Miss Jean Brod-I?

I have never been what you could call popular but I must say I have enjoyed a small and colourful following, over the years. When I announced I was leaving my first teaching job in Kent, a little girl put her head in her hands and howled. She had never said one word to me the whole time in class but sent many postcards thereafter, trying to obtain a phone number. I doubt she was a lezzer, mind you, she's probably an octomom or some such by now, although being gay might be a help there. You would only have the energy to put on dungarees and maintain a crew cut.
I have to say I performed similar histrionics in sixth form,the result of a tremendous crush on our French Assistant,an exotic and bohemian individual with corkscrew curls and harem pants, whose name I can no longer remember.Imagine-when my grief at her departure moved Mr. Hooks to bring me to his office and be nice to me for several minutes. Not in a Notes On A Scandal way, you understand,just a slight twinkling over his bifocals. Pity my French teacher was so self-involved, he was known to have what he called 'snifters' of sherry in his office; I am sure that would have calmed me down nicely. The sangria I'd had at the French Assistant's party led to a prolonged lie down during the festivities in my extremely twee polka-dot top and Pedal Pushers. I'm surprised I wasn't taken for a Burlesque artist.
My most devoted follower,never to be rivalled, belonged to the er,less macho class of fella,along the lines of the ardent male fans of Cher or Barbra (but not Madonna as I think she is just a big millie and I intend to explain the syndrome at a later date). He was one of two boys in a small class whose favourite argument always centred around the Spice Girls,then at the height of their fame. My attempts to sweep through the door like one of the 'mistresses' in Mallory Towers would be ignored as Gareth again tried to convince Esther that Posh really could sing and had a lovely smile. Rank ordering the Spice Girls was their favourite pastime and Posh was always at the top for Gareth;he knew she was misunderstood.
Next best, he loved Coronation Street and enjoyed an encyclopaedic knowledge of its cast and characters, obtained from many happy hours watching old videos at his Granny's. In our Christmas Quiz, he was able to triumph as he was the only person in the entire school who knew stuff like Percy Sugden had died of a heart attack in the Snug of the Rover's Return in 1986.
This thirst for information was subverted somewhat as Gareth and Esther briefly embarked on a life of crime, nicking a couple of French Resource Packs, in a botched attempt to emulate me and my colleague, whom they greatly admired as linguists,as well as women,I think you'll find. The two of them were suspected then 'interviewed' by our then Head of Senior School, a gifted interrogator whose questioning techniques wouldn't have been out of place among the Borgias, had they tolerated poorly- suppressed laughter. Confession was reached; they'd had a baffling hoke through the worksheets, learned no new French,would you believe,panicked then dumped everything in a High Street bin, from which nothing was ever recovered. We laughed so much in the fog of smoke in the Maths Store,I can't remember if we made them pay for replacements. I do miss those days-we used to take the kids' fags and have them after school-you just had to reach into the top drawer of the filing cabinet for ten Embassy Regal.
Gareth wasn't a bad interrogator himself, as it transpired,as he found out a good deal about my family and my inclinations,so to speak. He learned names and committed habits to memory. All too evident when we were all on the boat to France. I woke up on the carpet of the ship's cafe-worn out ,caring for others,dontcha know, to find Gareth positioned faithfully at my feet like Greyfriar's Bobby. He then intoned;'Right, Mr Bell, she'll want the toilet then a coffee and after that, I'm taking her to that shop to get a present for wee Josh, ok? See you in twenty.'
I really should have married him.