Miss Mowat, or a name like that, came for a year.
Her big thing was poetry, not Admirals All, or Hiawatha, or John Moore being
buried, but My love is like a red, red, rose. Slushy things like that. Even
worse, she’d tell us we had to read it to a girl, to the giggles of the girls
and the dour disapproval of us boys. We tried to think of some way to get
revenge. It came from her own choice of big T, who could break wind, from either
end, at will. She asked him to read Old Meg.
T started, ‘Old meg,’ poop, ‘she
was a gypsy,’ poop poop.
‘And she went from town to town,’
poop, poop, poop!
As I say Miss Mowat left the school at
the end of the year.
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