Kid #33 and #34 – kicking, pushing, punching and lies

The thirty-third kid I hated was a pathological liar and the thirty-fourth kid I hated was also a pathological liar.

The thirty-third child had perfected his pathological lying by being sociopathic. He once so emphatically denied having stolen another student’s Lego bricks, despite me having seem him steal them, that I chastised the other student until she cried, to see if he’d be overcome by guilt. He stood there watching the whole thing. No guilt. Just good ole’ fashioned sociopathy. No empathy in the eyes. Just empty behind the eyes. (NB – I explained to the girl later the psychological mind games I’d attempted, and she seemed ok with everything.)

The thirty-fourth child left his finger prints everywhere. Yet, he would still gormlessly claim innocence. He literally left his finger prints everywhere, on one occasion placing his finger-paint smothered hands on all variety of surfaces. One of those surfaces was his face. He had the body of a nine-year-old and the mind of a three-year-old (I can’t back this up medically. I just based it on observations). I stared at him as he stood there covered head-to-toe in paint. I was in such disbelief I sent him holus-bolus to the ‘inclusion’ room (a room ironically for students excluded from normal class). He was their problem now.

Both students were in the same class, and while the infantile artist continued acting like a baby, the sociopath evolved more and more into a bully. Almost without fail, when I would return to the playground at the end of breaktimes and lunchtimes to collect the class, I would be set upon by both children claiming that the other had started a fight with them. If I was lucky, they would be mid-slap, mid-punch or mid-kick – it was easier to identify the perpetrator that way. Then it was a case of indignant high-moral ground from the former or grumbly baby-sulks from the latter. Either way, both would deny culpability, despite how the cookie had crumbled on that occasion. Sometimes it would defy logic and science, like the time the bully-one wrote the phrase “I am dumb” in the baby-one’s journal and claimed the baby-one had written it themselves. Now even if you were in the presence of the dumbest dummy out of the dum-dums, you’d be hard pressed to find a dumb-brain dumb enough to acknowledge their dumbness. The situation didn’t make sense.

What did make sense, was both were classic cases of the apple not falling far from the decaying apple tree.

The parents of the sociopathic bully had a chip on their collective shoulder. They blew their money on Masaratis, designer children’s clothes from Harrods and Waitrose sandwiches. Unsurprisingly, they had run short on money to provide their children with a quality education and had defaulted to sending them to an undersubscribed central London government primary school. It is my opinion that schools in central London which are undersubscribed, are bad schools. There are many schools busting at the seems and over-subscribed, there is little other reason for being ten or more children short per class than the fact a school is a little bit rubbish.

My favourite line from these over-cashed under-sensed parents came from the father who once said, “I run a business with more than thirty people, so I know what it would be like to run a classroom”. Sure, I thought. Let’s just do swapsies for a day and see what happens then. If I run your business into the ground, you can stop telling me how to do my job.

The parent of the baby-child was his mother. Much of the dialogue I had was with uncles and a grandmother, as the mother spoke little English and appeared to be off with the fairies. By all accounts, the rest of the extended family were quite switched on. Many of the cousins attended the school and were lovely children who were reasonably intelligent. Something was a bit awry here. It was a sad case I’m sure. The child was being failed and allowed to maintain this persona of ‘baby’ of the family, and seemingly ‘baby’ of the school. The uncles would insist the older cousins were helping with the child’s homework, but nothing was sticking, bar a few tame expletives (e.g. ‘poobum’).

On and on the bickering, lies and fighting went between these two buffoons. The parents of the sociopath would continually make complaints and maintain their son’s innocence in every matter. The Golden Child Syndrome they were suffering from brought them much stress, misconstruing every word that was said by adult and child alike to their son. The mother appeared to genuinely believe he could do no wrong. The father would intimidate staff and children by standing over them – probably where his young ‘prodigy’ learnt his bully tactics from.

The situation became untenable when the parents began asking for spoilt-britches to be moved into the safety of the other class. In a classic case of complying by path-of-least-resistance, the management allowed the child to be moved away from baby-face. The parents had one with the sociopath of their loins being taught the valuable lesson to “run away and hide from your problems as a means of dealing with them”.

And that was that. I didn’t see him again. If I were to see him, I doubt I’d ask which designer his latest jacket was from. Nor would I ask the other child, whether his finger-painting techniques had made him a world-renowned modern artist. They’d probably just lie about it anyway.

