the role-play scenarios I was required to act out during my teacher-training course.

“Yeah, positive. I did a test at home. And I’ve had it confirmed by my doctor.”

“Okay. Sounds pretty definite, then.”

“Yup.”

“Does … does anybody else know?”

“I’ve told my mum.”

“Well done! That was very brave.” I’m still bluffing my way along. “How did she react?”

“She … she’s been really understanding, but … but she doesn’t know if she can afford an abortion.”

“An abortion? Is that what you want?”

“Yeah. It happened at a party. I had quite a lot to drink and this bloke he …”

She breaks off mid-sentence.

“Did … did he force himself on you?” I probe cautiously, focussing my eyes on hers. She glances away. “Helen, I don’t wish to pry, but if …”

“I don’t wanna take it any further,” she says finally, flashing an assertive glance back at me.

“Are you sure cos …?”

Again, I can’t quite get my sentence out before she cuts me off, this time even more assertively than before: “Yes, totally!”

“Okay, then. Look, what I’ll do is make some enquiries about abortion, then give your mum a ring. If that’s all right with you.”

“Thanks,” she says with a puff of relief.

At breaktime after period two, I inform Clive Morgan, one of the four Senior Tutors responsible for the smooth running of the pastoral side of the College, about Helen’s misfortune. Clive is a lovely, compassionate man who possesses the unique quality of being able to time a meeting down to the very last second. Sadly, he’s inflicted with a rapidly deteriorating case of tunnel vision, which may well compel him to take early retirement in the not too distant future.

“Oh dear, poor Helen!” he says with genuine concern. “Yes, I think you should make a few calls first about her options – I’ll give you some numbers – then get on to her mother straight away.”

I follow Clive’s instructions. Helen’s mum is most grateful, but explains that her daughter would prefer to leave the College and start somewhere else next year. It occurs to me that the bloke responsible for Helen’s condition could well be one of her fellow students, maybe even someone in the Set. Still, without her consent, there’s very little I can do.

For the rest of the week, Helen’s unfortunate situation leaves me feeling rather shell-shocked. I can’t help thinking that, had luck not been on my side, I may well have found myself having a similar conversation about unwanted pregnancy with Juliette just a few weeks back. It seems that my private and professional lives are not as far detached as I previously thought.

It’s Monday again and I’m feeling guilty. Two weeks till we break up for Christmas and I still haven’t fulfilled my promise to take Claudia, the German assistant, out for a drink. And she’s returning to Germany soon for the festive season. After all, it’s not her fault that the Berlin Wall prevented her from coming to England before she met her boyfriend. Besides, she’s a guest and it’s the right thing to do.

I tentatively suggest Friday. Claudia looks pleased and accepts. I tap anxiously on my bottom lip with the finger tips of my right hand as if attempting to play a keyboard.

“Great. The thing is … er … I’ve only got a … a one-bedroom flat,” I add, “so I’ll have to take you home afterwards. Or … er … I could borrow …”

“Al, it’s fine,” she says placidly, her hand on my shoulder. “I’m very happy to sleep by you.”

I’m suddenly stirred by the image of a scantily clad Claudia sleeping ‘by me’, but it’s not long before my excitement is tempered by the realisation that she’s translated literally from the German bei dir meaning atyour place. Shame.

When Friday evening finally comes round, Claudia and I go for a drink at one of my locals, The Combine Harvester. Whilst there, we bump into a small contingent of my French students from College. They’re initially shocked to see a teacher engaging in a pastime generally associated with normal human beings, but they soon come to terms with it. Any potential awkwardness is avoided through Claudia’s presence and I begin to enjoy the opportunity to chat with them in a more relaxed, uninhibited fashion. Claudia provides us all with a fascinating insight into life under a Socialist regime. Not quite part of the students’ usual Friday night billing, I’m sure.

