Setting: A staffroom. Any staffroom. Teachers are always leaving, moving on – of dreaming of doing it!
'Hey someone, can I borrow some tea? I'll pay it back tomorrow.'
'Sure. Just don't leave town.'
'Sorry. I'm doing better than that. I'm leaving teaching.'
'What? Are you really?'
'Yes. Didn't you know? Phil and I are buying a Delicatessen franchise.'
'Congratulations! Forget the tea. Send brie instead.'
'It looks like everyone is leaving this place.'
'Who else is going?'
'Well, I am too.'
'We know about you Rhonda. Blithely plunging head first into the joys of motherhood.'
'Stomach first from the look of me now.'
'I always considered having babies a rather extreme method of escaping from schools.'
'What do you mean?'
'It's twenty years hard labour. First comes the sleepless nights and seeping nappies, closely followed by the terrible
toddler years and then, just when you start to relax, the traumatic teens hit and you're back to more sleepless nights waiting for the little darlings to come home.
'Poor Rhonda. Escaping from the chalk face into chaos.'
'I prefer to think of it as trading in a hundred of everyone else's kids for a mere one of my own.'
'A proper little Pollyanna you are.'
'You can talk Jen. You're in the family way too.'
'Sure. Next year you'll see me with a babe in one arm while I write the Great Australian Novel with the other.'
'Save your strength. There's no money in great novels - only dirty ones. If you want to make your fortune, you have to
write epics of lust and greed and towering passion.'
'I tried that. I was just starting to do the research ....'
'And what?'
'That's how I got pregnant.'
'Oh..... With that sort of luck, you should try buying Tatts tickets. You'd be bound to score.'
'Not any more. Don claims that he's bought the winning ticket for the next five weeks.'
'He can't do that. He's the boss. Hasn't he heard that the captain is supposed to go down with the ship.'
'I think this captain is taking out insurance. Lloyds of London has got nothing on Don's policy of Tatts for teachers.'
'What about Mike? Hasn't he got enough to retire on this year? He must be up to his fifth appartment by now.'
'I think Mike's capitalist schemes are running a little behind schedule lately.'
'My whole life is running behind schedule. Except for the wrinkles - they're ahead of time.'
'Isn't Frank leaving as well? I heard he got a senior teacher appointment.'
'If I remember he got one last year too. We had a great send off party for him.'
'What happened?'
'He lost the position on appeal.'
'Poor Frank. No wonder he is keeping quiet about this one. Still it couldn't happen again.'
'I don't know. I heard of one person who lost three positions on appeal.'
'Do us all a favour Julie - don't tell Frank that ray of sunny news.'
'We can arrange another send off for him. And call it the Nellie Melba bash.'
'Hold it. If everyone is leaving, who's going to arrange the farewell parties?'
'Don't panic. I'll still be here.'
'Good on you Irene. Someone has to soldier on whilst the rest of us endure fame and fortune.'
'The last of the foot sloggers, that's me.'
'We'll think of you.'
'Of course.'
They never do. For those who leave - and for those who stay - there is little time for memories. Or perhaps they just prefer to
forget.
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