End Game

So here I am, limping towards the end of another school year (literally (I shouldn't do the Bruce jump when I'm happy) and metaphorically (because L'Education Nationale has finally broken me) how many brackets can you have within brackets?))))

I'm sitting at the back of a classroom 'invigilating' my final year pupils' final exam.

This gives me the perfect opportunity to write (albeit with a lack lustre photo).

We have two hours ahead of us.  The boys' heads are bent over their papers.

The day's been clammy but now there's a welcome breeze that's scattering their papers everywhere and a soft rain falling along the window sills.

I can watch them now with a book in my hand and a kind of distance you don't have when you're in front of the class.  There's the kind of peace that comes at the end of the school year when you know your work is done and it's up to them now.

Tristan is yawning.  He's slept through ever lesson he's bothered to turn up to.   If he stays awake long enough he'll hand in a blank copy and leave once the first hour's over.

Quentin I first taught when he was 11.  When I took the register, back in the day, he'd never answer because he'd never heard his name said in a non-Ariègois accent.   Since then I've called him Quentaing and he's always replied.

Axel's left handed.  Why didn't I notice that before? 

Alefe's wearing Romario's strip (#11).  He speaks French with an Occitan accent and English like a Brazilian.

Tristan's gone to sleep.  His unused pen has fallen on the floor and his head's on the table.

Lucas' little table is crowded with apple compotes and Lorenzo has a huge bag of M and M's in front of him.

God I'm bored.

Lulled by the lawn mower I briefly fall asleep and dream I'm the writer of cryptic crosswords..

I'm woken by Perrine who needs a pee.  Being the only female teacher in the room and she the only female pupil, I escort her down the empty corridors to the toilets.  

I lean against the wall, close my eyes and all is silent.