"What is wrong with you, why don't you just get it." she screamed at me at the top of her voice. "your a dunce, Jones, you'll amount to nothing more than a dustbin man. Get out of my sight, go and stand outside the headmasters office." towering above my slight 9 year old frame, her face contorted like a deflated leather football. I stood up trembling, pushing my chair away from my desk, I flinched as she raised her arm, her boney thin fingers pointing at the door. I left the class and started that slow walk to the headmasters office.
You see this wasn't the first time I had made that solitary walk, oh no. Since I had started at the school I was sent there on average at least twice a week, never, or so I though, for doing anything wrong. And todays little tiff, well really it's quite relevant.
I've never really understood the concept they used to drum into us at school that stories need to start at the beginning then develop the middle then end at the end, I really wish my old school teacher was alive I would tie her to a chair and make her watch swordfish. That film starts at the end, so I dared to start my story at the end well tough. As I approached the headmasters office my whole body filled with dread, this guy hated me. And it wasn't just my opinion even my mum thought he was a complete doucebag.
As I plodded along and from no where, like wave a sudden surge of confidence came over me, NO, I thought, I'm not wrong, who the hell sets the rules for this stuff. Who ever told Dickens or Longfellow how to write, no one, that's who. I marched up and thumped on his big thick oak door. The second my tiny little 9 year old fist hit that door my heart sank, what had I done? This guy was mad his punishments were like torture, hmmm torture, little did I know at that stage how ironic that was and how torture was a word I would become very, very accustomed to......
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