Chemistry Lesson part 1

Chemistry Lesson part 1


We had a terrible chemistry teacher. He was one of those brilliant chemists who assumed that every one else in the world was on the same intimate terms with atoms, protons and neutrons as he happened to be. In fact, whenever he tried to teach us something, he would inevitably become frustrated and give up midway because of our complete incompetency.

We were relieved when we were told that he would be leaving us. It was rumoured that he had made some invention that allowed his car to run on vinegar. It was also rumoured that Shell Oil had bought the patent. With this newly acquired wealth he retired to some warm and exotic spot of the earth and we never heard from him again.

For a few glorious weeks all our chemistry lessons were free as no suitable replacement teacher could be found. Until the day our Headmaster entered the room and announced:

"Boys, boys. Quiet please boys."

He had chosen a bad time for his unannounced arrival as the class was midway through a mini-riot and there were a few upturned chairs and a general disorder. The riot was nothing serious, just a replay from 'The Wall' video by Pink Floyd. We were up to the part where all the school kids jump around shouting "We don't want no education."

But the sight of the Headmaster in his formidable black and flowing gown with his cane in his hand soon sent us boys meekly to our seats.

A paper plane with a Swastika symbol on the wings had been launched during the chaos and was now circling about the class. The Headmaster waited for it to land before he continued.

"I have some good news."

We all groaned. Good news for any one who is official always means bad news for the unofficial. His smile confirmed the worst.

"We have found you boys a Chemistry Teacher."

More groans.

"Silence!" he paused then said, "she will be here tomorrow and as she will be new to the school I expect you will all do your best to make her feel at home." He then scowled a bit and added, "won't you?"

I suppose that amongst the mutterings we replied he could hear the affirmative answer to his question. He seemed happy and left in a flurry of cloak like Dracula after a kill, or a suck, or what ever Dracula does.

We were all commenting on our bad luck and generally building up to our out-of-control state when the Headmaster again appeared at the door.

"Oh yes, boys, I forgot to tell you, her name is...." he cleared his throat as he did in assembly before some important announcement. "Her name is Mrs....no, actually Ms.......Ms. Goats."

The Headmaster closed the door on our laughter and left us to discuss this preposterous name.

"Ms Goats," said Kevin, the Class Mouth. "just imagine what a teacher like that will be!" Then to add effect he over dramatised a shudder of sheer repulsion.

The class continued discussing our new and unseen teacher until we had reached the state of procuring in our minds eye the feminine counterpart of Frankinstein. We even got together an Identikit done by combining the artistic talents of the whole class. I must admit that she looked terrible on our drawing. The bell rang and we ran off for break leaving the drawing pinned to the wall.

The next day we were reasonably quiet as we waited our fate in the form of this terrible new teacher.

When the door was opened and in walked Ms Goats the mouths of every boy in the room dropped open. There was dead silence.

She said, "Hello boys, I am Ms Goats, your new chemistry teacher."

Somewhere, someone said a very drawn out "Wow!"

Then there was a "Gee!"

"My God!" came from the class Atheist.

My heart was beating too loudly for me to hear what I said.

Ms Goats was the most beautiful woman to ever enter the teaching profession. She was so luscious and so desirable and so sexy that I'm sure I was dribbling instantly.

Her body came straight out of Page Three.

Her face was something that hitherto had been only in my fantasies. She was the type of woman you saw pictured with those balding millionaire businessmen. The sex appeal just dripped off her.

There was no coincidence that the arrival of Ms Goats to the school coincided with the arrival of many boys experiencing wet dreams for the first time.

Ms Goats always came to school looking as if she had just walked off a Miss World beauty contest. She walked around the school with the air and confidence of people who know they will always get their own way. She could ask you to do anything and after a blink or two from those long eyelashes you melted to her every whim.

Suddenly chemistry took on a new light and was rapidly becoming my favourite class.

And who sat where in the Chemistry Lab was almost becoming a fight-to-the-death matter. This was because every one wanted to sit in the very front row of the benches. At first it may sound strange to actually want to sit at the front of any class but read on and you will understand the situation.

The benches in the Chemistry Lab were terraced. A bit less spectacular than a cinema, but none the less, they were terraced. This meant that those on the very front row were on a level with the teacher's desk and those at the back of the class were at a level higher up.

The teacher's desk in the lab was huge. Solidly built in case we discovered atomic power.

The exciting part about this desk was that you could see under them. Or, to be a little more explicit, if you just by chance happened to be sitting in the front row, and you just by chance happened to drop your pen on the floor, and you just by chance happened to look under the desk when Ms Goats was sitting opposite you, you would be well rewarded by an almost pornographic view up her dress.

And so this made the front row position very sought after.

To stop the blood from spilling daily, we had to devise a system whereby we used the old 'shortest-straw' method. The three people with the shortest straws were rewarded with the front row for that class. But as with so many things, it soon became a racket, with the thugs of the class controlling the seats.

I am sure that Ms Goats knew what we were up to. If anything, I felt she encouraged it more than discouraged it. In fact, I once saw her being sent home by the headmaster because the top part of her anatomy was wobbling about excessively without the restraint of a bra.

Some how I think I have been slightly distracted off the subject of chemistry. The two most interesting things I learnt about the subject was A), how to make a bomb, and B) seeing the things that grew under my finger nails.

