My heart is on full speed ahead; left foot agitated. Already surging with more energy than I can handle.
I make my way up the old stone steps, hearing each footfall echo all around. Glad now to just be on the move.
'You alright?' asks the suited Miss Price, smiling at me reassuringly, through her professional superiority.
I catch a glimpse of myself,wish I had not, hair askew, inside the glass door she pushed open; Lipstick bitten off, creased blouse.
The door slips from sideways view, and I follow her patent heels along the tall windowed old building.
'In here.' She ushers me, opening a wooden classroom door.
The room is empty, interactive whiteboard blinking expectantly at the brand new pimple on my chin.
I take a deep breath and pushed my arms slowly down.
Muffled laughter and curious voices, sudden choir of shoes and chatter, about to become my next half hour.
"Hello year 9. I'm Mrs Askew...er...er...Agnew...I'm going to be doing a half hour introductory lesson with you on first world war poetry."
Every face is looking at me, questioning, not yet convinced.
'Sorry we're late.' More appear in the doorway.
"First we're going to play with some words...what could this poem be about?"
Time slows, becomes critical. I am outside, inside, forgetting myself, too aware of myself.
I am heart beat singing iambic pentameter, climbing into words that can't describe the surreal.I am gathering wind on dancing branches that play with the light through the arched, leaded window. I am a sonnet, already downstairs in the Parlour, waiting for the verdict. At home, awaiting a call. A mother praying that this telegraph is not for her...
"If we had another half an hour - we would start to annotate the poem - with some of the articulate ideas you've had about themes and structure. I've really enjoyed teaching you, thank you very much and well done."
I am back. I smile into eyes and watch me leave.
The adrenaline plays with the static in my hair, seeking a way out, demanding a decision, response, conclusion.
Returning to the Parlour I indicate good luck to the next candidate that Miss Price guides to the awaiting throng. The wind has reached a whining pitch and ferocious branch battle. I watch as a bare branch hangs, drops, is swept away. I lean against the window ledge, gaze, wonderingly at the green sports field and neatly slotted carpark beyond. The open fire warms my now shivering right side, invites me to sit down, relax, await the panel interview.
But I know.
I feel the calm wash over me, bathe me, acknowledge and lift me.
I have never been surer.
The door clicks and it's time again.
I leave my opponent to wait, once more; can see he is aware of waiting - as I am brought into interview. I hear myself speak, without assumption; on the edge of my leather seat. Determined not to ramble, answer too quickly. Examples, examples...there is laughter, I lean back, open the water and drink.
"Thank you for answering some hard questions both articulately and thoughtfully." The headmaster smiles, stands shakes my hand firmly.
I return to the parlour, indicate good luck to the next candidate, tired of waiting. I'm only happy now to be on the move.
"I'm sure we'll see you soon." Smiles Miss Price.
The grey tarmac is damp, but the trees now are still, listening, as though I have a secret to tell.
"I'm sure I'll see you again soon." I whisper, they nod and wave their arms.
I catch myself, through the water droplets of the right wing mirror. Cheeks rosy with colour, hair windblown and natural looking, faint touch of glitter on my plump, lips, sparkiling eyes.
I am beauty.
I make my way up the old stone steps, hearing each footfall echo all around. Glad now to just be on the move.
'You alright?' asks the suited Miss Price, smiling at me reassuringly, through her professional superiority.
I catch a glimpse of myself,wish I had not, hair askew, inside the glass door she pushed open; Lipstick bitten off, creased blouse.
The door slips from sideways view, and I follow her patent heels along the tall windowed old building.
'In here.' She ushers me, opening a wooden classroom door.
The room is empty, interactive whiteboard blinking expectantly at the brand new pimple on my chin.
I take a deep breath and pushed my arms slowly down.
Muffled laughter and curious voices, sudden choir of shoes and chatter, about to become my next half hour.
"Hello year 9. I'm Mrs Askew...er...er...Agnew...I'm going to be doing a half hour introductory lesson with you on first world war poetry."
Every face is looking at me, questioning, not yet convinced.
'Sorry we're late.' More appear in the doorway.
"First we're going to play with some words...what could this poem be about?"
Time slows, becomes critical. I am outside, inside, forgetting myself, too aware of myself.
I am heart beat singing iambic pentameter, climbing into words that can't describe the surreal.I am gathering wind on dancing branches that play with the light through the arched, leaded window. I am a sonnet, already downstairs in the Parlour, waiting for the verdict. At home, awaiting a call. A mother praying that this telegraph is not for her...
"If we had another half an hour - we would start to annotate the poem - with some of the articulate ideas you've had about themes and structure. I've really enjoyed teaching you, thank you very much and well done."
I am back. I smile into eyes and watch me leave.
The adrenaline plays with the static in my hair, seeking a way out, demanding a decision, response, conclusion.
Returning to the Parlour I indicate good luck to the next candidate that Miss Price guides to the awaiting throng. The wind has reached a whining pitch and ferocious branch battle. I watch as a bare branch hangs, drops, is swept away. I lean against the window ledge, gaze, wonderingly at the green sports field and neatly slotted carpark beyond. The open fire warms my now shivering right side, invites me to sit down, relax, await the panel interview.
But I know.
I feel the calm wash over me, bathe me, acknowledge and lift me.
I have never been surer.
The door clicks and it's time again.
I leave my opponent to wait, once more; can see he is aware of waiting - as I am brought into interview. I hear myself speak, without assumption; on the edge of my leather seat. Determined not to ramble, answer too quickly. Examples, examples...there is laughter, I lean back, open the water and drink.
"Thank you for answering some hard questions both articulately and thoughtfully." The headmaster smiles, stands shakes my hand firmly.
I return to the parlour, indicate good luck to the next candidate, tired of waiting. I'm only happy now to be on the move.
"I'm sure we'll see you soon." Smiles Miss Price.
The grey tarmac is damp, but the trees now are still, listening, as though I have a secret to tell.
"I'm sure I'll see you again soon." I whisper, they nod and wave their arms.
I catch myself, through the water droplets of the right wing mirror. Cheeks rosy with colour, hair windblown and natural looking, faint touch of glitter on my plump, lips, sparkiling eyes.
I am beauty.
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