My school wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t perfect at all…
A deputy principal many described as incompetent, a slow and absent-minded bureaucracy (you have to pay a tax to sit in your exam. Oh you want your transcript? Please pay the exam tax!), a special principal who would never try to get the illegally occupied school vacated.
I could go on and on, talk about cleaning expenses for non-existing curtains, walls painted all over again quite too soon, teachers moved because their students were better than those in the “top” class…
Well, enough.

My school was not perfect, and yet today, going there for the Nth time, something happened, something that after years spent in those classrooms one would not expect.
I missed it.
I missed going up the stairs with the others.
I missed the oily focaccia during the break.
I missed the adrenaline before my Greek class.
I almost missed P.E. (oh dear).

My school wasn’t perfect, but it was mine.
I loved it, hated it, I learnt how to love, hate, distrust, I learnt that if you want to organise a conference good for you, but till you actually manage you will be stonewalled (ops, I did it again, I’ll stop now).

Truth is it was part of my life, and maybe, just maybe, I should do it again if I had to.

To all my teachers, especially those I wished ill upon before every test, and all the people I crossed paths with in those six years.

 

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