Yesterday, after an epic day, my teacher gets the class doing work then calls me over. He hands me $10 and says “You know that fish and chip shop down the road? I think we’re all a wee bit stressed. Go get us some hot chips?” and I’m like “uhhh sure” and he’s like “If you get caught, I’m in the shit, so don’t get caught. Good.”
So I walked there, got the chips and everything was all good. Feeling like a boss, I’m maybe 100 metres from the school gates when the whole year 5 cohort drives by on buses. They waved, I nervously waved back, and very briskly walked back to my class room.
I’ll see on Monday if the year 5 teachers said anything to anyone, but the chips were good (Y).
I wanted to be a writer. So I bought a black turtleneck and some dark-wash skinny jeans and long straight hair and an attitude of affected angst and black-rimmed glasses and hand-rolled cigarettes and a cup of black coffee in a white mug and a Moleskine® and a lightly-chewed pen. I developed the…