At 61, and having nearly 40 years of teaching behind me, I have observed names over the years. They go in waves, each new semi-decade bringing a boy’s name who you know ranks high on the probability scale of trouble. Television is a great equaliser. Beyond the naming after soap stars, it allows the underclass to latch onto the well- heeled, so that soon the nursery sand tray is crowded with names from a Knightsbridge prep school or a Cotswolds gymkhana.
An aging teacher in a modern classroom
“It’s Kee – ah,” the girl corrected, every time I pronounced the end of her name “Ik –ah.” Not if the letters are that way round I thought. And carried on, refusing to pander to her mother’s dyslexia.
At home I marked books. Falling asleep, I ticked my way through a forest of Kanes, wondering why parents were attracted by the first murderer in the bible. I dreamt of children with aspirations, but woke in a cold sweat, thinking of meeting their parents. Snuggling up in the warm security blanket of apathy, I knew its hours were better.
A new day, and the register called.
I sent Tray for the milk.
Made Tyger sit next to Kage.
Then put Kaiser in detention,
for invading Belgium.
Devontae arrived late
and I hoped
for jam and scones.
My daughter is running a half marathon for motor neuron disease research on 13th March. Any donations gratefully accepted at http://www.justgiving.com/Kate-Franks1