I know that the holier than holy mob probably wouldn’t approve of a teacher condoning under-age drinking. However, I made a decision in my first job that, seeing as I’m not a policeman, it’s not my place to interfere with something that’s happening in virtually every pub throughout the country at least every Friday and Saturday night. I’d only make myself unpopular and achieve nothing in the process. What’s more, I’d rather witness students trying to be grown up in a controlled public environment than hear horror stories of excessive boozing and drug taking in private. Rightly or wrongly, that’s my stance.

After an hour or so, Claudia and I move on to Clifford’s. We’re fairly early and manage to get a seat. Having knocked back a few drinks and had a fun time with the students, we’re both in dazzling form, exchanging anecdotes in both languages. Claudia compliments my spoken German, which further bolsters my mounting confidence.

The next hour is hazy, but involves further drinking and laughter. There’s no time to analyse the situation and, before I know it, I find myself kissing Claudia passionately and she’s reciprocating.

“This can’t be real,” I tell myself as I stare into the mirror in the cramped, dwarf-sized toilet just inside the main entrance. I half expect to see that I’ve been transformed into a tall, dark film star, yet the incredulous figure looking back at me is short and blonde and definitely not a celebrity.

I relieve myself quickly and hurry back to Claudia to check that I haven’t been hallucinating. To my relief, she’s waiting for me and hasn’t sobered up or had second thoughts during my brief absence. We start kissing again.

A short while later, I resurface for air. There’s a girl at the table opposite, staring at me. It’s my ‘friend’ from last week. I can’t help beaming at her smugly, but she just glares at me with an expression of total disbelief written all over her face. I know I’m a sad case, but anyone who’s been ignored or rejected as frequently as I have over the last two years will understand what a sweet moment this is.

Back at my flat, I offer Claudia the z-bed that I’ve borrowed from mum and dad. She declines it and, to my unexpected delight, I get to sleep ‘by’ her after all. Part of me senses that she’s feeling a bit guilty. Anyway, I’m not exactly in a position to take things further, so we just restrict ourselves to kissing. What an exquisite body she’s got, though. You’d never believe she’d given birth.

When daylight reappears, there’s no apparent awkwardness between me and Claudia. What a contrast to a few weeks back with Juliette. I drive my guest home.

Back in my flat, I am for once brimming with romantic confidence. I look in the mirror and wonder why I’ve always had such low self-esteem when it comes to my attractiveness to women. After all, I really don’t look that bad this morning and I’m pretty confident in most other areas of my life. Odd one that.

As the day wears on, I can’t get Claudia out of my head. I decide that there are five possible scenarios as far as she’s concerned.

1) She was missing her boyfriend and I was just a substitute.

2) She loves her boyfriend, but fancies me.

3) She likes me more than her boyfriend.

4) She’s away from home and just wants to exploit her freedom.

5) She was very drunk and didn’t know what she was doing.

I finally arrive at the conclusion that, however frustrating it may seem, it’s unlikely that I’ll be able to establish which of these is true until the start of the spring term. I’ve no choice but to put the sumptuous Claudia out of my head until then.

Crashed out on the settee after we’ve broken up for Christmas, I find myself mulling over the events of this last term. Apart from the fact that I’m unbelievably happy in my job – and I think everyone likes me – I’ve had more excitement romantically over the last three months than in the last three years. For some bizarre reason, moving to a Sixth Form College seems to have changed my fortune. Roll on ‘93!

SPRING TERM

It’s happened at long last – I’ve had the dreaded chop. I was in and out earlier today and, despite repeated jibes from friends that I’d be walking like a cowboy for weeks, my walking is just fine, thanks very much. And to my profound relief, it’s not unbearably sore either – just a tad uncomfortable when I go to the loo. I am, however, a bit apprehensive about the night ahead.