It happened when Ms Goats caught me biting my nails. She pounced on me and dragged me to the front of the class.

"Siss on you!" she said. "Do you know what rubbish and dirt you eat when you bite your nails?"

I was blushing, not because I was hauled up in front of the class, but because she was holding me firmly by the shoulders. I was worried whether this and the aura of perfume that surrounded her would make embarrassing things happen within my trousers

She grabbed my hands and inspected them by holding them to the light. I must admit that my bitten nails were not my strongest point and I felt terrible that the lady of my dreams was getting such exposure to them. I felt that perhaps they were not all that bad.

"It is enough to make me sick."

Bang goes that theory.

"This is utterly disgraceful. This is repulsive."

Alright, enough is enough, I get the message.

"How can you!"

Time for my defence: "Those nails suffer the full brunt of my frustrations. We get so much work to do. So much home work. Teachers don't realize that they are slowly killing us poor kids by over-burdening our innocent conscience."

Her look said it with out her needing to say it.

I was speaking bullshit.

Here I am, my first opportunity for communication with such a beautiful woman and I am busy duffing it. Ground swallow me up and spit me out in China.

"Come with me," she said, "and I'll show you a thing or two."

What is happening! Those are the exact words I had always dreamt of hearing before we get all intimate! Heartbeat quicken; blood pumping, adrenaline soaring, (not to mention something else beginning to soar). This is it! I am about to enter manhood with a bang.

The only bang I got was on the harsh rocks of reality. I definitely had an over imaginative mind. Looking back on it I wonder where I found the stupidity to think such absurd thoughts.

She took me over to one of the side benches where a powerful microscope was always set up. She pulled out a glass slide from a drawer then asked me for my hand again. Under any other circumstance a lady like this asking for my hand would send me up the pole. But here I was reluctant.

"Look at this," she said, "you have bitten your nails so low on the quick that I will not be able to even scrape under your nails as there is no nail to scrape under."

This only very slightly witty remark brought the rest of the class jumping out their seats to come over to us for a closer look.

I could see that this time the joke was definitely on me.

She looked at me straight in the eye, with out a blink she said, "You will just have to see what is under mine." Then her gaze deliberately fell to below my belt. This was not sportsman-like. The whole class was around to see me blush to the colour of a London bus.

When you are down you might as well accept it and try to float it out. Let them get their kicks. Resistance just gets them to hit you harder. I might as well accept my fate. As I said, the joke was on me.

That day the whole class had a very entertaining lesson at my expense.

But, in all fairness, that day I got to see a very interesting display of the millions of little organisms and things that live and squirm in the dirt that lies under your finger nails. There are entire communities at work and play. Seeing this was enough to make me decide to never bite my nails again.

That very afternoon I asked my mum to get me a bottle of that terrible tasting bitters that you paint over your nails to stop you biting them. At first it worked very well. But then in came Darwin's Theory of Evolution and the little taste buds on my tongue evolved to such a state that I could tolerate that awful taste.

There was this other chap in the class that also suffered from the nail biting syndrome.

His problem was worse than mine in that he said he would never put that bitters on his fingers as that was being girlish. Well, girlish or not, I would never resort to his method of abstinence.

He told me that he had a brilliant way of stopping himself from biting his nails. In fact, it was so brilliant that he said that he would not tell me as he wanted to patent the idea.

This got me interested and so for the next few days I kept an eye on him to see what he was up to.

It was during break one day that I noticed he was doing something strange. He looked a bit out of proportion. sort of bent. He also had this very vacant and distant look on his face. Then I noticed he looked funny because his one hand was down the back of his trousers. I needed no imagination to know what and where he was scratching. He then pulled his hand out and put it straight up to his nose. His whole face puckered up as if he had just sucked a lemon. Then his face broke into a smile and off he went.

Even worse was the fact that Darwin's Theory of Evolution worked on his taste buds as well.

No, I would prefer to eat my fingers to the knuckles.
But we were soon to discover that I was only the first of many victims. Ms Goats systematically worked on us until at least half the class had done the blushing act.

I wonder if it was coincidence that the Blushers were also the ones that had spent most of the time in the front row.

But still I am off the subject of chemistry.

As it was Ms Goats and her chemistry lessons that taught me how to make my own gun powder and subsequent bombs.

It was a slip of her tongue that one day she told us the few magic ingredients needed to make gun powder. I was amazed that they were all such simple things that could very easily be bought from any chemist shop.

The second she had told us I scribbled the formulae and ratios onto a piece of paper and stuffed it into my pocket. I seemed to be the only one in class that had realized the importance of that particular lesson. All the other kids weren't actually listening but were just watching.

That very afternoon I was down in the town collecting all the goodies I needed.

My theory was that if anything was to go wrong, or I was to get caught making mini home-made bombs, I would blame it all on the Chemist in town that sold me the stuff. He must have known exactly what I was going to do with the stuff as to anyone who knows the ingredients it would be pretty obvious.

That afternoon I set about making my first batch of gunpowder. I followed all the instructions I had written down earlier that day in class. I ground everything together and looked at what was supposed to be gunpowder. It did not look all that impressive. But still I supposed it was not made to look good just act good.

continue... here


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