The bell rings as nine rolls around and I am pulled down, clumsily from the top of the table; dropped on the floor with little care as a hefty boy plops himself on top of my sturdy legs. A shuffle here and a shuffle there I hold him for the hour while he figures out if its brackets first. Another bell, year sevens and I am pulled out from under the bottom of a little boy. The class laugh and the teacher shouts. Year sevens are the worst, they fidget, leaning back and aching my hind legs whilst doodling obscene pictures onto my fine seat.
Break comes and brings feet from those who mistake my purpose and crumbs from the food that they eat. This is followed closely by year eights who haven’t heard of deodorant, flicking bits of paper at one another and giggling behind hands. Year tens bring vile gas and too much perfume and then lunch, an hours quietness before another round of rowdy year sevens and a hoarse-voiced teacher and then the silence of the year elevens, panicking with exams around the corner. Back on the table with the final bell, now just the vacuum to fill the silence and then, finally, I can sleep.