Kid #32 – Guitar Virtuoso

The thirty-second kid I hated thought he could play the guitar.

Thought he was a real-life juvenile Jimi Hendrix, a snotty-nosed Slava Grigoryan, a tiny Tommy Emmanuel.

‘Thought’ was the operative word. ‘Play’ was a lofty dream of what he wanted to do with the guitar. ‘Owned’ was a more apt description of his relationship with the guitar.

The thirty-third kid owned a guitar.

He owned it in the sense that a person experiencing a midlife crisis owns a guitar, because they listened to too many Santana songs so thought they’d give it a good old-fashioned go themselves. They watch a few YouTube videos, pay half their live-savings towards private lessons and, when they get to the advanced stages of Deep Purple’s insidious Smoke on the Water guitar riff (the Chopsticks of the guitar), give up to instead frame the instrument for hanging in the pool room, while pursuing a macramé course.

The difficulty with this child was the YouTube videos he had watched were of Piano Cat, he had only paid £2 to be taught in a group of twenty children and, most problematically, he hadn’t given up. He just kept coming back. Every time we had guitar club, there he would be flapping his sticky flapjack-crumb-covered fingers on the fret board, massacring the chords to Michael Row the Boat Ashore.

Now, to put the ‘guitar club’ into perspective, the British education system has in the past many years hatched a half-cocked hairbrained scheme to have extra-curricular clubs outside of school hours. Clubs are usually hosted by staff working overtime, who are being compensated with time in lieu, a fistful of coins or a pat on the back. Meanwhile, the school can smugly show off to parents, top up the petty cash tin and earn a little tick in a box from the inspectors.

The reality for parents is their child will be baby sat for a cheaper rate than the normal after-school childcare services or the cost of a nanny.

In the case of this child, it was probably just to keep him out of the house for an extra hour. He was extremely hyperactive and the additional time away from home was most likely sweet relief for his folks. His parents were always very adamant that he held a deep passion for guitar, but then he also attended Lego club, cooking club, football club and origami club. Maybe he was an all-rounder.

“He just loves guitar club,” his mother would gush.

“He waits all week for guitar club.”

“He’s always practising at home.”

“He wants to be able to play like his uncle.”

Not to cast aspersions, but the way this student treated his guitar left one to think his uncle was some type of Antonia Banderas character toting a guitar-case loaded with weaponry. The child was prone to tantrums and aggressions. In contrast to my own upbringing where I was told to wash my hands before handling musical instruments, this child would have used the six-stringed song-maker as a dinner plate, given the opportunity.

We’d barely get through the first chord of Twinkle Twinkle and he’d be setting upon one of the children a few years younger. One lesson, we barely got to the end of the SpongeBob SquarePants Theme song, because of the disruption he caused. He’d be giving funny looks to the kids, speaking over the top of others and running in and out of the room. He was a complete nuisance and when you’ve got a room full of novice guitarists under the age of ten, the last thing you need is any distraction. Then when he’d finally settle, we’d still be waylaid by a plectrum falling into another child’s guitar or a string falling out of tune on the bright pink guitar one girl had purchased from Poundland – this is what she claimed, despite my scepticism that you’d even manufacture one tuning peg for less than five pounds. A group setting was not the place for guitar lessons, and it was not the place for this menace.

The school itself was not doing itself any favours. The headteacher at the time appeared confused as to the concept of reward and consequence. On one occasion after throwing a temper tantrum in class, we wandered past the headteacher’s office to see this belligerent pest eating ice-cream. On another occasion, after throwing a shoe at a student, we walked past to find said child being asked his opinion on the proposed plans for a proposed new half-million-dollar playground. It was at that point I figured we could forgo the weekly £2 club fee by getting rid of him altogether – the school was clearly saving money on consultancy fees so wouldn’t miss a couple of pounds.

I politely suggested to the mother that guitar wasn’t for this child. She seemed surprised. She mentioned something about how he was practicing a lot with uncle. I wondered quietly to myself whether she’d confused the guitar with the guns, because they both started with the letter ‘G’. Either way it seemed he was going nowhere. So instead he remained. My sanity did not. Neither did several of the other children who became fed up and left.

