Doctor Who is back on! Yay! It has been for ages, but I‘ve finally seen it, too! Exciting stuff!
My friend (who is the best by the way) has been recording all episodes, then watched them with my brother and me. I don‘t think I would have enjoyed the Doctor and Clara saving the world quite has much had we not sat all together on this grey couch in this small appartment eating cake.
So of course I was inspired the other day by watching School Reunion and wishing David Tennant could be my physics teacher. I could just eat him up! Anyway!
Most of the teachers I had when went to school I clearly did not want to eat up at all (not that you should want to!). I remember having a very happy childhood and I don‘t think there was ever any point when I hated school. And looking back that is actually quite surprising, because I had some pretty crappy teachers. Let‘s have a look at the three worst!
Mr. Handsome, year three. Our mums were all in love with him when they first laid eye on him. Obviously being nine years old, I was not at all attracted to him. That didn‘t change when he made me rewrite an essay because he‘d found six grammar mistakes on those four pages or when he asked us girls to tie the laces of his shoes for PE or when he publicly called students stupid for not knowing the answer to his questions.
Mrs. Bittercow, year four to six. She was my crafts teacher, and god, was she ever a bitch. I have always been good at thinking, never so good at making things with my own bare hands. Like knitting. Or sewing. This woman never let out a chance to display how much I sucked at what I was doing until one day she called me in for detention „to finish your knitting work.“ I didn‘t go, instead I finished my knitting at home and brought it to school the following week. I was really proud, but what did the bitter cow do? She undid my entire knitting, claiming it had been my mum who had done it for me. I had been scared of her, but that day I just hated her so much. I ran out of the class room and went home. Good on me!
Mr. Chainsmoker, year nine. Yeah, he was just lazy. He‘d enter the class room late, then he‘d say he‘d forgotten his glasses at home, leave something for us to copy down, go home and then come back just towards the end of the class. If he was actually there it made no change whatsoever, because he smoked so much that whenever I asked him a question I felt like entering a detoxication clinic myself.
Then there was the first grade teacher who told us to write words the way the sound or the teacher who tore a student‘s exam in half because she‘d forgotten to put down her name. But there was also the French teacher who sang with us or my sixth grade teacher who would let me read in class and who still comes to see the plays I write. I didn‘t have a bad childhood, because all those bad teachers weren‘t nearly as bad as the good ones were good.
And now I just left out completely the café part! I didn‘t have beer this week, instead me and my friend Magalie went to this place called Pangäa where I had a watermelon syrup. It tastes about as interesting as it sounds! I had forgotten that since being back from Honduras I still hadn‘t caught up with all my friends, so Magalie and I just couldn‘t stop talking!
I guess that as long as there is one person that makes your life worth living, then nothing anyone else says can change that.