(I didn’t teach for long – only for half a semester.)
I’d been told that some of the students had shaved heads, and I’d said that shaved heads didn’t worry me.
I was in the room where the class was to take place, and my back and right hip were killing me.
I was hoping my hip wouldn’t give way as I moved.
I will have taken painkillers.
There were two or three tables all pulled together (they already were – I did no pulling about of tables) and I was going to sit behind those when the class came in.
While I still had chance, I lay myself down over those tables, inwardly groaning.
I had no idea how I was going to get through those couple of hours.
I’d got up and had my face straight (no sign of the pain I was in on it) by the time the people came in.
I didn’t want to teach but that was a path I’d felt I had to take. It was expected of me.
I was 42*.
It seemed imperative that I got a career together at last, before it was too late.
This is the real stuff.
The fiction is a metaphor for the real stuff.