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Haberdasher's Aske's School, Acton Dear Miss Denton, I'd like to apologise, for myself and my whole class, for being generally horrid and playing such a nasty trick on you, 56 years ago in maths lessons. Because you were one of our least horrid teachers. You were young, rather shy, pleasant, blushed easily, and so we attacked. Because it was easy. We couldn't do much about the really horrid old witch teachers who made our lives hell, like Miss Titmuss, the RE teacher, who shook us whenever possible, or Miss Ashley, with her grey sausage curls and outrageous punishments — Latin detention for me, for jumping down three steps into the playground.

No, Miss Denton, you were sweet and kind. So you got it in the neck. One day, you had just got to the end of a gigantic sum, which had taken us half the lesson to do, and which you'd written up on the board.

You wrote in the answer, and then were suddenly called away to the telephone. One of us, I'm not telling who, because we all egged her on, rubbed out the answer and changed it. We all looked very serious. You probably never knew that it was all a nasty joke. How we laughed when we got out of class. You were never nasty to any of us.

So, sorry Miss Denton. We liked you really. Michele Queen Margaret Academy, Ayr Dear wood- and metalwork teacher, I am sorry that we didn't pay attention and ignored the safety briefing in favour of re-enacting the previous night's The Young Ones the mouse episode. I'm sorry that when you said to me: If the books hadn't worked out, creating roads and bridges and airports would have been vastly more fulfilling and rewarding than the junior public-sector admin role that was my only alternative.

And now I've married an engineer, and have a son looking that way and he says: Then I tell him to go talk to his grandpa. Because as every teacher's child knows, it's bloody awful being taught by your own dad, however much you love them. And when we walk down the streets of my home town, the number of gainfully employed, useful, successful, handy boys who come up and say: Being a retired teacher in a small town is a bit like being a retired rock star , and thank you copiously for everything you did for them makes me feel even more foolish than I undoubtedly was back then.

However, as I grow older I find myself thinking more and more about why I have found it so hard to forget the time you called my mother to the school to tell her that you saw me holding hands with a white girl whose parents were "middle class" and that they would be very upset about it as the races really shouldn't be mixing in this way.

I have found it harder to forget the time you called me into your office and told me that because of the "structure of the black mouth" I would never really be able to speak English properly. What I find hardest of all, however, is that after all these years I have not forgiven you for these comments.

I find it rather distasteful that I haven't, truth be told, because I have often preached to myself that I have long learned to hate the crime but not the criminal — or, more pertinently, hate the sin of racism and not the sinner. This was evidently not the truth in your case. I am writing to you now to say I am sorry that I have only remembered you through that narrow and bitter lens.

That the memory of those and similar events have clouded over the many good things you must have done for me while at your school. Many things that I'm sure sit positively at the heart of who I am today.

You hired a brilliant teacher who made a huge and wonderful impact on my life! So there, this letter writing forgiveness stuff is working already. We are all bigger than our wrongs, right? I shall endeavour to remember that when I next think of you and my childhood.

Yours kinda sincerely I'm working on it , Kwame Lister Comprehensive, Plaistow Dear Preston Thomas, You were head of the lower school, deputy head, head, and my A-level tutor for economics, and there are a few things I might usefully get off my chest. The boy who surreptitiously gave a Refresher-shaped laxative to the greedy classmate who was stealing everyone's sweets, occasioning a hygiene crisis in Humanities?

The waste of space whose spat with another pupil spilled from the classroom on to the gravel pitch and ended up with us chasing each other in circles around the playground, pursued by the supply teacher who never came again? I was one of the shadowy figures who were able to let themselves back into the school in the early evening by dint of a purloined skeleton key.

It all seems quite silly now but I am sure that had you been able to pull together the various strands and establish a pattern, you would have dealt with it in that calm, authoritative, sensible and humorous way that you dealt with everything. It was the funniest thing. We weren't scared of you; but at the same time, we thought we shouldn't mess with you.

You said that I should opt for A-level economics, ignoring my protests about deficiencies in maths. And then there's the occasion I carry with me. It occurred in the sixth form when I commandeered an empty classroom as a changing room and was locked in by schoolmates who, for good measure, had stolen my shorts and trousers.

That took some explaining when the melee caught your attention, but you didn't ask for an explanation. Although you are now at rest in the great staffroom in the sky, I still feel a pang of shame when I recall how badly I behaved during your lessons. I remember your patient sigh when you caught me inking in little black spots on my legs below the holes in my black tights, or painting on pearlised orange nail-polish under the desk.

You pretended not to notice my CND badge, banned on school premises, or the whiffs of cigarette smoke that lingered in the girls' toilets. I hope you never read any of the cruel notes my friends and I passed around in class, commenting on your appearance, and speculating on your love life.

I felt ashamed when I learned, afterwards, that you'd lost your fiance during the second world war, and teaching us became your life instead. I would like to thank you for your perseverance. And thanks to you, even after all these years, I can still pull off a cool subjunctive, which impresses the Frenchies no end.

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Haberdasher's Aske's School, Acton Dear Miss Denton, I'd like to apologise, for myself and my whole class, for being generally horrid and playing such a nasty trick on you, 56 years ago in maths lessons. Because you were one of our least horrid teachers. You were young, rather shy, pleasant, blushed easily, and so we attacked. Because it was easy. We couldn't do much about the really horrid old witch teachers who made our lives hell, like Miss Titmuss, the RE teacher, who shook us whenever possible, or Miss Ashley, with her grey sausage curls and outrageous punishments — Latin detention for me, for jumping down three steps into the playground.

