Job the third has started, just another ruse to keep me from myself, from Frasier or those terrifying Loose Women. Jesus but they scare the knackers off me.
Job the third. I'd call it a 'gig' if I didn't want to facepunch anyone that refers to a job of work as a Pink Floyd concert. Fuck that.
Anyway, yeah, it's the one where I walk into a room, dab at my liquid face, gabble on about my chosen subject and hope I won't get caught.
I used to be one of this particular group, I formed part of the same undergrad clique back in the late 1990s.
The fear comes from the freshness of my memory, knowing the freedom of sitting-looking-up as opposed to the sweat of standing-looking-down. Doodling cartoon boobies instead of a lesson plan, mind drifting to thoughts of the pub and some unattainable sort from the Interior Design course, the sheer liberty of not being the teacher.
Happily, ten minutes in I remember myself and all it takes is a curt "no talking when I'm talking, please."
From then on it's plain bluffing, just me and my monocle, my pointy stick of justice and 15 blank, blank faces.