‘What job would you do if you weren’t a writer?’

A TEACHER has invited me to school to talk to a class of 11- and 12-year-olds about journalism.

In preparation, the pupils have read one of my columns — an 800-word piece on my pitiable lack of numerical ability — called “Arithmophobia: Face the Fear”.

I face the students, eight of whom are waving their hands in the air at me, with varying degrees of maniacal desperation. Glancing at their urgent faces, I pick the one that looks closest to imploding — a boy whom I shall call Sharp as Tacks, front-right of class.

Sharp as Tacks doubts the veracity of “Arithmophobia: Face the Fear”. He’s certain no adult “could be that bad at sums”. He expresses further doubts about the veracity of journalistic writing across the board, in an assured, amiable manner. I dispatch his qualms in the same style, after which a frantic chorus of “Miss, Miss, Miss,” erupts across the classroom. The loudest “Miss” comes from a boy, Ants in Pants, who’s up on his feet, back left of class.

“Yes,” I say to Ants in Pants.

“Miss,” he says, eyes bright as diamonds, “d’ya know any of the fellas that write the sport in the Examiner?” “I’m afraid not,” I reply.

“Aaah man,” he sits, all simulated heartbreak and extinguished hope. Then his eyes brighten again, “or the fellas that write the farmin’?”

“Aah man,” he says woefully, as I shake my head, “I’d half a mind to send ’em a story, like, about farmin’ or . . .”

“Where d’you get your ideas from, Miss?” This comes from Laughing Head — the boy adjacent to Ants in Pants.

“From people,” I begin, “and situations that make me laugh or . . .”

Ants in Pants is up on his feet again, nudging Laughing Head in the ribs. “Quick,” he urges him, “get up there now and do a dance for her, g’wan — quick, give her a dance there now and make her laugh, or she won’t write a column about us . . .” Laughing Head appears to be choking and cannot oblige us with a dance.

“What job would you do if you weren’t a writer, Miss?” Sharp as Tack’s hand is up again.

At this moment, I have absolutely no idea.

“I tell you what, Miss,” he continues, “there’s one job I’d never do . . .”

I’m now on Bemused Auto-Pilot Setting. “What’s that?” I say.

“A council worker — sure they’re so lazy Miss, they do nothin’ all day.” He throws his hands up in theatrical despair, “you see them in the morning and what are they doin’? Nothin’. You see them in the evening and what are they doin’? Nothin’. . .”

A girl, her hand up straight as an arrow, interjects politely. “Where do you write?” she asks. I explain the concept of freelance work, including such details as the fact that I often write in a horrible dressing gown on my bed, despite owning clothes and a desk at which to sit. Eighteen pairs of eyes widen in horror, including the class teacher’s. Sharp as Tacks exhales loudly, “oh man that’s sooooo lazy like. That’s worse than a council worker.”

Ants in Pants cuts in, “Jeez, that’s class. Man I want that job.”

Sharp as Tacks needs clarification, “you’re tellin’ me now,” he says, thunderstruck, “that you’re in bed and you can just relax, like, and wander round making tea? Ah man — that’s what I call lazy.”

A girl asks cordially, “do you enjoy your job?”

“Ah, come on now,” says Ants in Pants, “sure, wouldn’t you like her job? Lying in bed all day — all comfy like.”

I explain that writing, while not on a par, in terms of its physical effort, with working down the coal mines, has its demands.

“Like what, like?” asks Ants in Pants.

I produce a copy of a publication for which I write feature articles. “Sometimes I write articles that require research.”

“What was the last thing you had to research?” inquires Sharp as Tacks.

Before I have time to consider the inappropriateness, I say, “breast augmentation.”

Blank stares.

Unthinkingly, I decode. “Breast implants,” I say. Ants in his Pants and Sharp as Tacks shake their heads. “Aaaaaaah man,” comes from front right and back left, “aaaaaah man, now that’s the job.”