Don’t lie. Of course you would! You’re human.
I should explain why there is a picture of Mr Mischief in a secondary school. Each section of the school is plastered with posters of Mr Men characters and each Mr man is awarded a shiny gold star if the area he lives in is kept clean by all the enthusiastic boys and girls. It wasn’t like I’d added gender clarifying genitalia to the picture of Mr Mischief (primarily because it had already been stolen) was it?
Although I cannot be entirely sure what possessed me to draw on the page in such a vulgar manner, I’m guessing it was one or a combination of: playful childishness, momentary insanity or just simple minded mischievousness. It’s hard to tell.
But, anyway, before I could add the splashings of seamen and reallocate myself away from the crime scene one of those half-teachers (teachers that write for those who cannot write, talk for those who cannot talk and shite for those who cannot shite) comes bounding up the corridor seizing her moment of power.
“What do you think you are doing young man?” she huffs in a hugely self important tone.
“Well I was er…” I giggle sheepishly, half contemplating finishing my sentence. I saw he look at the drawing.
“Do you really think that is appropriate for a boy of your age?”
“No.” I say shaking my head in embarrassment and self disgust looking at the floor and swinging my leg in shame.
I could tell she was amused and that she’d leave within seconds, and probably implore one of the janitors to replace the poster. But she didn’t. Instead one of the senior management team decided it was time to stroll up this particular corridor and enquire.
“What’s going on here then?” he may as well have had the prefix “Ello ‘ello ‘ello…” I was actually almost shitting myself. He’s one of those teachers that has a mild appearance but will kill you with hammers for any minor infraction, and let’s face it this was about medium on the misnomer scale.
“And do you think that’s appropriate, George?” he said in a disturbingly calm voice.
“No.” I say shaking my head in embarrassment and self disgust, looking at the floor and swinging my leg in shame.
“Well what do you think should be done about it?” he asked as if I was four.
“Erm…” I responded as if I was four.
“Well I think you should go make a new one. You can do that, can’t you?”
“Er, yeah.” I lied. Burning with humiliation. They left. I ripped the poster off the wall in frustration only to be greeted by an equally expert drawing of a penis.