Limping amok

Gemma, one of the teaching assistants, skips into the staffroom. "Hopping, skipping, jumping, walking," she chants, making her way rhythmically to the photocopier.

The familiar feeling of nausea rises in my gorge.

"Gemma, the job's getting to you again. I'm afraid I'm going to have to slap you," I warn her. "Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind."

She stops skipping and looks slightly hurt.

The staff room is filled with such lovely warm vibes that it's all I can do to maintain my bitter and twisted position vis a vis the world. But I manage, somehow. Fortunately there are frequent prompts.

The wholesome prayers whose first word, often 'the', is enough to inspire a red mist, aren't up yet. But just looking at the home made cake ("Remember, girls, you'll all have to watch your hands afterwards because of the allergy-inducing pecan nut topping,") that somebody has thoughtfully brought in from home is enough to make me want to run amok with an arc welder.

Of course, running amok with an arc welder might be a bit ambitious, what with the weight. Then there's all those tedious health and safety rules, like having to ask the children to wait on wall side (going up) and on the bannister side (going down) while I pass, emitting the occasional spark.

Damn. Another plan to achieve that much longed for posthumous coverage beginning, 'She always was a bit of a loner.....' bites the dust.