In A Stranger’s Classroom

As the tap of finger upon keyboard falls into a gentle rhythm the boys descend into the world of Whitlam and I gaze about the room. It is a space consumed by memorabilia. Leather lounges form a perimeter, dispelling the myth of classroom order … or containing it.  Single desks join in the traditional English U – two rows at the centre cater for those who prefer looking straight ahead. The walls  compel. Faces peer from posters arranged with careless attention to detail. I notice how their eyes follow my movements … or is it the students they watch?

Defiantly, I look beyond  to question, ‘who ordinarily stands here’? Clearly, they are not ordinary. Even though books dominate, it is the collection of typewriters I notice most. They sit in ancient silence watching their modern descendants suffer the assault of nimble fingers and partially attentive minds.

Tap, tap, tap, the movement of finger upon keyboard continues.

Who are they? Which soul  so lovingly gathered these monument to the writers craft. Why did they place a cricketer in the corner and suitcases by the whiteboard. What message does the ancient camera contain and why do bronze lamps droop and flower with impotent  grace.

Upon the filing cabinet, flanked by a Dictionary of Modern Slang, an Ode to Art and the Compete Works of Shakespeare, lays a spent cricket glove and dull red ball. Hidden behind   a towering note stack is a box of coffee bags. More clues. Strange clues.

Are you a master of expression, an organized philosopher,  or a trapped intellect with a gypsy’s heart. Or, are you simply and proudly, a teacher.

A welcome to the world of expression 🙂