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About
the author 1
Sunday
(the morning after): 7:32 am
I was stuck between the past and the future. Somewhere between madly in love and young, free and single. Between the nervous excitement of a new career and that stage at work where you’re regarded as part of the fixtures and start getting precious over your coffee mug. I was living like an adult in the week and a teenager at the weekend. And, at that very moment in time, I was somewhere between asleep and awake, waiting for one hell of a hangover to kick in. Sundays. Start off happy, end up sad, whatever happens in between. I lie in, drink tea, go down the shop, read the papers, eat a cholesterol sandwich, then venture back to the pub to watch the football and prove to myself I can enjoy a couple of drinks without it turning into something blurry and nauseous. Then it’s all over, no sooner am I toasting the endless possibility of two whole days off than I’m grunting a sour hello at the start of another week. The passion for the job has ebbed away, seeping silently like an old inner tube. I used to love teaching. The search for the perfect lesson, the behaviour management strategies, extending the brainiacs, holding on tight to the kids at risk, the ones with the goldfish attention spans. It used to be a challenge, until I found my comfort zone. I still like it, the holidays, the friends I’ve made, the fact I finish at four in the afternoon. I even like the kids, some of them, the ones who would be my friends, my fancies, if I were their age. The ones who don’t expect too much of me, they’re my favourites. I still put the effort in, into making myself look like I care; like staying late to surf the net at my desk so as to appear like I’m not a clock watcher, even though I’m probably the most adept clock watcher in the entire school, including the kids. I’m good at playing the system, at giving the students most of what they need, all with an economy of effort that makes me proud of myself. That’s my challenge now. And I succeed, every day. I’m a nice teacher, too. The kids like me, probably because my expectations of them have been duly dropped by my own apathy. I’m no hypocrite, I don’t expect more than I’m willing to give. That wouldn’t be fair. And I’m a role model of sorts, straddling the fence between limited success and obvious failure, showcasing the subtle nuances of work avoidance, promoting the virtues of just doing enough. I’m certainly not as mean, uptight or downright ugly as the teachers of my day. I don’t have an innate hatred of adolescents, a penchant for vulgar ties or an ability to cultivate dandruff the size and consistency of frosted cornflakes. They were just there to baby-sit, to give our parents a break, to fill our young heads with useless tosh and to live out their Nazi-fuelled fantasies whilst remaining this side of the law. I’m not like that, which is progress of sorts. They were my incentive. Those bastards. Their ineptitude triggered my desire to teach. No, hang on a minute, that’s not entirely true. That would be my stock answer if questioned by a student, a parent, a senior member of staff or a member of staff of equal standing whom I didn’t trust as far as I could throw. The real reasons for my entry into education were thus: I’d run out of time, inclination, ideas and money. Teaching was a last resort. It comes down to two things, really. First, I hate getting up, and second, I love days off. No offence to working or anything but if it thinks it can compete with time off then it’s got another think coming. Maybe if you’re a footballer or a rock star or something, but then you’re not really working are you? You’re just doing exactly what you want, and getting paid loads for it. This particular Sunday seemed lovely. Through half open eyes I could see a single shaft of dusty sunlight pierce the gap between my curtains. I toyed with the air’s pleasant chill, flirting playfully before coiling back into my duvet. And, for one fleeting moment, before my brain was in gear, during that fraction of a second that contains a million thoughts, this particular Sunday was lovely. And I told myself that after a short bout of secondary sleep, I’ll get up. I’ll throw on a friendly tracksuit and wander outside, with Donnie and Connor, my two best friends and long-term flatmates. Together we’ll cluster, shiver and giggle, like kids, not a care in the world, dawdling to the corner shop for Sunday supplies: ciggies, papers, bacon, eggs, coke, multipack of crisps; an age-old assemblage that helps soften the dull thump of a hangover. And, despite cutting a bedraggled and gormless figure, I’d be happy; a bemused grin plastered on my pale, damp face. I’ll nod, release an incoherent mumble in the vague direction of Mr Patel and he’ll smile back, eye me up and down and take solace in the fact his religion frowns upon the consumption of alcohol. We’ll then itch our collective scalp, pick up a basket and bumble about in search of comfort food. Mr Patel, who owns and runs the store, is always pleased to see us on a Sunday morning. Indeed, if he were a cartoon character there would be dollar signs where his eyes should be. For we are in a certain state of mind, one of frivolity and confusion. We are slaves to the hangover. When we stumble into his store, Mr P gets both comedic entertainment and the opportunity to offload half his shop. We have no concept of monetary value. Why would we? We’ve just spent a small fortune on a night we can hardly remember. But sadly that moment soon slides. My mind clicks into gear. The horrific events of last night steal in. My eyes burst open; I spring out of bed, my head spinning with the realization that this particular Sunday isn’t lovely. It isn’t lovely at all. Or at least it couldn’t be lovely anymore. I rub my eyes until tiny stars flicker in the air in front of me, then stumble across the hallway to bang my palm on Donnie’s door. But he’s already up. He’s showered, dressed and sitting silently in the kitchen. Donnie looks up and smiles weakly. ‘Ready?’ I ask. ‘Let’s go, Sam,’ he replies. His facial expression is one of a man suffering a hangover, all wayward fringe and baggy-eyed. Normally I’d find this funny. But today isn’t normal and I don’t feel much like laughing. Our hangover isn’t about drinking too much. How I wish that it were. Five minutes later we’re sitting in Donnie’s car, shuffling uncomfortably, no music, no talking, no sign of life. I catch my reflection in the wing mirror but it doesn’t look like me. My face looks old and loose; a sickly shade of grey save for the pale blue bruising that slowly melts into my eyes. The doors slam, our belts click in and the engine groans angrily into gear. As we reverse the tyres spin hard, kicking up gravel and spitting it into the side of the car. I peer down the pathway in search of dry blood or skin or teeth or any other evidence of last night’s fight. I can’t see anything, save for the remnants of someone’s Saturday night supper: brownish salad bits and damp, crumpled paper, in amongst the grey gravel. I don’t know where the proof would be anyway; it all looks so different in the daylight. We move onto the road and on towards the lights. We are heading straight for the local hospital.
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