It was year 4 of primary school, and my class had just returned from either recess or lunch. As we formed a line outside the class, waiting to be let inside, Edvard Grieg’s In The Hall Of The Mountain King began blaring at an extreme volume through the wall. Speculating amongst ourselves as to what was going on, our teacher opened the classroom door, stepped through it, and beckoned us inside with a complete poker face.
Stepping inside, we were all shocked. The song blared from the interactive whiteboard’s speakers, and the room was in shambles. Tables were toppled, chairs were strewn around, and bits of paper waste littered every surface.
Our teacher remained vague and unspecific as our nine-and-ten-year-old minds attempted to figure out what had gone on. Had someone broken in? Had the teacher gone insane? Looking around, surveying the carnage (which seemed much more destructive than it really was), we found envelopes strewn around.
This was the setup for a creative writing exercise. I don’t recall what I wrote – it was almost certainly atrocious given my age – but this exercise has really stuck with me. It was one of the first times I was truly exposed to the joys of writing.