The thudding, bouncy-soled footfalls of the rabbly- boys are retreating.
Out of the hazy fug of Summer blooms and honeysweet funks of atomised scent go the bonny girls of the Year of Eleven- all imbibed and annointed to ensnare the football-shod boyo’s!
Listen, for all is silent, but for the ticky- cooling hot electronics of screens. In this timely exhalation, only now do the teachers sit, like shaking, ghostly watchfolk fresh from the graveyard shift. Then minds turn to kettles. Piping hot and invigorating.
Oh, this is the time for coffee drinking! Dark-roasted and richly steaming, all thick and bubbling as estuary mud, and as teeming with life. Ah, the first sip snakes down with its burning, pupil-dilating devilry; unleashing first of many trunk- contorting, lanyard shuddering stretches.
Then comes stealthily the wondrous calm. All teacherfolk, unobserved by hungry adolescent eyes, stood in praise of cakey-crunching confection- loading up on ammunition ready for the fresh assault
Like waves they come. Stair-fuddering waves and gales of laugher fountaining up from stairwells, as with one lingering caress, the coffee cup is reverentially placed, all warmed by parched lips andmemories of holiday bonhomie, for a brief hour or so.
Listen. For the young folk may not.
Copyright Tom Tide 2017