It seemed a case of ‘he who plays discordantly the loudest shall be heard’. And upon reflection, the purpose of much rock ‘n’ roll music is to manically release stress by banging membranophones, shouting into a microphone and slapping your hand across some nylon strings. It was probably good relief for this child to have an outlet.

I found my relief on the bus home listening to James Taylor.

Kid #31 – The Tea Party

The thirty-first child I hated, regurgitated a half-eaten biscuit into the hand of a London mayor.

Before you scour the dark web for articles about Sadiq or Boris receiving a handful of chewed cookie crumbs, it wasn’t the mayor of London. It was just a mayor of a borough in London. A borough that won’t be specified for fear of drawing too much attention to this post.

When we first received our invitation to afternoon tea, I was not even aware of the delinquent child who was to create this storm in…well…a tea cup. He was from the other Year 6 class and although we would have a number of showdowns later that year when he was placed in my Maths class, it was this late luncheon that would be the first and lasting impression of this baked goods guzzler.

We arrived promptly at the council chambers building, with our sixty students in toe. The initial ominous sign that this afternoon tea wouldn’t end well was the elevator which would fit no more than ten children at a time.

After several trips up and down to the umpteenth floor of the building, we were then ushered down a long corridor by a man who appeared to act like the mayor’s butler. However, he was probably just an overpaid civil servant employed to serve ratepayer-funded juice and nibbles to overfed pre-teens.

Unfortunately for the butler, he had a more theatrical manner than our eleven-year old students could handle. They mistook his enthusiasm as a signal to have a free-for-all. So when he pushed the two doors to the dining room open in the fashion Lumiere from Beauty and the Beast presented dinner to Belle, the children stampeded him as they clambered over each other attempting to sit by their best mate.

Underwhelmingly there were no dancing candelabras, spinning plates or champagne towers. In fact, there weren’t even any teapots, which was probably best as these juveniles needed no caffeine. There were however some large platters of digestives, cheese biscuits and apple segments. Also, each child had been presented with a polystyrene cup filled with orange juice. A handful of children struggled with the concept of waiting for the mayor’s arrival and began knocking back their beverage.

Finally, the mayor arrived. She was a kindly old lady, who probably was hoping the students to have stepped off a steam train in a lovely Edwardian children’s novel. Nay, she was soon to realise they were more reminiscent of something scraped off the floor out the back of a Victorian slum.

In an unsuspecting dodder, she asked her butler to take half the children to the artefact room. I accompanied this group. It was here the students were able to be unappreciative of a variety of items with historical significance. Least of all, the butler allowed each of them to hold a sword. He later complained to the mayor about the children’s behaviour with the sword – a complaint, which I felt was somewhat ironic considering he’d witnessed them struggling with disposable drinkware, let alone a large carving implement.

Upon our return to the dining room, the students were re-seated and commenced their afternoon tea, while her worship the mayor pottered around forcing small talk upon illiterate mutes entrusted to our care.

It was at this moment that I witnessed the child who is the ire of this blog entry.

There sat Fatty-boombalatty stuffing his face at the end of the round table in the far corner (I’m aware that ‘end of the round table’ is a contradiction in terms, but so is a fatty-boombalatty stuffing their face). Immersed in his own solo biscuit version of ‘fluffy bunnies’, he managed to negotiate a fourth digestive into the undigested contents of his face hole. Possibly from three parts horror, five parts embarrassment and two parts fear of recreating Mr Creosote’s ‘it’s only wafer thin’ moment, I bellowed across the room for this miscreant to “Stop!”.

Unfortunately, the child took this in its most literal sense and stopped at the point where his masticating bottom jaw was at a sixty-degree angle to the top of his mouth and the half-eaten biscuits proceeded to tumble out in a mushy sludge onto the well-intentioned yet mistakenly-chosen white table cloth.

As is the case when shocking displays of poor manners are witnessed by a large group of people, a momentary gasp of silence descended upon the room.

Snapping out of her dodder, the mayor said to the boy, “here give me that”. If she thought he was going to use a napkin to collect up the chewed remnants of afternoon tea, she clearly hadn’t been paying attention to the preceding defiance of basic table etiquette. The boy collected up the brown sludge and placed it directly in the mayor’s un-gloved hand.

“Get out now,” I yelled. “Go clean your hands and apologise!” (at the child, not the mayor).