It’s now 2.00 in the morning and, as I feared earlier, I’m struggling to fall asleep. In an attempt to avoid unnecessary pressure on the afflicted area, I’m having to lie on my back with my legs apart, thinking of England. And I’ve never had much joy before sleeping in this position. I’m trying desperately to divert my attention from any thoughts of Claudia, Kylie Minogue or Brooke Shields. After all, if the stitches were to burst …

As the hours tick by, I can’t help going over stuff. You know, as you do when sleep proves elusive. Inevitably, my train of thought takes me back to May ‘91. As a generally sound sleeper, this is the last time I remember suffering from insomnia. I’d been gym training in preparation for the British Past Masters Championships, then rushed over to a pub near the school to join a couple of colleagues who were both celebrating their birthday. I quickly downed a pint and a half of lager, and was contemplating accepting an offer of another swift half, when I suddenly remembered I still had a final batch of practice French essays to mark for the Upper Sixth. Considering they were due to go on exam leave the next day, it couldn’t really wait.

As a conscientious ‘rookie’ teacher, I made my excuses. I then hurried back along the familiar but damp country lane, only to skid out of control at the wheel of my mid-engined Fiat roadster whilst exiting a sharp left-hander. The car then clipped a tree and flipped onto its roof. Wobbling like a jelly, I managed to crawl out on my stomach unscathed through the shattered off-side window. I then found myself inadvertently wrapping my arms around the middle-aged man in the car behind who’d stopped to alert the police. This is, I promise, the one and only time in my adult life that I’ve been intimate with someone of the same gender. Maybe that explained his hasty exit from the accident scene. I think I was just seeking confirmation that I was still in the land of the living.

Standing alone in the obscurity, watching passing cars swerve to miss my mangled wreck of a two-seater stranded in the middle of the road, sent a cold shiver hurtling down my spine. What if one of them had been heading towards me as I spun out of control? At this point, a police panda car arrived in a blaze of flashing blue lights.

As the passenger door swung open, a strangely familiar voice called out to me: “Hey, I know you, don’t I?”

It was Mr Ledbeater, my Science teacher from secondary school who’d abandoned us for the Force.

“You’re lucky,” he said, glancing down at me from his tall, lanky frame, his blonde ‘perm’ every bit as curly as I remembered from my school days. “The last poor bastard we pulled out of here was decapitated.”

But then he always did have a way with words – when he could be bothered to teach us, that is. Even at the tender age of fifteen, I knew that if I did go through with my plans to become a teacher I’d actually attempt to stand up and teach my classes, not settle for setting copious amounts of note-taking from textbooks as Ledbeater was prone to do. He was, however, brave enough to bring his guitar along to the Easter Concert and sing Leaving on a Jet Plane with a 5th Year girl in front of the whole school. In a strange sort of way, the best and worst of Ledbeater helped me determine what kind of teacher I’d endeavour to be.

After an agonising wait, my breath test proved negative. Ledbeater and his colleague agreed to drop me back to the flat, leaving Kevin Baker from the school year above to load my three-thousand-pound heap of scrap metal onto his breakdown truck. Not exactly the cheapest and most memorable of school reunions.

As I lay awake in bed afterwards, it really hit home how fragile our lives can be. Had my careless misjudgement been combined with bad timing, then twenty-five-years’ worth of life would’ve been blown away in seconds. And for some less fortunate souls, it is. What a chilling thought! Needless to say, I got up early the following morning to finish marking those essays, despite a sleepless night and my zombie-like state. After all, a teacher has to get his priorities right.

In the days that followed, I began to appreciate my life more than ever before – my family, my friends and all the great things around me. And to think I could’ve died a virgin. I promised myself that I’d never again be guilty of taking things for granted, that every day from then on would be lived to the full. Carpe diem would be my new motto. I’d even get my act together and find a girlfriend. But then how often are our good intentions swallowed up amidst the high-pressured frenzy of modern-day life? Twenty months on, I’m usually so wrapped up in my day-to-day routine that the many miracles around me pass by unnoticed. What’s more, I still haven’t got a girlfriend, although you have to give credit where it’s due – at least I did have a fair stab at trying to rectify the virgin issue. The only lasting impact of my near-death experience is that I now always remember to take out an uninsuredloss option with my car insurance policy. Funny how material things often have the last word.

Incidentally, good old Simon Lennon later confessed to leaving the pub soon after I had and driving past the scene of my accident. Concerned that he may’ve had one too many, he’d ducked his head and continued on his way.

