Crunch and rumble. That is a sound that I didn’t know that I missed. It is a sound that marks the end of the sealed road and the start of the dirt track that lines my Nan’s farm. The tyres of my car no longer securely placed on the asphalt but having to content with the variable landscape into which we venture. There is no crunch or rumble in the city it is all smooth and metallic, polished to a sheen to appease the mass hypochondria that settled upon the world in what felt like overnight. Don’t go outside into the big bad world, strangers with strange illnesses will infect your lungs, if they don’t infect your mind first. You must get your food delivered by a man who’s face you can’t see behind his safety mask. Crunch and rumble. Like the dust in my rear-view mirror, the rules of the city, once so abrasive to take in, are now behind me and begin to settle.
Alex gave Nick a knowing nod, they had spent all day doing obligatory family activities that required a courteous sobriety and now that the sun had gone down over the hill that nestled their cute holiday cabin, they had a chance to be alone.
In the not so subtle hierarchies that exist in school, there are a series of practices that those at the top of the ladder subject to those at the bottom. These are compounded at boarding school, where the students who are left largely to themselves, forge their own ritualistic privileges and are reinforced by the very system in which they live. At my boarding school, “strapping” was one such practice.
The life of a substitute teacher is an interesting one. On any given day, you may be required to walk into a completely foreign school, and command respect the moment you walk through the front gates. This can often be belied by the fact that you have a fruit cup packed in your bag for recess, and often have difficulty finding the front office.