Everyone was going quiet now. They all faced the front and looked at Mr Murlin. Gradually there was complete silence. He stopped shuffling the papers and came forward.
`There are a few things I won't tolerate,' he said. `Let's lay down the rules now, so you know where you are.'
Well, at least this was the usual thing. I knew what it'd be: all the stuff about not chewing in class, and not interrupting, and not calling out without putting your hand up.
Mr Murlin said, `There's to be no cooking Lamingtons in the classroom. Students must keep breathing at all times while in here. You are not to ride skateboards across the desks. I keep a chainsaw in the cupboard for people who wear glasses without a licence. Crocodiles are to be put in the box marked `Crocodiles', not in your desks...' He paused and gazed away into the distance. `Wouldn't it be great,' he said, `if when you lifted up the lid of your desk, you found it full of water, and there were fish swimming around inside... aquariums, is that the plural?... aquaria...'
One by one, really nervously, all the kids in the room opened their desks and peered inside. I was the last. Something about Mr Murlin made me half expect to see a pair of goggling fish eyes looking up at me. I don't know whether I was relieved or disappointed to find the desk dry and empty. There was nothing byt some lumps of old chewing gum and a few rude messages from last year.
Mr Murlin continued, `Eating chocolate in class is not only desirable, it is compulsory. Other things that are compulsory are laughing at the teacher's jokes, day-dreaming, and watching `Neighbours' on TV. There will be a test every Monday morning on `Neighbours'; those who fail will be pinned to the noticeboard by their ears.'
