The Lesson Begins

The noise is audible down the corridor, and my mind is racing at the prospect ahead. This is going to be a battle. 

 As I turn the corner 30 pairs of eyes catch mine, and suddenly it begins.

 "Hooray, we've got a supply teacher"

Say a group of children, suddenly ecstatic at the news that they're about to have an hour without educational merit. They physically jump up and down with all the delight of football fans who've just seen their club win the FA Cup.

 "We have got you, haven't we?" asks a student as I open their classroom door. 

"No, I'm just opening the door"

"Oh!" says the suddenly crestfallen child, before it dawns on them that I'm being sarcastic.

 I swing open the door, and the kids shove past me. 

 A mass of poorly coordinated limbs, giant bags, and teenage spots enter the classroom with all the grace of a vagrant vomiting in an alleyway. 

 In they pour; coats still on despite it being 30 degrees in the classroom; bags on tables in a less than subtle attempt to hide the obligatory mobile phone; and language a darker shade of blue.

  This is a typical start to a supply lesson, in a better than average school. 

  The students are not ready to learn. Plainly speaking, if they're going to work, they aren't going to do it without an awful lot of resistance. 

 Within five minutes there will be enough rule breaking to have seen five students permanently excluded in another age, but now swearing, defiance, and flagrant rule breaking are the standard in supply lessons.

 A glance around the classroom will reveal boys putting one another in headlocks, girls applying eyeliner, and another group communicating with the person next to them at an ear shredding volume. 

 Inside I'm screaming loudly at the chaos that I am about to try and calm; but in reality I'm stood at the front, staring at the students and deciding what tactic to apply. 

 I open my mouth; and it begins.