I pointed to where I thought the bathroom was. The boy sheepishly slunk across the room. It turned out I’d directed him into the kitchen, where the McVities in question had been prepared. The council ‘chef’ ushered him back out.

“I’ll take him,” sighed the mayor, presumably assuming this fell under her duty as host (her butler was engaged showing the other group the sword). She passed the reconstituted biscuit sludge towards me. I quickly scrambled about and collected it in a serviette, not falling for the trap she’d fallen into.

Slumping into a nearby chair, I pondered whether any of this could have been dealt with better. Biting into a stale cracker I decided Wallace was wrong when he once said, “No crackers, Gromit. We’ve forgotten the crackers”. Wallace should have left the crackers in the pantry, as should have I.

Kid #30 – Be Quiet and Sit Down!

The thirtieth kid I hated probably had undiagnosed ADHD.

After all, she was a girl and we’re continually being told now that lots of girls are on the autistic spectrum or have ADHD, they are just better at hiding their symptoms. Or perhaps, in this case, not so good at hiding symptoms.

She was the sort of child where all the children would sit neatly in their places on the carpet. All of them would sit in straight rows. All of them would have their legs crossed and arms placed safely in front of them.

This child would also sit still, at least until the teacher had glanced down at their watch only to look back up, just in time to see her squirming around on the carpet like she was trying to remove a tarantula from her hair.

Further, through some sort of warp in the time continuum she would seem to have appeared on the complete other side of the carpet space. It was very hard to explain – using physics – how she had managed to transport herself a good three metres past at least twenty other children, in the half-second it had taken for the watch-glancing to occur.

We tried a number of approaches: The usual specialty sitting cushions that have built-in barbs to hold the student in place, calming music to distract the student from using the muscles in their limbs, custom-made jackets where the sleeves fold around the back to join together with a buckle, and also a good old-fashioned set of safety reins. Basically, all the usual ethically-approved torture devices.

None of these seemed to achieve anything, so in lieu of a good spanking, we resorted to putting up with it.

Now the benefit of putting up with bad behaviour is that you don’t have to do anything and the child appears happier.

The downside of putting up with bad behaviour is everything else.

The behaviour becomes accepted as bad behaviour. In reality, it is probably some form of attention-seeking, due to another deficit in the child’s life. In this child’s case it was the lack of boundaries at home that was causing her to act out. Or rather the lack of love and boundaries.

When she was picked up from school, her father would be walking out of the gate before she had even caught up to him. No hugs and kisses. No “How was your day?”. At the end of the day she would simply point out her father to me. I would wave to him. He would wave back. Then as she walked over to him, he’d turn his back and start walking out the schoolyard. It was as though he was running an errand – and not an errand he seemed particularly bothered about.

The inverse would occur in the mornings when she would burst into the classroom, often knocking over a chair or tripping on a table leg, full of hyperactivity asking if there was any jobs to be done and how things were. It was guaranteed she would be one of the first students of the day to arrive. Clearly the parents were making the most of their access to free-government-funded babysitting. Or maybe they were just punctual people.

I almost found her early-morning enthusiasm endearing.

But as the terms spun on, my patience waned. Yes, she was given opportunity to express her personality freely. However, it becomes very draining giving so much emotional attention to the needs of an (undiagnosed) ADHD person. If it wasn’t providing her new strategies to conflict-resolve with her friends and enemies, the time would be spent concocting a long list of pretend jobs to keep her occupied.

Perhaps the long trail of chaos she left in her wake was nothing to be concerned about. Perhaps it was my own anal-retentiveness that found it difficult to allow her abrupt nature. Everything must be in its place including the little human beings I educate.

I’ve slowly become more patient at letting children express themselves through incessant babbling and constant movement around the classroom – at least for thirty seconds per day.

But if I ever met this kid again, I doubt I’d have self-restraint enough to avoid finding a more conclusive purpose for the spikey therapy cushion.

Kid #29 – Mommie Dearest

The twenty-ninth kid I hated had a name that sounded like an alcoholic beverage spelt backwards.

She was the real ‘Regina George’ of the playground. Nine years old and a real piece of work. It was scary enough encountering her as a teacher. I daren’t like to think how the other students in my class dealt with her hysteria.

