pirate skulls and bones

Our friend Nicolette is working as a relief teaching at a primary school near her house, and from the minute she told me I’ve been struggling to imagine what that must be like for both parties. Eventually my ever-fertile mind wrote, directed and produced the following scene:

Wide shot of a classroom chock full of huge-eyed, pinafored 9 year-olds with braids, sitting at neatly arranged desks, all staring unflinchingly forward, mouths slightly agape. Silence.

Cut to the object of their scrutiny – a pint-sized, cherubic, Chindian girl: their teacher*. She is dwarfed by the enormous blackboard looming up over her head, upon which is written, in shaky chalk letters, “Miss Pillay”. Like the children, she doesn’t move a muscle, although a spark in her eyes gives the faintest suggestion of panic.

Cut back to the classroom, which, as the camera slowly pulls back, is revealed to be bigger and bigger and filled with even more seemingly endless rows of convent schoolgirls, all gazing forward identically. They can smell fear like sharks.

Cut back to the teacher, whose eyelid, as the camera slowly zooms closer, is revealed to be twitching.

Sharp screechy violins a la Hitchcock. The images flash between each other at an increasing speed.

Students, still more, still the same blank stare.

Teacher, trembling ever more violently.

Students.

Teacher.

Students.

Teac -

The stick of white chalk Nicolette was gripping slips out of her hand and tumbles, slow-mo, to the floor. CRACK. It splinters into a dozen pieces.

Fade to black.

How brilliant, I thought, but oh, wait – you made all of that up, remember. In real life it must be way more boring than that, relief-teaching primary kids English. After all this is Singapore, not Africa. As it turns out, I was woefully mistaken, and would soon hear all about it straight from the horse’s mouth.

Every other day last week I found a new message on my phone from Nicolette who was eager to satisfy my burgeoning curiosity and share her troubles with a sympathetic ear. I delighted to hear her charming little complaints and started to look forward to them like a reality television show available only through SMS. "Tales from the Other Side of the Desk."

One day it was, “They can’t stop asking me questions. ‘Teacher can go toilet?’ ‘Teacher what is a noun?’ I said yes to the toilet and half the class stood up and left.”

And the next day, “They are all lining up right now to get my autograph on little bits of paper! Damn weird!”

A few days ago I received my favourite episode yet. “This is traumatic! Why does every kid I encounter call me mummy?! They were hugging me with smelly little hands and refusing to let me leave la. I had to run away from the class!”

I pictured a horde of tearful midgets approaching Nicolette threateningly as she backed away into the reading corner. “Mummmmmyyyy…,” they groaned, arms outstretched stiffly like little baby zombies. A slimy army of bloated bladders and wobbly lower lips. “But I’m not your mummy... I said, I’m not your mummy...! Argh…!”

“They call you mummy? Are they all crazy?” I typed back immediately, alarmed.

Again came the multiple punctuation marks; I sensed she was losing it. “I know rite!! Haha I was like can you not??? Terrible you know I could barely get out of that zoo la. Never primary 1 again man.”

Ohh. Primary Ones. Ickle firsties. I remember Primary One. “Those mad bastards, did anyone cry or pee?” Note: I never peed or cried. I was way too tough. But someone did in P1. (Incidentally, Nicolette was in my class then.)

“Oh gosh no, thank god. I feel like a fugitive with the Nazis on the hunt for me. I’m all icky from their grubby hands!”

Her replies were coming lightning-quick. She was frantic, hysterical, obviously, as evidenced by her colourful and wildly mixed metaphors. I was her only solace – the Schindler to her terrified Jew, the tranquiliser-armed zookeeper to her traumatised passer-by – so I offered more words of comfort and strength. After a while, she stopped replying, which left me to think only the worst. Oh god. She’s been trampled by the anti- semitic munchkins. Nazis 1, Nicolette 0.

Soon after I forgot about the poor girl and moved on to more reality tv, American Idol as it were. That was a couple of days ago and I've heard nothing from her since. I sent her a message just now, to no avail, and I'm getting more worried by the minute. Nicolette! Where are you?

*Sorry about pint-sized. If it’s any consolation, in my head you’re played by Eva Longoria-Parker.