The 101-word short stories continue to arrive in my inbox … keep them coming.
Summer of ’86: a North London Comprehensive. It’s the last day of term and our French teacher is having a nervous breakdown, which suits us fine. He lets us dance on the desks to Holiday by Madonna. It feels like freedom. Another time he comes in looking puffy and grey and plays guitar for us. He has given up on être and avoir. He tells us about his wife’s affair. I’m not sure what I’d rather hear: verb tables or adult’s problems, they’re both boring. We get another teacher. She’s not into Madonna. The boys make her cry. She leaves too.
Holiday
