I write the things they have to do on the board: Journal, Vocab, Write out speech, Video review. It should keep them busy. It doesn't! Well, the good kids are working, but the rest aren't. Strange, considering it's getting towards the end of their term - they should have heaps of work. Oh well.
The room has a curtained partition to the next room and it doesn't close properly. Spitballs are being thrown in and out of the gap. It's becoming a war. I move my offenders to the front, but the spitballs keep coming through. Will the teacher in the next class please control her students! Fat chance: it's Tatiana, a weird old European biddy with woolly blonde hair who's just riding out the job till retirement.
I can't believe these boys: they're so feral! I don't know if it's just a natural outcome of their being hormonal year eleven boys, or that they've had a few bongs this morning, or maybe both. The stupid foghorn noises they make, the obscene comments and gestures. They're talking about Saturday night parties, and they think they're still there. One boy's now saying to a girl, "I don't care, I'll kill both your babies," by way of insult. I would never dare talk like that when I was a teenager. There's something about their incredibly uninhibited freedom of expression; I'm kind of envious. Life's a party to them.
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