The School.

For now, I am helping my sister and her husband out by walking to the school every week and taking my niece, Dylan to her speech class, and I also walk everyday to pick up my nephew Oliver.
Anyway, this is what I observed from the school...


As I walk my niece Dylan to her speech class, the air is crisp and children are nowhere to be seen, but they are heard.
The walk seems long, as she drags her feet. The steps seem to be longer than last time I had this little adventure.
We finally arrive and we sit in uncomfortable chairs that seem to be so cheap that they are not worth sitting in.
I get a backache just thinking about them, actually.
The seats are getting warm as we sit and wait for one of the five teachers to actually pay attention to us and direct us to the right class for Dylan. We continue to wait, as nobody seems to care if we sit there for long periods of time.
I stand up, staring at the closest teacher, who had avoided talking to me to begin with. Great service, right?
The teachers there are overly fluffy, with too much colour on their clothes, and way too much makeup.
As they stare at me sadly, knowing that they might actually have to help me, I begin to wonder why they act this way, then I realize that they are just too fluffy to get up, to lazy to answer questions, and too colorful to be seen by normal people, after all, they might burn someone’s eyeballs right out.

Dylan is finally called away, after the waiting for awhile had worn her into the ground and the flowers she was holding have died. She quickly runs to her teacher, who seemed pleasant, with a big smile and an underpaid job.
I hold my book neatly in my hands, trying to avoid any conversations the teachers might like to start with me, being the “bad influence” that I am. The book is somewhat interesting, but the background talking is what is really getting to me. They pass around stale jokes about how they love the cheap Easter candy and how bad some children behave.
A woman, who could not have been more than twenty-five, her expression is upset as she walks directly to the main fluffy teacher on the computer, whose beads were unbelievably cheap and gaudy. The woman begins to explain how she needs the email address of a certain child’s parents, because that child had committed a crime by saying something nasty to her own child. ‘Should I tell them directly, what the child has said’, she asked the crusty old bag for a teacher. ‘Well, you are the parent, it’s up to you, but if I were in your shoes, I would keep it quiet’, the crusty teacher replies.


I sit there in total silence, and laugh at the stupidity of the teacher and her crusty, fluffy ways. I mean, what is the point of giving someone advice, if you aren’t actually giving good advice. She must have never learned that part of life. As the concerned mother leaves, the teachers make nasty comments about her behind her back. ‘ I would have just been quiet about the whole thing, but it’s up to that woman’. It seems like such a nice place to let your children be raised, huh? Exactly my point. As soon as Dylan was free from her Kindergarten class we walked directly out of building without giving any smiles to the fluffy teachers with undercooked potato attitudes.

I know, next week I will return to that place, but by then I think I will realize how to tune them out completely.




Farewell fuzzy biscuits.