No, Miss Denton, you were sweet and kind. So you got it in the neck. One day, you had just got to the end of a gigantic sum, which had taken us half the lesson to do, and which you'd written up on the board.

You wrote in the answer, and then were suddenly called away to the telephone. One of us, I'm not telling who, because we all egged her on, rubbed out the answer and changed it. We all looked very serious.

You probably never knew that it was all a nasty joke. How we laughed when we got out of class. You were never nasty to any of us. So, sorry Miss Denton. We liked you really. Michele Queen Margaret Academy, Ayr Dear wood- and metalwork teacher, I am sorry that we didn't pay attention and ignored the safety briefing in favour of re-enacting the previous night's The Young Ones the mouse episode. I'm sorry that when you said to me: If the books hadn't worked out, creating roads and bridges and airports would have been vastly more fulfilling and rewarding than the junior public-sector admin role that was my only alternative.

And now I've married an engineer, and have a son looking that way and he says: Then I tell him to go talk to his grandpa. Because as every teacher's child knows, it's bloody awful being taught by your own dad, however much you love them. And when we walk down the streets of my home town, the number of gainfully employed, useful, successful, handy boys who come up and say: Being a retired teacher in a small town is a bit like being a retired rock star , and thank you copiously for everything you did for them makes me feel even more foolish than I undoubtedly was back then.

However, as I grow older I find myself thinking more and more about why I have found it so hard to forget the time you called my mother to the school to tell her that you saw me holding hands with a white girl whose parents were "middle class" and that they would be very upset about it as the races really shouldn't be mixing in this way.

I have found it harder to forget the time you called me into your office and told me that because of the "structure of the black mouth" I would never really be able to speak English properly.

What I find hardest of all, however, is that after all these years I have not forgiven you for these comments. I find it rather distasteful that I haven't, truth be told, because I have often preached to myself that I have long learned to hate the crime but not the criminal — or, more pertinently, hate the sin of racism and not the sinner.

This was evidently not the truth in your case. I am writing to you now to say I am sorry that I have only remembered you through that narrow and bitter lens. That the memory of those and similar events have clouded over the many good things you must have done for me while at your school. Many things that I'm sure sit positively at the heart of who I am today. You hired a brilliant teacher who made a huge and wonderful impact on my life! So there, this letter writing forgiveness stuff is working already.

We are all bigger than our wrongs, right? I shall endeavour to remember that when I next think of you and my childhood. Yours kinda sincerely I'm working on it , Kwame Lister Comprehensive, Plaistow Dear Preston Thomas, You were head of the lower school, deputy head, head, and my A-level tutor for economics, and there are a few things I might usefully get off my chest. The boy who surreptitiously gave a Refresher-shaped laxative to the greedy classmate who was stealing everyone's sweets, occasioning a hygiene crisis in Humanities?

The waste of space whose spat with another pupil spilled from the classroom on to the gravel pitch and ended up with us chasing each other in circles around the playground, pursued by the supply teacher who never came again? I was one of the shadowy figures who were able to let themselves back into the school in the early evening by dint of a purloined skeleton key.

It all seems quite silly now but I am sure that had you been able to pull together the various strands and establish a pattern, you would have dealt with it in that calm, authoritative, sensible and humorous way that you dealt with everything. It was the funniest thing. We weren't scared of you; but at the same time, we thought we shouldn't mess with you. You said that I should opt for A-level economics, ignoring my protests about deficiencies in maths. And then there's the occasion I carry with me.

It occurred in the sixth form when I commandeered an empty classroom as a changing room and was locked in by schoolmates who, for good measure, had stolen my shorts and trousers. That took some explaining when the melee caught your attention, but you didn't ask for an explanation. Although you are now at rest in the great staffroom in the sky, I still feel a pang of shame when I recall how badly I behaved during your lessons. I remember your patient sigh when you caught me inking in little black spots on my legs below the holes in my black tights, or painting on pearlised orange nail-polish under the desk.

You pretended not to notice my CND badge, banned on school premises, or the whiffs of cigarette smoke that lingered in the girls' toilets. I hope you never read any of the cruel notes my friends and I passed around in class, commenting on your appearance, and speculating on your love life. I felt ashamed when I learned, afterwards, that you'd lost your fiance during the second world war, and teaching us became your life instead. I would like to thank you for your perseverance.

And thanks to you, even after all these years, I can still pull off a cool subjunctive, which impresses the Frenchies no end. Post your letter below Topics.

Long legs xxx sex sis brother

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5 Comments

  1. I hope you never read any of the cruel notes my friends and I passed around in class, commenting on your appearance, and speculating on your love life.

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  3. I have found it harder to forget the time you called me into your office and told me that because of the "structure of the black mouth" I would never really be able to speak English properly. You said that I should opt for A-level economics, ignoring my protests about deficiencies in maths. He bends her over the couch so he can penetrate and fuck her doggie style from behind, then in missionary while she masturbates herself and he marks his territory by spraying lots of hot and sticky cum all over her big tits, slutty face and open mouth!

  4. The only thing they have to be careful of now is being caught by her mom!!! So there, this letter writing forgiveness stuff is working already. Being a retired teacher in a small town is a bit like being a retired rock star , and thank you copiously for everything you did for them makes me feel even more foolish than I undoubtedly was back then.

  5. Michele Queen Margaret Academy, Ayr Dear wood- and metalwork teacher, I am sorry that we didn't pay attention and ignored the safety briefing in favour of re-enacting the previous night's The Young Ones the mouse episode. I have found it harder to forget the time you called me into your office and told me that because of the "structure of the black mouth" I would never really be able to speak English properly.

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