Mrs Bantam

She's heading straight for me.

Look down, look up, look anywhere but at her. Maybe it's someone standing near me she wants. Maybe if I engage someone else in conversation, she'll walk straight past.

But she's a teacher. She knows who she's after. And it's me.

I try to look meek, optimistic, unthreatening, friendly, vulnerable, welcoming. It's too much for my poor face to cope with. I end up looking, frankly, a bit simple. I am already ashamed and embarrassed.

"Could I have a word, Mrs. Sands?"

I nod my acquiescence and smile hopefully. Perhaps he's been outstanding today. Maybe it's a heroic tale I'm about to hear.

But her face quickly denies me that hope. And I find it lurked only just below the surface anyway.

"I walked into the classroom today to find Alfie digging for gold".

I am non-plussed. Suddenly, I feel like a foreigner in my own land. Digging for gold? What on earth could she mean?

She senses my incomprehension.

She gestures with her index finger, turning her face away and pushing her finger up the far side of her nose. I get the point.

"I'm afraid he is beside himself. I simply asked him if he could desist and he dissolved into tears. I haven't been able to get a word out of him since".

I follow her to the classroom and collect my crumpled, sodden child.

Slowly, bleakly, desolately, my little nose-picker and I make our way out of the school gates and towards the car. He hiccups occasionally. He still hasn't looked up at me. I have one hand soothingly, protectively, on his shoulder.

Suddenly, he trips. And the force of the fall propels the cherry stone from deep in his nostril.