I could be a teacher.....Couldn't I?

Due to the fatigue of my midlife crisis I’m contemplating giving up work to become a Teacher. Obviously, I don’t intend to teach anyone over the age of 10 or anyone that smokes dog-ends behind the bike shed or boys with ginger hair. Not that I have a problem with ginger hair, I don’t.

Admittedly, I am mightily glad I don’t have the same colour hair as that adorned by my neighbours scruffy bedraggled Moggy. An annoying ginger feline, that seems to think that my garden was solely designed to accommodate its backside.

Apparently, ginger hair is a mutation genetically thrust upon some who may have been evil in a previous life. A friend of mine says that they should be entitled to disabled badges, but I don’t agree. In fact, I have some very nice flame haired friends. My wife says she would have never married a ginger bloke for fear of ginger kids, well she would have passed on her frigid gene, and that in my book, is far worse…

Anyway, my midlife crisis brings me to a career stand off. I have a nice house-until my wife gets it-and many of the material things I craved for as a youngster. So, with a bit of money tied up in an Icelandic bank, it might be time for a change.

My lips have become continually chapped from years of sucking up to my boss and agreeing repeatedly with all his dim-witted and stupid decisions in order to have that nice house and those material things in the first place. If I were a woman it would have been tantamount to having slept with the entire Board of Directors.

Teaching does offer some benefits as long as the children are of a certain age. Not so young that they crawl along the floor crying and dribbling, I’ve a Mother-in-law who does that, and not so old that they can answer me back or throw sharp objects at me when my back is turned. Also a class that requires no homework, so that I can spend term time on long spouse free holidays touring the vineyards of France.

In reality, teaching doesn’t pay I know, but I'm thinking of the real long-term benefits over working with smarmy corporate banking cocks. Term holidays every other week, lay-ins disguised as ‘teacher training days’, early evenings, copious tea breaks in the staff room wearing your favourite Hush Puppies and gossiping about little Timmy Taylor’s moustache wearing Mummy and all while smoking endlessly. Perfect!

Of course, things may have changed since I was at school. I bet you can’t smoke until a dense fog engulfs the staff room and the tasty art teacher no longer wears a Mexican Poncho but it’s still worth considering. .