MARTHA: I’m not being lewd, but I’ve got to tell you about Miss Gilberte’s cleavage. Unbelievable. I mean, you can see them knockers from afar-blimey, they’re not hard to spot! You can see them poking out right through her dress and they’re all wrinkly and look a bit like Mount Rushmore. It’s bad enough having to see them from that angle but when she gets closer...(gags). I don’t know, it just makes me shiver. It’s the greasiness that gets me; honest to God, I’ve got no idea why it does. It’s so visible you can almost smell it. And if she bends down to help you, she’s got a great long peeling rash right down her cleavage and once I see that, that’s it. I’m gone. I decide that as long as those gargantuan, big sweaty boobs are near me, I’m not doing French. So I ran out. I know it sounds silly but seriously, you’ve got no idea about the experience I had to go through.

(MISS FALIMORE laughs)

MISS FALIMORE: I had a student once who kept repeatedly picking his nose throughout one of my lessons when he thought I wasn’t looking, and then about three-quarters of the way through, I caught a bogey fly from his desk and land on the smart board I was teaching on.

(MARTHA heaves. Both laugh).

That was the closest I ever came to resigning.

MARTHA: I would’ve resigned if that happened to me.

MISS FALIMORE: (Smiling) You don’t know the fulfilling perks of being an educator, Martha.

MARTHA: I don’t need to, I’m not becoming a teacher. I want to be a fashion designer.

MISS FALIMORE: A fashion designer?

MARTHA: Yeah, I’d like to do weddings. I helped with my mum’s dress, you know. We didn’t need to get it professionally fitted or worry about costs or anything because she had me.

MISS FALIMORE: Sounds like your mum’s extremely lucky to have you around. You must be very talented.

MARTHA: I am, actually.

(The bell rings).

MISS FALIMORE: Come on, you’d better get to class.

(MARTHA turns to go).

MARTHA: Miss?

MISS FALIMORE: Yes?

MARTHA: Detention wasn’t as bad as the tedious hellhole I thought it was going to be.

MISS FALIMORE: (Smiling) Go on.

(MARTHA leaves, still leaving MISS FALIMORE chuckling to herself).