Virginia was furious. She hid her emotion, but was furious inside. She was a teacher. She was “extending herself” by doing a course in Creative Writing in the evenings.
“You’ve no idea,” she said to her Year 11 class one day, “just how difficult and challenging some things can be. My tutor at the evening Creative Writing sessions has set an impossible assignment! We have to write something that looks like it should mean something but doesn’t mean a thing. It has to be complete nonsense and yet look like it makes sense! No one in the writing group can do it! We can’t even write a single sentence. It’s such a challenge.”
Virginia told the class about this because she thought it made her look important; it made her look like she was doing something super-intelligent. She had told the class of the challenge, almost with a faint tinge of plum-in-the-mouth. Almost imperceptible, but silver-spoon stuff. She made the word “challenge” rhyme with “Stonehenge”.
Virginia’s class ended. Ben handed her a note as he left the room. She’d never liked Ben. He was too well-liked by others, and played rugby. He was sort of average. Virginia preferred the really intelligent kids; the ones like her.
Ben’s note read:
Go you naughty boy, and so is your brother, if ever he had some.
Virginia was furious. She hid her emotion, but was furious inside. Only a dumb boy could write such meaningless crap.