Worse than the student herself, was her mother. The apple had not simply fallen close to the tree, but appeared to have been cloned.

My first encounter with the mother was as I brought the children into the playground on my first day of teaching that class, and had the pleasure of being sworn at, a walking stick waved in my face and a fair amount of shouting – not ‘raised voice’ but shouting. Apparently, another student was in tears because I’d told them to stand in line quietly. The child I was being accosted about, didn’t even belong to this raging lady.

Mostly due to shock, I can’t remember the rest of the encounter. But I most likely did my silent ignoring, head-shaking, frowning and general retreating-behaviour that happens when I’m faced with confrontation. There was no polite smiling and nodding. I let her be on her merry way, thinking to myself that if this was how she defended someone else’s child, I didn’t want to be in the crossfire when she defended her own daughter.

It turned out that crossfire could not come too soon. Her daughter would intimidate other students, steal their stationery, swear at them when no one was looking, pinch them, punch them and spread malicious lies. She was a class A ‘b’-word. However, she was equally cunning and could never be pinned for any wrong doing. She had become so expert at her subversive tirade on other students and her pathological lying that her coating of Teflon was beginning to form an entire suit of armour. Additionally, when her mother arrived to discuss any misgivings the school had about her daughter, she would begin ranting again, waving her pretend walking stick and inevitably leave a receptionist or manager in tears.

Now perhaps I empathised too much with Janis Ian and friends in Mean Girls, or perhaps I had been watching too many detective programs at the time (namely Wildside, which is an Australian series set in the gritty underbelly of Sydney’s suburbs and often sees rogue detective Tony Martin – the actor, not the comedian – slamming down his hand on interrogation tables); but I found myself making it my mission to catch this monster out.

The usual method was to accept any accusations the other children made. I’d take their side 99 per cent of the time to see if she’d crack. But she held tight, accepting no blame. This approach would lead to another complaint by the mother.

Sometimes I’d go with the more nurturing approach of sitting quietly and talking about the right thing to do, in an attempt, to check whether her conscience would kick in. It did not. Instead it further affirmed our suspicions of her sociopathic tendencies. Also, this approach would lead to another complaint by the mother.

And finally, the crème-del-a-crème was when beyond doubt she had caused another ruckus amongst her friends by gossip-mongering and – this is where my behaviour management style became a bit too much bad cop bad cop – I knelt down to be at eye-level and repeatedly asked “Did you call such-n-such a such-n-such?”

She didn’t crack.

The insistent repeating-of-the-question technique had worked in the televisual law enforcement programs when the detective was trying to get a confession from the ring leader of an international drug cartel. Why had it not cracked the nine-year-old?

And again, this approach led to another complaint by the mother and a meeting with the father, mother and daughter.

I would later find out that this pattern of complaint had repeated itself every year. Other staff would give me long lists of colleagues who had momentarily caught the ire, of these parents and their offspring, for months or a year at a time.

“Oh, you’re teaching that class,” they’d say. “Look out for that girl’s mother.”

“Oh, thanks for the heads-up,” I’d say. “It’s too late.”

It can’t quite be captured with words the level to which she and her mother terrorised the other staff and students. But the mere utterance of her name would normally trigger a fleeting spasm in the eyeball of whoever heard the name mentioned.

After that final meeting and a precarious understanding was met, the mother became almost polite, when collecting her child in the afternoons. The strained attempt at being decent was perhaps more unsettling than the reckless abuse she was more used to wielding. Nevertheless, all our careers felt less at risk of being destroyed on the whim of one of her outrageous accusations.

There was of course the complaint that I’d tried to strangle another student.

“Now, I know this wasn’t my daughter,” said the heinous mother, “but my daughter did see you pull on the backpack of another girl and almost choke her around the neck.”

More than likely that other girl had barged onto a bus, knocking over a senior citizen, and I’d reacted by loosely grabbing the top of her backpack as she continued to lunge forward self-inflicting her own asphyxiation.

Either way, I nodded politely, she made her complaint, I noticed she wasn’t using her walking stick anymore and then she wandered off into the distance for another day. At least now she was complaining about my mistreatment of other people’s children again, and not her own demonic offspring. We’d come full circle.

I headed back to the staffroom where we put our feet up on the desks, knocked back a strong cup of coffee, crossed another suspect off our watchlist and laughed heartily about how tough life on the beat was.

