Rob Beckett

That's all normal.

Fast forward to the springtime.

The following year and one afternoon before leaving school, one of the other teachers, Miss Smith, not a real name, not her again.

Oh, it's not Miss Smith again.

Poor old cow.

Cricket batting hand.

Sorry, Mr Smith.

She was walking back to the staff room with a big bunch of roses.

She doesn't learn.

She does not learn.

She was a teacher that had the reputation of being quite mean and not many people liked her, so everyone was very shocked, including myself.

When school had finished that day, while in the car on the way home, I said to my dad, did you see the roses Miss Smith had today?

I wonder who sent them.

We're shocked someone likes her enough to send them roses.

My dad, not being the romantic type at all, said he hadn't seen them.

And that was the end of that.

Nothing out of the ordinary there.

He was a very laid back man and he probably genuinely couldn't have given a shit.

Or so I thought.

A few months went by and nothing else of note had happened at school when my dad ended up moving out.