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The Review (standard:horror, 1219 words)
Author: red1holsAdded: Apr 02 2004Views/Reads: 2414/1530Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The post in the forum made fit for human consumption.
 



The Review. 

It makes me sound old to say it, but when I was at school, there were
two versions of English. The English Literature class taught about 
stories, poems and writers. English Language gave us the opportunity to 
be the writer. 

Miss Ireland taught both. She wasn't a Miss, she was a Misses, married
to the RE Teacher. Very early in our scholastic relationship, I began 
to suspect she didn't like me. 

"So, why do you think Ted Hughes wrote this poem?" Her dark eyes scanned
the class. 

"He was probably pissed, Miss" I ventured an opinion based upon my views
on poets in general rather than knowledge of Ted Hughes. 

My fellow pupils found this cutting insight amusing. Miss Ireland did
not. 

She didn't believe that Shakespeare went to London to escape Anne
Hathaway. There was no merit in my assertion that George Orwell was a 
couple of Secret Policemen short of a Ball when he wrote 1984'. 
Chaucer apparently wasn't telling mucky stories. I was barking up the 
wrong tree to describe Dickens as a 'Bloody Commie'. 

The relationship between the two of us brewed nicely for two and a half
years. During this time, she managed to firmly suppress any desires I 
might have to write. Despite this, I passed my 'O' Levels. I announced 
that, I would not be taking English at 'A' Level and she threw a huge 
party. It would seem that our paths had diverged. 

Only they didn't. A rather tasty girl was painting the scenery for the
sixth form review. Her terribly cute button nose and twinkly eyes 
captured my heart. Her smile blinded and struck me dumb from a hundred 
paces. Her curves would make the tyres squeal on any sports car. Bits 
of me tingled just watching her walk across the room. If only she 
appreciated my talents. Just noticing me would have been a start. 

Hormones drove me to sign up for the review. 

Now, the female of the species fail to appreciate what a young man will
do under the influence of hormones and a well-turned ankle. I had 
absolutely no acting talent or desire to act. My musical skills meant 
that in a bathroom I could just about carry a tune in a bucket. With 
handicraft skills branded a community hazard at the age of 13, they 
kept me away from sharp and / or heavy tools. A year before, they 
drummed me out of the electronics club. This meant working on the 
lights and sound was a non-starter. For the first time, I regretted the 
library prank with the sensors and hidden speakers. 

Undaunted I turned up for the auditions. Not really knowing what to do,
I just stood around a bit. Then the 'producer' entered. As you may have 
guessed, it was Miss Ireland. There was this moment like high noon in 
Tombstone. The corner of her mouth twitched. So did my sphincter. 

Miss Ireland looked upon it as poetic justice. She probably went home
that night, opened a bottle of the old communion fluid and laughed 
herself to sleep. The irony had her skipping around the school for a 
fortnight. 

However, for me to find myself on the writing team was a nightmare. 

The first meeting of the writers agreed on one thing. Each and every one
of us had signed up to the review on the whims of our hormones. By the 
second meeting, we decided that if writing talent was gunpowder, we had 
about enough to blow open an envelope. 

Only Miss Ireland rubbing salt into the open sores drove us on. There
was this evil smile that accompanied numerous questions about progress. 
Her barely hidden delight at our struggle had me close to breaking 
point. 

At the fourth or fifth meeting of the writers, Miss Ireland paid us a
visit asking for an outline. Truth was that we had diddly on paper, but 


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