Dramatic Monologue based upon Bed Among The Lentils

Mr John Fisher is a secondary school teacher. He teaches Science and Mathematics at Kingstone High in England. He is sat slumped over a large brown desk, in an empty classroom, staring out the window.

I have never been more depressed in my entire 51 years of being alive. But then again, i have a well paid job, with holiday time as well. Which not many people can say they get included with the tedious strain of working endless hours for someone you don't even like, and most likely doesn't give a single shit about the fact your wife, who you've invested 21 years of your life with, has left you for another woman, or that she took all your savings with her in one go.

Kids. Children. Young people is whom i spend my time with. Not in an unprofessional manner, no. Although saying that, rumour has it that Mr Finch the music teacher, has a slight, mmm how do they put it...perversion? To young people. But that's none of my business. I mean i don't think I'd care if it was either. No But at work. Young people who don't want to learn about how the world works or that maths is involved with every single thing that they do. No! On a daily basis I hear "Sir, what's even the point in this" or "sir what's even the point in that" screeched in a tiring, illiterate tone across the empty, echoing, white walled classroom. Mr Bishop, the creative arts teacher suggested in a surprisingly camp manner of someone who looks like a bodybuilder, that i should "make the kids use their creative brains, create some kind of mind map poster type thing". I don't know how to do that and I'm 51. The way we see people or first impressions is always important. I mean, if you saw me walking towards you now you would probably cross the road. Who wants to cross paths with a tired looking, middle aged man with a five o clock shadow and clothes he hasn't washed in a week. Because his wife took all his other belongings as well. God knows why. Jenny said that "she was going through an emotionally unstable phase and just wanted to rid you out of her life". I said that she didn't really need to rid me of my life though did she. I always wonder what peoples first impressions of me were before i gracefully slumped my way into a dark depression. Did they think i was funny? Did i carry myself well? Intelligent? I can't imagine anyone thinking positively now about the old man in the brown suit with the black shoes, carrying an antique leather briefcase which once belonged to a Mr A Patel. Musty, old, leathery, wrinkled man. Carrying a briefcase that was significantly more presentable than myself. But i suppose one can't have everything. I remember one of my primary school teachers telling me that i should "stop believing that i could achieve everything because you can't" and that i had "such a small, insignificant soul that no one would want you" Untalented and unwanted that was me. And i suppose he was right.