You could see them transform out of school unifrom and into white sheets and laurel wreaths, these teenagers in the sun. Plaiting weeds then wearing these crowns of summer, speaking sophocles' words I am drumming into them - sometimes a relief to taste another's words working our lips, forming and sounding in the air - you crawling viper, lurking in my house to suck my blood. Then later I find myself dying several times on the school stage and rising up like a zombie and scaring them out of their wits. They seem to love it and I don't mind either. Then off I scoot to the next job - teaching creative writing. Teaching? Trying to get the hang of third person subjective - you know, the 'he rose and twiddled his thumbs, wondering whether to buy himself a toffee or not. Oh dear, better not. Think of those dentist bills. He sat down again, breathing deeply till the urge passed.' Agh! Help - an adverb. Are they allowed anywhere? Can the ly's find a place in language without being completely naf? Hesitatingly she crossed the dimly lit hallway, gently calling his name. Imperceptibly at first, the kitten, meowing softly, appeared. Is that so awful? Scrub them off, I hear myself say, because that's what the creative writing books insist upon. I see the faces of students fall. What? All of them? Yes, away with them all!
She crossed the dim hallway, calling his name. The kitten appeared. Ah, there we go - economy. Think I should end there lest I twitter the afternoon away.
May whatever needs to go well for you today go well.
xx