Remember the Geography teacher?
The legend of how he hated first years?
Remember that last year of junior school?
A knot in the pit of the stomach,
Months before we turned up at Big School,
Badged & blazered,
Tiny in the land of giants,
Provincial kids from council estates,
Farmers kids fresh from milking,
Remember that lesson about Geology?
We sat on the front row?
The kids from the fields & me,
The Geography teacher talked about soft & hard rock,
Appeared from a store cupboard,
Granit in one hand,
Sandstone in the other,
Walked slow along the front row,
Eyeing us through gritted teach,
“Boy”, he said,
Stopping in front of me,
“Which one do you want to be hit with?”
Inside me I heard ‘click’,
I saw the wound,
The blood in my imagination,
‘I know what I’m meant to say’
‘And there’s no way you’re hitting me with that!’
He raised the sandstone in a cartoon fist,
Narrowed his eyes,
“That’s the only answer that could stop you getting hit”,
When I’m bullied into a corner,
When I’m offered option 1 or 2,
I go for 3,
I still see him smiling,
He was a great teacher
(Listening to: Erland Apneseth Trio – Ara)