After 16 years of teaching, my finer qualities have been recognised.
16 years of suffering teenage body odours.
16 years of maintaining a cool, friendly and professional mien.
16 years of correcting students' essays with such basic errors of grammar, syntax and punctuation as to cause an acute and sobbing heartbreak in the depths of my soul.(which I don't have anyway, so it doesn't really matter, but it's a bit existentialist, so I'll keep it in)
Plus of course 3 bloody years putting up with Ringo. (See earlier posts for this tragic tale of Mancunian angst. And a right bastard)
I had made it.
I had reached the penultimate heights of teaching.
I was now
