the english lesson

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Nine heads are bent over desks, scribbling furiously away. They are either writing a short story or writing the opening of a novel, based only on a photo of a dilapidated barn. I considered doing it too, but changed my mind. I had better things to do; my youngest nephew is twelve on Friday and I needed to pop over to Amazon and put a gift card in my basket. What else does one get for a twelve year old boy who is visually impaired?? My student has written a page and a half already, despite her protestations at the beginning of the lesson that she didn't know what to write. I am trying my hardest to not fall asleep, but it is difficult. My body is weary. My eyes are wearier. Someone just sneezed and nobody said Bless you!, except me, under my breath. Faint mumbles come from various corners of the room, students talking to themselves as they write down their words. This morning, in a lesson with low-ability Media students, I took to pulling out my hair. But only the grey ones. There is something oddly satisfying about this, but I do worry that it verges on some form of self-harm, or whatnot. They have done now. Or nearly done. My student counts her words ... has she done at least two hundred and fifty words? Yes, she's managed three hundred and thirty-nine, but now she wants there to be three hundred and forty. Oh, to be young, reckless and autistic. Homework time! Section four, which is pages six and seven, if you're interested. *smile*