Danny was upset. His teenage son was having a party and a group of drunken youths were having bets as to who would swallow a clown loach. So far three of Danny’s four loaches in his tropical aquarium had been swallowed.
Danny enjoyed his aquarium. It was a hobby. He had the aquarium in the sitting room where all could enjoy it watching the fish. He knew it was a silly thing to try to tell seven drunken teens not to swallow another loach. They swore at him and one started to chase the remaining clown loach around and around in the aquarium with a pocket knife.
Danny stepped in. A youth pushed the aquarium over and glass shattered everywhere. Water drenched the carpet. Everyone laughed hysterically, until they realized that the guy who had pushed the aquarium over has cut his arm rather badly. Danny had to quickly bandage the arm and call for an ambulance.
It was all a waste of time anyway. The youth died in the ambulance. Some sort of bacterial poisoning from the gut of the fish.
Ok class just settle down and keep quiet for once. It’s time for us to look at “the new word for the day”. DAVID SMITH, SIT DOWN! It’s time for us to look at the “new word for the day”. Who threw that paper dart? Ok. Keep quiet. I SAID KEEP QUIET! Class will you shut up. Get your books out!
You’re all behaving like a typical class of fourteen year olds. Why am I not surprised? Get you books out and shut up.
Andrew Jones , you’re on detention after school.
Ok. Just leave him alone; leave him alone, Nigel Green. It’s time for us to look at the “new word for the day”. Ok. SHUT UP! SHUT UP! YOU’RE GETTING OUT OF CONTROL!
Oswald was the youngest of five boys. Oswald was sixteen. His entire football team was coming around on Saturday afternoon to watch a video of the game. They would squeeze into “The Den” around an old television set and shout at the screen.
Mrs Borrie was used to it. She’d done it dozens of times before. Teenage boys on a Saturday afternoon. Patiently she buttered sixteen loaves of bread and made sandwiches with a dozen different fillings. She put out bottles of homemade cordial.
The football team ate while watching the game. Then it was games on Mrs Borrie’s old pool table.
Eventually they all went home. “Gotta get home now, thanks Mrs Borrie. It’ll be dinner time.”
“I don’t know how you do,” said Mrs Prout to Mrs Borrie. “Let me rephrase that: I don’t know why you do it. If they want to eat they should bring their own food.”
“The cost of sixteen loaves of bread is a small price to pay to know where they are,” said Mrs Borrie. “I’d rather they were messing around in the den than messing around in the God knows where.”
Mrs Prout took it to heart. Most Saturdays after that she sent along a large plate of sandwiches. “For the boys”.