Today my hand went in wet.

This is the best way to describe it. I was walking downstairs, hand, rightfully on the bannister – when it came into contact with something wet.

This is not what you want.

Fearfully you examine the sensation. It’s not gluey-wet, so hopefully, hopefully it’s not mucus.

What you mustn’t do is inspect the hand.

Inspecting it can confirm your worst fears.

The only, and the utmost, thing to do is to WASH. IT. OFF.

I turn a fear-stricken face to my friend, also on the stairs. ‘I’ve put my hand in something wet’ I hiss.

I may as well have declared that I have smallpox.

Her lips curl back from her teeth and her face falls. ‘Oh.’ She says. ‘Bad do.’

She understands what must be done as I gallivant towards the bathrooms, past reception.

Unfortunately the Head teacher is there, barring the way, complete with an important looking visitor, clad in a power-suit.

I offer them a confident smile, but perhaps this is mistimed, as a child in a pushchair behind them bursts into tears, and Judith-from-reception, whilst eyeing me,  in a low voice asks Helen-from-reception ‘Good God, what’s wrong with her?’

‘Ah, Miss Stark’ begins the Head. She turns toward the visitor, who at this point has stepped forward.

Panic has fully set in now; I’m holding my hand out as if it is independent from my body. My face is set in a manic grin. The Head falters. ‘Are you in a rush to get somewhere?’

Truth. Truth, I feel is the only course of action. Surely they will appreciate the severity of the situation. This is, after all, a school.

‘My hand…has…gotten wet’. I lean forward, and give this admission in a conspiratorial whisper.

I feel the silence that follows is enough to release me, and I charge towards sanitation. I’m fairly sure my hand has dried by this point.

Today has been an eye-opener.

 Literally.

It has been literally eye opening. Many people, not just my students, misuse the word ‘literally’. However, I could legitimately use the sentence ‘Today has been literally eye-popping’.

Because, today, one of my students, one of our future… voters…consumers…fathers…politicians…electricians… or at least society members… got his head stuck in the blinds.

Rather, he got his head caught in the tiny-beaded pulley system designed to gently alter the length of the shades in our classroom. This material allows us to revel in the delightful springtime surroundings, or to hide all welcome distractions. These come in many forms: a visitor to the school entering the carpark, the weekly arrival of the bin men, a seagull…

My students either do not comprehend the lack of force required to operate the system, or they choose to disregard it. Instead, they yank at it like brachiating Gibbons. Or they swing on it like drunken campanologists. Occasionally they will give it a mighty flick, like a rancher wielding a stock whip.

It is one of the tired mantras of my life. ‘Leave. The. Blinds. Alone’. I annunciate each word. It’s as though I am painstakingly attempting to teach a parrot to speak.

On the rare occasion a student asks to alter the lighting/ open the windows I go into raptures.

 It is with utter delight that I loudly exclaim ‘THANK YOU FOR ASKING’. On some occasions I will silence the group in order to express my continued gratitude. It has been known for me to refer back to the request a good twenty minutes into the lesson. At which point the requester has adopted shrunken body language to add to their face-splitting scowl.

I digress. Today, a strangled wheezing sound, accompanied by raucous banging infiltrated my thoughts.

Allow me to set the scene.

Group-Work is happening. During Group-Work a strange phenomenon occurs. The request is that students quietly discuss a given topic with their neighbour. Let’s imagine that the topic is plate tectonics. The romantic ideal of Group-Work is a studious murmuring, perhaps the odd ‘subduction zone’ or ‘magma’ might reach the ears of the learning facilitator.

The reality, alas is… students bellow into the faces of those adjacent to them, the ears of those on other tables, at the retreating backs of those making their endless journeys to the bin (Why? Why? What is this pressing need to use the bin at any given point in the lesson? Where does this ­come­ from?)

Needless to say the tirade erupting from every mouth is almost NEVER about the topic at hand.

Those who have studied linguistics will be familiar with the idea of ‘turn taking’. A speaker annunciates, a listener will wait for a pause, then will appropriately respond.

This does not happen in Group-Work.

Instead, competitors simultaneously roar into each other’s faces. Occasionally, ineffectively, I attempt to nullify this. I resemble an elderly lady waving a handkerchief from a crowd, in a joust. Usually I sit, perplexed. Briefly, I stand… move towards a table, then shy away, like a young horse on ice.

Anyway, today, whilst attempting to formulate an answer to the highly relevant ‘Do goats like rain, Miss?’ The wheezing sound is interfering with my thoughts so much that I ask, in a grand voice so aristocratic and authoritarian that it would be quite at home on a world war one battlefield: ‘What on EARTH is making that silly noise?’

The response is flat, matter-of-fact, almost bored ‘Joseph’s choking on t’blinds’.

Breath-taking. (Literally).

The class have been aware of this, it seems, for some time. So resolutely committed are they to their learning that even the asphyxiation of a peer will not deter them.

Have-a-go-hero Reece leaps up to assist Joseph.

Joseph’s panic wildly increases as Reece approaches. This is unsurprising. Reece has, on two occasions asked ‘what air tastes like’ and the other week arrived at school wearing one trainer and one school shoe. (and the shoe was for the other foot).

Reece tugs at opposite ends of the blind-strings. Joseph’s eyes bulge and his skin turns puce. Savannah, sitting beside Joseph, thoughtfully remarks ‘I’m not sure that’s helping… why don’t you…’

Joseph, meanwhile is doing his best Gaston-from-Beauty-and-The-Beast impression, neck-muscles straining as I wade towards him.

Grace has arrived at Joseph’s side. She is appropriately named. She weighs at least thirteen stone and has size ten feet. She spins Joseph like a whirling dervish. Feeling the welcome slack Joseph ducks out of his hangman’s noose.

Reece gives the strings a rakish flick.

I am just in time to advise ‘Don’t do that because the blinds might break’ as Grace, with the strength of ten men, catches the blind string.

The blind ricochets to the ceiling with the velocity of a speeding bullet. There is an almighty bang.

Decade-old dust showers down onto the upturned faces of the students.

As I gingerly remove my hands from my eyes there is an icy (and astonishing) request from the side of the classroom: ‘Can you close the blind ­please Miss? The light is stopping us from talking’.