A Good Lock And Twenty Master Keys Would Clear That Right Up

I have come to the conclusion that children should be unseen and not hear.

This revelation grabbed me by the throat this afternoon as I stood beside the recalcitrant Kyocera having a heart-to-heart with Arch Nemesis. Kyocera lives in the teacher workroom. Notice it is called the teacher workroom. Not just by the teachers, unofficially. That's what it is labeled as on all the escape maps hanging in every room. And in the teachers' handbook, there is a section on proper use of and deportment in the teacher workroom.

It has a new, unofficial name that has been bandied about by those of us displaced by a population not indigenous to our official habitat: The Student Playroom.

Not one faculty member approves of this laissez-faire arrangement. We are constantly grousing about it. Yet nobody will stick a wrinkly neck out to oust the invaders. That's because more will return. Unless you stand guard outside the room like a Buckingham Palace tall-furry-hatted fellow, the place is crawling with them. I don't stay after school to be an unpaid bouncer for the underage in our overage haven. I stay after school to run copies. But I can't even concentrate, what with the clown-car parade in and out behind me, trooping to the snack machine to see if the contents have changed in the last five minutes.

You can see blood pressure rise like the mercury in a thermometer placed under the tongue of a 104-degree feverish patient as soon as they cross the threshold. Bold they are. Like vampires, yet without even that initial invitation. Acting like they own the place. I simply leave, because it is not good for my health. Some stand and fight. With sarcasm. The invaders think they are joking.

Complaints fall on deaf or absent ears.

This will not end well.