No Longer A Master Of The Class

(Before moving to teach at our high school our English teacher had been a ‘master’ at Eton, the very expensive boys-only school where the British royal family send their children. He had wanted an easier job before he retired but he gets frustrated sometimes at the lack of knowledge of some of the pupils in our class. We are in an English lesson where we take it in turns to read aloud from the set text, which is a pretty simple story book.)

Pupil #1: *reading* “—and then he opened the door.”

Teacher: “Thank you for that. [Pupil #2], can you read the next three paragraphs, please?”

Pupil #2: “Um… what are paragraphs, sir?”

Teacher: “The next three blocks of text.”

Pupil #2: “Um… what’s ‘text,’ sir?”

Teacher: *sighs* “The next three blocks of writing on the page.”

Pupil #2: *reads hesitantly until he comes across the words ‘etc., etc.’* “Umm… sir? I’m not sure how to… pronounce this.”

Teacher: “For goodness sake, [Pupil #2], just keep on reading! It’s not rocket science!”

Pupil #2: “But I don’t know how to say it, sir.”

Teacher: “Of course you do! Get on with it!”

Pupil #2: “Umm…. e-teck e-teck?” *winces*

Teacher: *stands up and goes red in the face, shouting* “Get out, you stupid boy! Out!”

(Pupil #2 flees the classroom and we hear him running down the corridor.)

Teacher: *sits down and composes himself* “So, any volunteers to read next? Hands up!”