My confession involves a teacher. A truly hot teacher. She was one of those teachers you always wanted to get when the timetables were handed out at the start of the academic year.
Every boy wanted to be taught by her, because she had a stunning figure. And she wore clothes that showed it off brilliantly. Plus serious heels.
Every girl wanted to be taught by her because she had a figure to die for. And she wore clothes that showed it off brilliantly. Plus a collection of shoes that were all their envy.
Only I was not one of those pupils. I was a colleague of hers.
My confession starts one cold, drab winter’s lunchtime and as luck would have it I was on duty with her. She was in a long black woollen coat, scarf, leather gloves and long, black stiletto-heeled leather boots.
Sharing a duty with – let’s call her Sally – was a dream. Not only was she gorgeous to look at, she was also fun. Up to now our discussions on our weekly playground duty had ranged from marking and problem pupils, to what we watched on television to what we were cooking for supper. We had talked about our other halves – how we met, how long we’d been together; what we liked about them, what annoyed us about them.