Or did that happen in an episode of The Bill? I can’t recall.

Kid #28 – The case of the stolen lippy

The twenty-eighth kid I hated held a grudge.

It was a very long grudge and gives proof to the adage that children have elephants’ memory – or so say I.  Well, at the least, they remember when they’ve been wronged, despite an inability to remember more academic tasks like how to spell; or how to add numbers.

The grudge this child held was due to the fact I’d confiscated her cherry coloured (and presumably flavoured) lip gloss. The girl wasn’t one of my student’s. I merely caught her smearing the stuff across her face as I descended the stairs to perform my weekly yard duty. I’d normally turn a blind eye to neutral lip gloss, as the crisp dry winters of England usually crack as many lips as a clumsy kitchenhand cracks saucers. But this ten-year-old trickster had no use for cherry colour or cherry flavour, unless of course she was about to seduce one of her peers or had low blood sugar, respectively – albeit in the case of low blood sugar it wouldn’t be medically recommended to eat a tub of emollients.

So it was, that I confiscated the afore mentioned cherry lip gloss and told her she could pick it up in the afternoon.

I had every intention of returning it. The problem was two weeks passed before the girl finally came to claim her lip gloss. As I opened the drawer, I had put it in two weeks before, I found nothing more than the usual collection of half chewed pens and confiscated gum. No lip gloss. It had been taken by an equally troublesome child; another mystery for another day.

“I’m terribly sorry,” I said, “but your lip gloss is no longer here.”

“Where have you put it?” she demanded.

“I put it in this drawer.”

“Well you owe me a new one,” she said.

She stormed off.

I felt a little bad that the lip gloss had been stolen, although I was hardly to know there was a high theft rate of beauty products from the stationary drawer. Probably some pre-teen, with a penchant for broken pencils, pilfered the possessions of the drawer and thought they had hit the jackpot.

Thinking nothing more of it I continued my day-to-day duties as an educator of young minds until one day our paths crossed again in the playground.

“That’s him,” exclaimed the girl to her friends. “he’s the one who stole my lip gloss”.

‘Stole?’ I thought to myself. We’re my lips particularly red and shiny? Did I look that well-presented, that I could have stolen her infantile lip enhancer? Had I been spotted picking cherries too frequently from the schoolyard cherry tree?

Presumably it was the latter. Either way this was to become an ongoing pattern.

On an intermittent basis the student would spot me in the playground and the same accusations would surface.

Months later, I was considering relenting to the harassment by replacing the lip gloss. Instead, another teacher friend had fortuitously made lip gloss with her Year 11 students at another school, during a chemistry lesson. She had some spare containers of lip gloss remaining from the lesson, so I happily took one and placed it in my top coat pocket to give to the belligerent child when our next encounter took place.

Of course, all things being even, when the girl next spotted me in the playground she had finally forgotten about the lip gloss; as did I until I next took my coat to the drycleaner and realised the entire contents of the container had melted into the fabric of my coat pocket.

So although the whole saga was probably of bigger concern to myself than to the student, if we met again in a school stairwell, I doubt I’d offer any of my own cherry flavoured lipsmacker.

 

Kid #27 – Avoiding work at all costs

The twenty seventh kid I hated was a chronic work avoider.

The first day I taught him, he returned after lunch break to tell me he’d lost something very important in the playground. He then began crying.

I asked him what he had lost.

“It’s my Grandad’s war medals,” he said.

I asked him why he’d brought something so important to school.

“I wanted to show my friends,” he responded. “My grandad gave them to me as he was dying and said I must look after them. But I can’t find them in my jacket. I need to check again.”

Medals, given to a young child by their dying grandparent, were certainly a very important thing to be taken seriously. It was my first day at the office, so I did not want to have war paraphernalia lost on my watch. I allowed the boy to check his bag and jacket.

He did it very slowly and very meticulously. He managed to string it out for the first ten minutes of the Maths lesson. I let this slide, because of the importance of what he was looking for.

He did not find them, but said he’d shown them to two other boys in the class. I asked the two other boys to help him look through their bags in case it was mixed up in their possessions (*slash* stolen). Another ten minutes of looking occurred, but no war medallions surfaced.

“Perhaps I left them in the playground,” said he, the child who enjoyed avoiding any semblance of work.

