Lost Lad Read Free

ever increasing gobbledegook was driving him crazy.  The stress was mounting, not least that he could no longer exclude difficult adolescents who disrupted his classroom -
                "These disturbed people need us, Simeon.  We mustn't keep sending them to the counsellor.  Try not to see it as bad behaviour, try to see it as challenging behaviour.  You've taught in that same room for the last 34 years, Simeon.  We're all so very proud of you and we're all trying to help you.  You're experienced.  You can do it, I know you can!"  
     
    This from the diminutive and politically correct Principal, who was little more than half his age and looked even younger, rather like a little girl with her long, straight, shoulder length hair.  Despite the up-beat words, her fresh pleasant face regarded him sadly.  It was unspoken, but they both knew that Mr Hogg had nowhere to go.  No other school, no matter how traditional, would appoint him (nine years from retirement) over younger applicants in their twenties and thirties.  After a lifetime of specialisation in British History, his command of the subject was absolute and he delivered lessons which were exciting and dramatic.  They held their audience in complete silence.  The Principal and other progressive colleagues respected, but could not agree with his strict classroom management which was inconsistent with the new relaxed approach.
     
    Furthermore, there was something nasty and insidious about this charming, friendly, smiling little girl.  She had power.  She was imposing an alien and flawed philosophy upon the frightened man before her.  It was like science fiction films where invading creatures from another planet get into, and take over human minds.  Many had already been 'converted', but Mr Hogg was the only one who was still able to see real education.  He could imagine her persuasive, soothing and sinister voice with an eerie echo saying -
                "Don't resist us, Simeon, we're too strong.  Join us.  Give in.  Yield.  Come with us over to the left.  Sleep.  You'll feel so much better when you wake up and then ... and then, Simeon ...  you'll be one of us."
     
    He was swimming against a tide of left-wing liberalism and losing the battle.  Indeed Simeon Hogg was suffering from battle fatigue after eight years of prolonged and useless struggle.  He was becoming the butt of jokes from the new appointments who seemed to be getting younger, more trendy and more progressive.  Every day he was getting more depressed, and the job to which he had given his life, and once so much enjoyed - was becoming meaningless. 
     
    The assorted, casual, chattering historians in the third floor staff-room seemed to Mr Hogg to get more and more cheerful every day.  A cheerfulness which increasingly irritated him.  Standing by the kettle waiting for it to boil, he tried to avoid social contact by staring out of the window.  He dreaded their teasing comments.  A miserable countenance said it all.
                "Cheer up, Simeon!  Think of all those exam scripts you'll never have to mark again!"
     
    The window looked out on to private gardens.  A scene Mr Hogg had contemplated for over 30 years, but now it appeared to have a new meaning.  He saw not just shrubs, trees and lawn: he saw freedom.  A cat was idly cleaning itself.  Happy cat, contented cat, lucky cat! 
                They had all recently entered into a new millennium.  This would be his fifty-eight year, and he had reached the time of life when most other people were younger than himself.  It had not seemed five minutes since the reverse was the case.  For the first time he started to think about death.  How much longer did he have left?  He had recently read that the average life expectancy for a white man in the Detroit area was seventy-three. 
                "Seventy-three!  Only fifteen years left!  My God!"
     
    To get the scale