Third grade primary school. The kids have started English lessons. Including mine, who definitely speaks better English than the poor teacher.
Anyway you get plus points for showing your face in this school, so I dragged myself up the stairs to the top of the school to pick up my son one lunchtime.
The door was closed. The usual riotous noises were emerging from within the classroom. The outside of the door was covered by a couple of sheets of brown parcel paper, presumably hung to impress the waiting parents.
My name is Max.
It said in thick, black marker pen.
How is your name?
Well, my name’s fine thanks. Positively blooming.
But I was a bit taken aback that a teacher couldn’t refer to a book before writing up something like that. Not to say embarrassed.
It hung there for weeks.