I woke up today at 8:00 AM, cycled to the math department to pick up two classes worth of assignments, and cycled back.

Then I locked my door. Made coffee. Porridge with the hot water from my tap.

And began to mark.

It’s not like marking high school math, of course.

I have to do the questions myself. They’re long. Intense. Computational and demanding. I have to do them because marking others means you have to know the intricacies of the problem. That takes about 2 hours. Sometimes 3.

Each assignment has 6 problems. Sometimes, more than 10 pages. With 20 assignments, and 3 minutes of concentrated marking per question, that’s 6 hours. Of course, more time is needed if I can’t read someone’s writing, or if someone takes a shortcut or detour.

You can’t just check the answer. You have to go through their work. Sometimes line by line. Formula by formula. Variable by variable.

By now, we’re over 8 hours.

Add an hour for pee breaks, coffee breaks, and breaks for when your mind just gives up.

11 hours ago, I was a different man.

It has to be done by tomorrow, of course. When the assignments are handed back, and the solutions presented to the students.

So I add another 2 hours of lecture preparation time.

You want to know what happened to my Monday?

That’s what happened to my Monday.

After seeing how cramped some classes at the school can get, I don’t think I’ll ever complain again about a high school or university class in Canada.

In some of the rooms at the school, girls and boys are forced to stand at the back or sit on the ground, literally trapped by dozens of bodies and unable to leave the room without stepping over each other.

Standing at the front of the room near the blackboard, I have about three feet of room each side to walk about before I bump into the students.

But I feel most for the students sitting a foot away from the blackboard. With their faces nearly touching the board, they have to sit through a storm of chalkdust whenever I erase the boards.

Of course, it doesn’t help that blackboard erasers aren’t used but rather, conveniently wadded piece of newspaper or lined paper.

I told them I only wanted to teach the younger students. Younger students not in math. Younger students with math phobias and mathematical bogeymen prowling in their closets.

Instead they gave me two 3rd-4th year classes only for math majors.

Now I have to march to the main office and, like, totally put my thing down.

I’m preparing a mock exam for my Business Algebra students. Tomorrow, I’m going to have the lot of them sit down and sweat through a 2 or 3 hour test.

It should be a real massacre — Two days before the real deal.

It’s moments like these when my sadism really shines through.

Hope it’s a decent crowd. You know I love a good show.

It was moments after the final tutorial, and nearly all the students had already left the class, including the ones who had come up to me to say their final goodbyes, goodlucks, and you-better not-fail-me’s.

Well, all except for one.

“It’s been fun”, I said to her.

She glared at me angrily for a few seconds as I began shuffling the papers on my desk.

“I just wanted to tell you it won’t work on me,” she finally said, nodding emphatically. “It never has.”

“What won’t wo –”, I began.

“– That look you give people,” she interrupted me, “that look you give girls. The look.”

“I have a loo –”, I began.

“Oh sure,” she said, sighing wearily and sitting back on the table, “you have many looks.”

“Like?”

“Like your that-was-a-stupid-question-but-I’ll-answer-it-anyways look. Which is kinda like a sneer. Then there’s your I-know-the-answer-but-I-bet-you-don’t look, which is just this stupid smirk. But sometimes, you use this special look. Only for girls. I just wanted to tell you that it doesn’t work on me.”

“Am I using it right now?”

She peered at me for a second, then shook her head. “No, you kinda tilt your head to one side like this,” she said as she casually demonstrated, “then stare straight into their eyes for a moment. It’s like…well, it’s sort of like your I’m-so-sexy look.”

“…What? Never.”

“Of course you do. Then the girl goes all giggly and practically swoons at your feet. Your jokes aren’t that funny.”

I blinked. “That hasn’t ever actually occured to me.”

“Puh-leeeze, Phil. Do you actually think the girls here come to hear you talk about math?”

I blinked again. Her contemptuous emphasis on the word ‘math’ was slightly disconcerting.

“But I just wanted to let you know, it hasn’t worked on me, Phil. I’m immune to it. I don’t get all blushy, giggly, weak kneed, or whatever. It just doesn’t work, okay?”

And before I could even act on my own defence, she spun on her heels, tossed a soft ‘hurumph’ into the air, and marched away defiantely.

And that about wraps up the most peculiar encounter I’ve had with a student so far.