Perhaps, I thought to myself. I certainly didn’t want anyone else to find them in the playground, so I allowed him to be accompanied by another student to check on the benches and under trees in the yard. He returned fifteen minutes later empty handed.

“I’ll have a look in my desk again,” he said.

I allowed this as his final attempt, as the Maths lesson came to a close.

It was then time for art.

“I can’t find the medals anywhere,” said the boy. “I think I’ll look for them later. They’ll turn up.”

What was this? An hour earlier he’d been on the verge of emotional collapse at the thought of his family heirloom being lost. Now he was resolved they’d “turn up”. I smelt a rat, but kept it to myself.

He spent the art session ignoring the set task of drawing birds, instead choosing to sketch a Lamborghini 350 GT – another successful effort at work avoidance.

As we left the classroom for the end of the day, I made a big song and dance about hoping to find the lost medals. I could see the kid beginning to squirm. He insisted it would be fine and he’d look for them at a later date.

When his grandmother arrived to pick him up, I dropped the bombshell, knowing by now it was most likely a lie.

“I’m sorry, but the medals your grandson brought to school today seem to have gone missing,” I told her.

“What medals?”

“The war medal…”

I was interrupted. The boy looked me in the eye, “Sir, it was a joke!”

Aha. It was as I’d always suspected. I really hammed it up then.

“A joke!?” I spluttered. “I was really worried. I thought you’d lost something really important. Especially since you said they’d been given to you when your grandfather was on his deathbed.”

I emphasised the last part for the grandmother.

“My husband’s not dead, and he didn’t fight in a war,” she responded.

Then she looking to her grandson, “Say sorry to your teacher”.

He would be sorry. Playing on my emotions. For goodness sake, where did he even get such a contrived idea?

As the year went on, I would force him at near to gunpoint (of course not an actual gun, because it was not an American school), to finish his work. He’d come up with many reasons not to finish work, including the need to sharpen one pencil for half an hour, the loss of his exercise book (which he’d usually hidden behind the book corner cushions), or the ever present need to urinate.

At the age of eight he would go the extra mile and urinate his pants as a way of avoiding work. His parents claimed he had a weak bladder, but we were never given any medical evidence to suggest a weakness in his urethral sphincter.

Instead he would sit there with his wet pants, looking miserable, surrounded by the musty smell of excreted liquid. He knew eventually an adult would find him and discretely remove him from the room. He’d be given sympathy and attention for his accident, beyond the realms of any praise he may ever receive for his academic work. So in his mind wetting himself became a success.

Instead of the parents finding a solution for this (i.e. potty training him or seeing a proper doctor), they simply told us to send him to the bathroom more frequently and provided us with a spare pair of trousers. It was a sad, depressing and smelly situation.

The other art of avoidance he had mastered was telling confusing stories. He never got to the point. If he did get to the point, it was jumbled somewhere in the middle.

The speech therapist even set to work with exercises aimed at getting him to sequence events clearly on cards before he spoke about them out loud.

Seeing him at work with the speech therapist showed clearly there was evidently something amiss with his processing of normal thoughts. But equally there was a cunning behind the jumbled chronology in his storytelling. This came to my attention one sunny morning detention, when one of the older children in the school told me they had been speaking with my student.

“I’ve been teaching him how to avoid doing things,” declared the older child.

“Oh yes,” I said humouring him, even though he was supposed to be reading silently for detention. “And what, may I ask, have you told him he should be doing?”

“Well he needs to create a distraction. Something that doesn’t disrupt the rest of the students and is partly about the work, but doesn’t really help with what he’s supposed to be doing. Normally by telling a long story or giving a long explanation about something, he can distract the teacher and get out of doing the work. The teacher will become interested in what he’s saying and start talking to him about other things,” he paused, with a wry smile creeping across his face. “I’m doing it to you right now.”

Touché you idiot genius, I thought to myself. But I had knowingly humoured him, so in a sense I was still the winner.

“That explains a lot,” I said kindly. “Now sit down and be quiet for the rest of this detention!”

And so it was the medal losing, pant wetting, tale telling child continued to attempt playing me like a fiddle (but not fiddling with me for a play – as that would have been inappropriate).

He was probably just a lost soul looking for a little bit of tender loving care.

But if I ever met him again, I doubt I’d decorate him with a medallion.