“I saw someone talking to copper,” he said in his soft Lancastrian tones, “so I assumed it were you and you weren’t injured.”

Thanks, mate!

It’s morning again and my hours of reflection are over. It doesn’t feel like it, but I suppose I must’ve slept a wink or two. As I throw back the duvet, I’m slightly alarmed to discover that a fair amount of blood has soaked through the dressing. Just to be on the safe side, I peel back the bandage and take a quick look. Ugh! It’s very raw and very exposed. But the stitches haven’t ruptured, so I cover it up again rapidly and prepare myself for work. There’s no way such a minor operation is going to keep me away from my beloved students.

Claudia returned from Germany a few days ago, but I’ve been too preoccupied with other ‘private parts’ of my life to have that serious chat with her. Actually, that’s a fib. I’m just a big coward living in fear of the truth.

By the end of the week, the truth is out. No heart to heart or tête-à-tête, just a couple of passing comments that spare my blushes and tell me all I need to know. Back in Germany during the Christmas holidays, Claudia was tormented by pangs of guilt, so decided to spill the beans by confessing all to her boyfriend, only to discover that he’d been up to the same tricks with other women. Moreover, according to the French assistant, Isobelle Dupont, I wasn’t Claudia’s only bit on the side either. Before Christmas, she’d pulled another Englishman. Looks like my theory number four was closest to the truth. I wish I could’ve been her only secret lover, though. I’d have felt far more special that way. Inevitably, I suppose, I had to be brought back down to earth at some point. I’m disappointed, although not entirely surprised. Maybe one day I’ll meet someone who doesn’t feel the need to share me with her boyfriend or half the local community.

Good news. Two of Claudia’s female friends are coming to visit next week and, apparently, one of them is single and looking forward to meeting me. Every black cloud …

Claudia’s friends turn out to be sisters. Their visit is short, but very sweet. It’s true that the softly spoken younger one, Katja, is single and we seem to hit it off almost immediately. Unfortunately, there’s little opportunity to spend any time alone together, so we exchange numbers and promise to stay in touch. Katja is keen to organise an extended stay in England sometime in the not too distant future, so I tell her I know a man locally who’d be more than willing to put her up. She approves, so … watch this space.

With the departure of Claudia’s two friends, February soon arrives and my life becomes more hectic than ever before. In addition to my full timetable of French and German teaching, I’m now voluntarily running a trampolining club during two lunch hours and an after-College gymnastic club. Then there’s my private, recreational gym club that I’ve been in charge of for almost four years. It’s held in my old secondary school hall and involves three hours’ coaching on a Friday night and a further three the following morning if the Saturday coach cries off sick – not exactly an infrequent occurrence. Add to this a good hour for setting up and dismantling the equipment. Since I began my own gym career there back in 1973 and received fantastic support from a number of dedicated parents – above all, my own – I don’t begrudge the time. But it can be knackering after a heavy week at work. I’ve also had my arm twisted about offering private language tuition to some friends’ children. At the moment, this amounts to two hours on Saturday and two on Sunday. I do get paid for my efforts, though.

The other week, I attended auditions for a bit part in the local amateur dramatic society’s Easter production of The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole. By pure coincidence, Guy Harper, one of my French students, landed the part of Barry Kent, the infamous bully. I hope he doesn’t get any big ideas about rehearsing his moves on me in class. Just to prove what a complete nutter I am, I found myself agreeing to take on a fairly major role. How I’m going to find time to plan all my lessons and keep my marking up-to-date once rehearsals get underway, I haven’t a clue.

There is, however, one positive aspect to being so busy – there’s scarcely a moment to brood over my non-existent love life. In fact, I haven’t had a second to think about the opposite sex for days – apart from when I’m in bed, of course.

Towards the end of February, nineteen-year-old Howard Parish, one of my coaching assistants at my private gym club, brings his band to College on a Tuesday lunchtime. It’s a beautiful day and, in my capacity as Functions Organiser for the Student Activities Team – another sideline I forgot to mention – I manage to persuade the Vice-Principal to authorise an open-air concert in the quad.

The group gives a remarkably polished performance for such a junior outfit, but then at the end, Howard embarrasses me by insisting over the mic that I provide the vocals for a version of Wild Thing. Surrounded by expectant students, I have little hope of escape. Since singing comes as naturally to me as sprinting does to a snail, they get to witness a self-conscious side to their teacher that would never rear its ugly head in the classroom.

A few days later, I discover that my character in Adrian Mole is expected to perform a solo. If it weren’t for his superior height, I could ask Howard to deputise during this scene. Maybe he’ll give me some singing lessons instead.

On the following Friday, Louise Wilson, one of my star gymnasts and trampolinists from College, fulfils her promise to make an appearance at my evening gym club for extra training. She gets on really well with Howard and by the next gym session, they’re an item. What it is to be a pop star. Now, I wonder when I could squeeze in those singing lessons …

In March, Marilyn invites me to join her, Isobelle Dupont and one of the part-timers, Diana Lewellyn, on the French Exchange. Marilyn, Diana and the students – among them some of TheHarvester crowd – head off by coach to Poitiers, with Isobelle and me in hot pursuit in her ageing Renault 5. Her parents live fairly close to our destination, so she’s wisely decided to kill two birds with one stone by paying them a visit.

None of us gets much sleep in the lounge during the overnight crossing – all the cabins were booked up. Consequently, I find myself nodding off in the passenger seat of Isobelle’s car on the other side of the Channel. Suddenly, I’m awoken by the deafening squeal of brakes and the jolt of her Renault 5 swerving into the lay-by before coming to an abrupt halt.

“What the hell’s going on?” I ask, turning to face my visibly shaken chauffeur.

“I am so sorry,” she says, gasping for breath. “I fell asleep at zhe wheel. When I woke, I saw we were about to ‘it zhe lorry in front, so I braked. It is a miracle zhat I wake zhen.”

Having survived my second near-death experience in two years, I make light of it and encourage Isobelle to press on. Needless to say, I keep my eyes firmly open for the remainder of the journey.

On the first morning in Poitiers, as we’re assembling in front of the lycée, three or four of the Harvester girls rush over and greet me with cries of “Bonjour, Al. Ça va?” Then, in full view of my two lady colleagues, each one in turn kisses me audaciously on both cheeks.

“I see my young man has found himself some admirers,” Marilyn says good-humouredly.

Over the last year, I’ve come to realise that her brusque, somewhat intimidating manner is very much a front. Below the surface, she’s a warm-hearted woman of sharp wit. I wonder if the girls were deliberately trying to embarrass me. If so, they certainly succeeded. Of course, I just pretended to take it in my stride.

The trip is a success. We all return to England to see out the last few weeks of term in buoyant mood. For my part, I’m just relieved to make it back in one piece.

With my currently manic lifestyle, April arrives before I know it. The BBC broadcasts highlights of the World Gymnastic Championships and I get to see Neil Thomas, my old adversary, win a silver medal for his floor routine – an outstanding achievement. My claim to fame from now on will be that I once outscored a world class gymnast in the compulsory section of the British Youth Championships. Of course, I’ll fail to mention that Neil was fractionally younger at the time. Anyway, it should sound a bit more impressive than my previous boast – that a former British Women’s Champion once sat on my lap at a disco several years before her triumph. We were both on a training course at Crystal Palace at the time.

Adrian Mole is a hit at the box office. Eager to experience another hilarious attempt at singing by their teacher, a whole crowd of College students turns up to watch me on Friday night. Marilyn Butcher, the Head of French, is also in the audience along with Patricia Bates, one of the receptionists.

On the Saturday, good old Mario travels all the way from Manchester to support me, unaware that the play won’t be the only spectacle he’ll be witnessing. Given that he played such an invaluable role in reassuring me after my ‘accident’ with Juliette before Christmas, I decide that it’s only fair he should be the first to gain a sneak preview of my healing war wound. Whether this has anything to do with his uncustomary lack of appetite at dinner is hard to say. I hope he’s not going down with something. We’ve got a full weekend of boozing ahead of us.